Flawed (Ethan Frost 4) - Tracy Wolff

Flawed is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. A Loveswept Ebook Original Copyright © 2017 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney Excerpt from Lovegame by Tracy Wolff copyright © 2016 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New Y ork. LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. Ebook ISBN 9781101884881 Cover design: Caroline Teagle Cover photograph: AS Inc/Shutterstock randomhousebooks.com v4.1 ep

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright

Chapter 1: Tori Chapter 2: Miles Chapter 3: Tori Chapter 4: Miles Chapter 5: Tori Chapter 6: Miles Chapter 7: Tori Chapter 8: Miles Chapter 9: Tori Chapter 10: Miles Chapter 11: Tori Chapter 12: Miles Chapter 13: Tori Chapter 14: Miles Chapter 15: Tori Chapter 16: Miles Chapter 17: Tori Chapter 18: Miles Chapter 19: Tori Chapter 20: Miles Chapter 21: Tori Chapter 22: Miles Chapter 23: Tori Chapter 24: Miles Chapter 25: Tori Epilogue Dedication Acknowledgments By Tracy Wolff

About the Author Excerpt from Lovegame

Chapter 1

Tori “So, how rough do you like your sex?” Not sure that the guy across from me actually said what I thought I heard, I lower my menu a little and peer over the top into the faded-blue eyes of Stephen Blake, mild-mannered accountant by day and—it appears—closet BDSM enthusiast by night. “Excuse me?” I ask, keeping my voice deliberately vague just in case I did hear him wrong. We are only twenty minutes into our first date, after all. And it’s a blind date at that. “I’m a fair to middling guy, myself. Some spanking, a cat-o’-nine-tails here and there, maybe a St. Andrew’s cross—with shackles, not handcuffs, because they don’t provide much room for my woman to squirm around when it hurts. Oh, and I do have a new bullwhip I’d like to try. Along with the standard nipple clamps and ball gags, of course.” “Of course,” I answer, because who doesn’t like a good nipple clamp and ball gag? Oh yeah. Me. I don’t like nipple clamps or ball gags. And while I don’t mind handcuffs when the mood is right, I sure as hell am not letting anyone near me with a bullwhip. “And needles,” he continues, completely oblivious to the sarcasm in my answer. “Needles.” I can’t believe this is happening. “I’m into blood play,” he explains, mistaking my repetition of the word as a call for further clarification. “Nothing too severe, obviously, but needles through the nipples are definitely a favorite. No water sports, obviously—” “Obviously.” Jesus Christ. I reach for my glass of cranberry juice and down it in a couple of quick swallows, wishing even as I do that it were something stronger. This is what I get for trying to clean up my act. Stuck at a table with the nerd version of the Marquis de Sade in a navy-blue suit with a pinstriped tie and not even a drop of vodka to cushion the blow. “And breath play. Have you ever tried it?” His own breath hitches a little as the subject visibly arouses him. “There’s nothing quite like wrapping your hands around your partner’s throat while they come. Watching as their eyes go frantic at the lack of air, then a little glazed as they start to float away—” “I have to go to the bathroom.” I stand up so fast my chair makes a screeching noise across the designer concrete floor of this very upscale restaurant that the “very serious, very nice” Stephen has taken me to. “I bet.” He eyes me knowingly. “Do you want me to follow? I’m happy to take care of—” “I’m good, thanks. I’ve been potty-trained since I was two.” I grab my clutch off the table then start to walk past him, but he grabs my wrist before I can take more than a couple of

steps. “Take a picture while you’re in there.” His voice has gone all dark and authoritarian—and definitely not in a sexy way. “And send it to me.” Eeew. “Of me going to the bathroom?” “Of you getting yourself off. That is what you’re going to do, right?” Before I know what he’s going to do, he’s pulled my hand into his lap and rested it on what turns out to be his not-very-impressive erection. Not that that is exactly a surprise. Then again, at this point in the date, I’m not sure anything could surprise me. “While you’re gone, I can get myself off to it right here.” I squeeze hard enough to make him gasp—again, not in a good way—before twisting out of his grip and trying to pretend the thought of him jacking off to anything about me hasn’t scarred me for life. Then I reach for his untouched Jack and Coke and down it in one long gulp. Tomorrow is soon enough to start cleaning up—if I’m over the trauma of this dinner by then, that is. “Exciting, isn’t it?” he says when he can talk without squeaking. “When you’re done, take your panties off and bring them to me. I want to know what you smell like when you come.” I nod jerkily as I walk toward the restroom—and then right past it and into the kitchen. “Hey!” someone in a little white coat says, looking up. “You can’t be in here.” Unfortunately, it’s not the right kind of little white coat—and there’s no straitjacket in sight. More’s the pity. Nice-guy Stephen could definitely use one. Then again he might take it for some wild new BDSM fetish and ask me to photograph him as they strap him in…at this point, who the fuck knows? Either way, I’m not sticking around to find out. “Don’t worry, boys. I’m just passing through.” I snatch a couple of apple slices off the closest workstation as I breeze toward the back door and then out into the mild San Diego night. I pop an apple slice into my mouth as I pull out my phone and order an Uber. Before I’m done chewing, a black Mercedes slides to the curb in front of me and I climb in. Excellent. At this rate, I’ll be home before that wannabe Christian Grey figures out the picture he’s so looking forward to isn’t coming. Then I pull up messages and scroll until I hit my best friend’s name. I type in seven words. Me: Chloe Frost, you are a DEAD woman It only takes a few seconds before the little dots start bouncing across my screen. Chloe: What’s wrong?????? Me: Nothing Me: Oh yeah. Except the super-smart, super-responsible guy you set me up with tonight wants to chain me to a St. Andrew’s cross and choke me until I “start to float away.” Me: While I’m wearing a ball gag and nipple clamps Me: No big deal Chloe: What?!?!?!?!?!

Chloe: Stephen said that? Me: Oh, Stephen said WAY more than that, but even after a year of marriage and a month of law school, I think you’re too innocent to hear it Chloe: Oh My God! I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Me: I’m fine. Just no more blind dates with psychopaths, okay???? I like a spanking as much as the next girl, but breath play? Really? :/ Chloe: OMG! He seems like such a nice guy Me: That’s what they say about every crazy serial killer EVER!!!!!! Don’t you know anything?!?! If you’d told me that… Chloe: Are you home? Me: Not yet. Soon. I just left him sitting at the restaurant after his request that I send him a picture of me masturbating in the bathroom Chloe: WHAT?!?!?! Eeeeeeeew! Me: Exactly. Where do you find these guys???? I mean, the marketing guy was bad, but Stephen is a whole new class of batshit crazy Chloe: I’m so sorry!!! Chloe: Actually, Ethan found this one. I promise, it will be the last guy I let him pick out for you Me: It’ll be the last guy EITHER of you EVER picks out for me. I’m so done There’s a pause, and the little dots disappear from my screen. Figuring Chloe got distracted by my new honorary niece—or her sex god of a husband—I’m just sliding my phone back into my purse when it vibrates again. Chloe: Ethan wants me to tell you how sorry he is. And he wants to know if you need him to send a car for you Me: I caught an Uber. But tell him he owes me a new dress because I’m totally going to burn this one. God knows what cooties I picked up from that guy Chloe: He says to make it two dresses and a pair of Loubis. It’s the least he can do I grin. Damn, my best friend hit the jackpot when she met that man. If it was anyone else, I’d probably be jealous considering the best I can do these days is Mr. Let-Me-Chain-You-UpIn-My-Red-Room-Of-Pain. But Chloe’s been through so much I figure Ethan is just the universe’s way of trying to get the scales back on some kind of even keel. Me: Tell him he’s almost forgiven Chloe: Maybe you should stay at Ethan’s and my place tonight, just in case Stephen didn’t get the hint Me: I’m fine Chloe: Are you sure? You know my house is always open to you Me: I know. But I’m going home to take a bath and have a glass of wine. Hopefully the bubbles will wipe tonight out of my memory … … …

I stare at the bouncing little dots, wishing that Chloe would just say what she wants to say instead of debating it for long seconds. Then again, I already know what she’s going to say, so maybe it’s up to me to put it out there first. Me: ONE glass of wine, Chlo, not the whole bottle Chloe: I’m not worried Me: You’re so worried. But I swear, I’m not backsliding. I’ve got this Chloe: I know you do … Chloe: Maybe you should get out of San Diego for a while. Come up to San Francisco for a visit Me: You know I can’t. I have to find a job Chloe: You don’t HAVE to find a job. You know you can work at Frost Industries anytime you want. Besides, maybe Ethan can find a job up here for you!!!! Me: Ethan is not finding me a job!!! Chloe: Why not? Me: Because I have some pride I graduated a couple of weeks ago, at the end of August, ready to take on the world. Hence the whole clean-up-my-act shtick that I’ve got going on. Too bad the world—and the job market—has been singularly underwhelmed by my presence in it. Chloe: :( Chloe: I miss you Me: I miss you, too There’s nothing else to say, so I slide my phone back in my bag. Rest my head against the back of the seat. Close my eyes. I know the Frosts need to be in San Francisco right now— Chloe can’t go to Stanford Law and live in San Diego full-time, after all—but I miss my best friend. And I miss her little girl, Violet, who is the absolute sweetest baby ever. It’s September, so they’ve only been gone a few weeks—and they’ve even been back to San Diego twice in that time, including for my graduation—but it’s not the same. We used to see each other every day, and texting doesn’t feel the same. Not to mention I missed Violet sitting up on her own for the very first time yesterday. Of course Ethan’s baby is doing everything a little early… Thank God the Uber pulls up in front of my complex before I can get a full brood going. I shove a few crumpled dollar bills into the driver’s hand for a tip before making my way toward my condo. I know what I should do. I should go upstairs, should pour myself that glass of wine and take a nice, long bubble bath. But my neighbor—and longtime friend, Kathy Styffe—is having her engagement party tonight and I told her I’d stop by if I made it back in time. And since my night was a total bust, I am definitely back in time. Which is why, when the elevator opens, I punch the button for the roof instead of my floor. I helped plan the thing, after all. It’s pretty much required that I at least make an appearance. Besides, the bride is an absolute doll. And so, so excited about this party that the last thing I want to do is hurt her feelings by not showing up.

One drink, I promise myself as I step out onto the rooftop terrace. One drink, a little mingling, and then downstairs to my comfy pajamas and 10 Things I Hate About You, my total go-to movie on nights when nothing works out the way I want it to. It’s hard to be sad— or annoyed or anything but happy—when a young, beautiful Heath Ledger is charming the pants off the very cantankerous Julia Stiles. As I begin weaving my way slowly through the young and beautiful trust fund crowd, I glance around. Get the lay of the land. No doubt about it—the whole roof has been transformed into a darkly elegant wonderland. It looks even better than Kathy and I imagined it would when we were planning it. The wrought-iron railings are bedecked with garlands of wine-colored roses twisted through with twinkle lights. Each black-linen-covered table has a gorgeous elevated rose centerpiece surrounded by flickering candles in jeweled holders. More wine-colored roses crowd the surface of the water, the pool light shining from beneath them and giving them an otherworldly glow. Even the cabanas have been given a makeover—their normally heavy canvas curtains replaced by diaphanous ones, tied back with more floral garlands dripping with lights. The whole place looks ethereal but sexy—exactly what Kathy wanted for the party. Different food stations are set up throughout the roof, with the two bars catty-corner to each other, just as we’d planned. It’s a good design—it keeps the foot traffic flowing and the people mingling—so that there’s a happy buzz in the air as I head toward the closest bar. Party etiquette 101: It’s always easier to work a room with a drink in your hand. It loosens you up, makes you more willing to talk, and refreshing it gives you an excuse to get away once the conversation turns boring—which it inevitably will. Especially in this crowd. Unfortunately for me, I never make it to the bar. I keep getting stopped by people who want to catch up—I’ve known a lot of the party guests since I was in diapers, so the fact that I’ve pulled a disappearing act for much of the last couple of months hasn’t exactly gone unnoticed. And since the last thing I want to do is explain that I’ve spent the last weeks deliberately avoiding them as I try to clean up my life, the conversations get awkward fast. And since I hate awkward silences more than just about anything, I feel a lot like I’ve hit the first circle of Dante’s hell. Maybe that’s why I take the first drink a waiter offers without paying too much attention to what it is. Then the second. Then the third. Because I can’t stand the way everybody is staring me, can’t stand the speculative looks about my private life or the searching looks as they try to figure out what’s wrong with me. These looks—the way they’re studying me—is why I always have a different hairstyle, a different tattoo, a flamboyant outfit or pair of shoes. Give them something on the outside to talk about and they’ll leave what’s happening on the inside alone. But tonight, even my hot-pink dress and oil-slick hair with its shades of pink and purple and turquoise on black can’t keep people from digging a little. I deflect as best I can, but when someone takes the fourth drink out of my hand and steers me toward the makeshift dance floor at the end of the terrace, I don’t say no. Not even when I realize that the person guiding me through the crowd is none other than Chloe’s brother and my archnemesis, Miles

freaking Girard.

Chapter 2

Miles Tori’s a mess. A gorgeous mess, with her short, multicolored hair sticking up in all directions and her hot-pink bandage dress hugging her gentle curves, but a mess nonetheless. Her brown eyes are blurry, her cheeks flushed, and she’s trembling a little as I pull her onto the dance floor and into my arms. Most nights she’d never allow me to touch her—understandable considering she pretty much hates my guts—but tonight she comes along without protest. The fact that she’s so pliable is in and of itself a cause for concern, but the way she’s trembling, the way she lets me mold her body against my own, the way she tossed back three glasses of champagne in under half an hour—yes, I’ve been watching her since she stepped off the elevator—tells me that something’s wrong. Not that she’s going to tell me what it is, and not that I’m going to ask. But I’m not going to let my little sister’s best friend get totally trashed, either—not when half the guys here look like they’re just waiting to move in for the kill. The second clue I get that something’s not quite right is the fact that she doesn’t say anything to me at all, even after I’ve got her wrapped up in my arms. On a normal day Tori’s a mouthy little thing—one who has no trouble letting me know just how much she despises me —and the fact that she’s keeping her mouth shut right now does more than tell me something’s wrong. It makes me worry. The song ends on a whisper and the DJ switches things up, taking us from slow and sexy to fast and hot with the swipe of a finger across his screen. I spin her around a little, move us across the dance floor. Then as the chorus hits, I spin her all the way out before pulling her back in with a sharp tug that has her body slamming into me in the best possible way. That’s when she looks up for the first time and our eyes meet. Something flashes in hers, a little bit of the old attitude she wears like a second skin. I’m unreasonably happy to see it, especially considering how much her mouth usually annoys me. “You do know that it’s customary to ask a woman to dance, don’t you? Instead of dragging her off like a caveman.” Somehow she manages to look down her nose at me, even though she’s about five inches shorter than I am even in her ridiculous heels. I ignore the surge of relief that comes with her sassiness and concentrate instead on shutting it down. If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that if you give Tori an inch, she’ll take ten miles. And somehow get you to thank her for it even as she exercises her own version of manifest destiny. “Yeah, well, it’s also customary not to get shit-faced at a formal engagement party, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping you.” Her eyes narrow and when she opens her mouth I know she’s planning on delivering a

stinging slap-down. And frankly, I’m not in the mood to hear it. Especially since she’s been saying the same old shit practically from the day we met. So instead of waiting for whatever insult she wants to level at me this time, I spin her out fast and hold her there for the count of five before slowly pulling her back in. She’s talking before our hands even meet. “I’m far from shit-faced, thank you very much.” “Maybe not, but you’re well on your way.” It’s my turn to narrow my eyes at her. “You’ve had three glasses of champagne in the last twenty minutes.” “Wow. Stalk much?” “I was about to ask you the same thing, baby. After all, I was here first.” Before she can answer, I spin her out again, then pull her close and spin her back out in the opposite direction, just because I can. And because it pisses her off and a pissed-off Tori Reed is a magnificent sight to behold. “Don’t call me baby,” she snarls the second I pull her back in. “And believe me, Miles, the only way I would stalk you would be if I was planning on driving a wooden stake through your cold, black heart.” “Wooden stakes are for the undead,” I tell her as I press her close so she can feel the heat of my body through my suit and her dress. “And I can assure you, baby, I am very much alive.” “Yeah, well, kitchen knives work on everyone. Why don’t you come downstairs with me right now? I’d be happy to demonstrate.” “Aw, how nice. An invitation to your place.” I smirk deliberately. “First you follow me to this party, then you invite me into your condo? You sure you’re not the one stalking me?” She’s outraged, and it’s obvious she’s got a vicious response on the tip of her tongue. So I spin her out again, just to watch her eyes narrow to slits and her cheeks get even more flushed. “You could always come downstairs with me and find out,” she hisses as I pull her back in. This time, instead of taking her hand, I place one finger to her lips before she can spit any of the insults at me that I can see swimming in her eyes. “Now, now, baby, I know you’re eager. But I’m not that kind of guy. If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to let me take you to dinner first.” “That’s not going to happen.” “Well then, you’re never going to get in my pants. No matter how much you beg.” “I don’t want in your pants. And I don’t beg. Ever.” “Hmm. I guess I could settle for you asking nicely.” “Don’t hold your breath. No, wait. Do. Preferably for about six minutes.” The grin she levels at me is sharp as broken glass and twice as beautiful. I study it—study her—as the song winds down. As I do, I can’t help thinking what a shame it is that she’s got the personality of an antisocial piranha, because she’s smart and stunning. It’s a winning combination, one I’d be all over if she were just a little nicer. And if she weren’t my little sister’s best friend. And if she didn’t know about— I cut the thought off, refuse to let myself go there again—especially around her. Instead I concentrate on the moment, on the fact that I’ve got Tori right here at my mercy. And just

because I won’t fuck her doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun with her. Especially since she just wished brain death on me. As the song ends, I clasp her hand tightly in mine even as I slide my other hand from her back to her ass. She jumps, shoots me a killer glare, but I hold on. And then, as the chorus finishes with one final crescendo, I dip her down, down, down. She gasps as I do it, her free hand clutching at the lapel of my suit jacket as she feels herself tipping off balance. I don’t even try to hide my grin as I lower her a little closer to the floor. “Let me up,” she demands. But she’s in no position to demand anything and it’s time she figures that out. So instead of easing her back to a standing position, I lower her even more, stretching her body out until she has no choice but to wrap an arm around my neck and hold on tight. What I didn’t anticipate—but what I’m certainly not going to complain about—is the way her leg wraps around my upper thigh. And still I don’t pull her up, still I hold her there, a little off balance but totally at my mercy. It’s a good look for her. Around us people are starting to watch, but I don’t give a shit. People have looked at me strange my whole life—I’ve been the absentminded genius with the too-weird ideas for as long as I can remember—and I’m not about to start caring now. “Okay, Miles,” she hisses at me. “You’ve had your fun!” “You think this is fun, just wait till you see what I’ve got in store for you next.” Deliberately I let my hand slip. “Miles, stop!” She clutches me even more tightly. “Let me up. Please.” As soon as she says the magic word, I straighten, pulling her with me. “See? Told you you’d ask me nicely.” Her full, pink-slicked lips thin dangerously—a surefire sign that she’s about to let me have it. As is the gleam in her chocolate-brown eyes and the fists she has clenched at her sides. I’ve been on the receiving end of Tori’s anger enough this past year that I can recognize the signs. I deserve it—God knows I’ve been taunting her since I pulled her onto the dance floor. But just because I deserve it doesn’t mean I’m going to stick around to watch the fireworks. A smart man always knows the value of a strategic exit. So that’s what I do. I shoot her a cocky wink and an even cockier grin, and then I walk away, leaving her staring after me with an open mouth and wide, sober eyes. Furious eyes, yes, but sober ones, her anger at me burning off the last of her champagne buzz. All in all, not bad for a five-minute dance. The dance instructor my mother hired when I was still in high school would be so proud…

Chapter 3

Tori Miles Girard is an asshole. A total and complete asshole. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to chase after him and tell him exactly that and a lot more. Only the knowledge that that’s exactly what he’s waiting for—and that he’d probably find a way to spin that, too, and make it sound like I’m chasing him because I’m nurturing some secret obsession with him—keeps me from doing just that. As if. I know what he’s capable of—I’ve been best friends with Chloe long enough to know just how much she’s suffered. It takes a real asshat to sell his sister out for the start-up capital for his business. Especially when selling her out meant letting her rapist buy his way out of trouble—and prison. Her parents might have been the masterminds of the situation, but he went along. He can claim he didn’t know what they were doing at the time, but the guy’s got an even higher IQ than Ethan does and I’m not buying it. If the last year has taught me anything about him, it’s that Miles Girard knows how to get his way. With his sister, with his inventions, with his women. No way am I going to fall into that trap, even if it means I have to bite my tongue clear off. Which—I’m not going to lie—I might have to do. Discretion isn’t exactly my strong suit. Still, I stay where I am, staring after him and grinding my teeth in an effort to keep from letting him see just how badly he’s gotten to me. Then again, I’m pretty sure he already knows. Men like Miles always know when they’re pushing a woman’s buttons—and they do it on purpose, just because they can. I should know. After all, I do exactly the same thing with men, but for very different reasons. I track him until he reaches the bar—all without so much as a backward glance at me—then I shake my head. Turn away. No way in hell am I going to give him any more of my time tonight. He doesn’t deserve it. But as I snag one final glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter—after the encounter I just had, I figure I deserve it—I can’t stop myself from thinking about him. About how strong his hands felt when he spun me out on the dance floor and about how warm his body was when he pulled me back in. If he’d been anyone else I might have been tempted to climb him like a cat with a tree. But he isn’t someone else. He’s Miles Girard, Chloe’s bastard of an older brother. Not for the first time I wonder how the two of them can possibly be siblings. They have nothing in common. Well, nothing except their super-sharp brains and stunning good looks. Both are long and lean, with cheekbones you can hang the moon on and faces

that demand a second—and third—look. Only their eyes are different. While Chloe’s are a deep green, warm with compassion and kindness, Miles’s glitter blue with ice-cold calculation. The man is always thinking, always scheming, always dreaming up new inventions and devising new strategies. About everything. He spends so much time in his own head it’s a miracle he can even function in the real world. Not that it matters to me if he can function or not. He’s Chloe’s douchebag older brother— nothing more and nothing less. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even know he existed. With that joyous thought in my head, I lift my glass of champagne to my lips and down it in one long swallow. I may be stuck at this party for the foreseeable future—no way am I letting him think he chased me away—but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a good time while I’m here. I grab one more glass of champagne and down that one, too, then weave my way through the crowd, determined to find a hot guy to flirt with for a little while. One who doesn’t have Miles’s shaggy dark hair or vile personality. I only have to take a dozen steps or so before I’m face-to-face with Alexander Parsons. One of the hot pack of British actors to gain popularity in the States during the last few years, he’s gorgeous, cunning, and a complete and total fuckhead. I should know—we were hot and heavy a couple of years ago, right up until I found him fucking a pair of twins in my bed. I didn’t handle it well. Not because I was in love with him or anything, but because I don’t tolerate cheating. Be with me, don’t be with me, I don’t care. But if you are with me, even if it’s just for a fling, then you’re with me. Not with me and also with two Brazilian models, no matter how beautiful—or flexible—they are. Still, as he smiles at me, all charm and self-deprecation, I can’t help smiling back. I’ll never go out with the guy again, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hang with him for a little while. Let Alexander know that I’m totally over what happened between us, all the while making Miles realize just how absurd it was for him to even suggest that I was following him. “Tori Reed,” Alexander says as he pulls me into a hug that’s just a little too close. “I thought that was you burning up the dance floor.” “It’s me,” I agree, tilting my head back so I can look up at him. He’s not as tall as Miles, but he is nearly six feet, while I top out at five foot six, even in my Loubis. “How are you?” “I’m doing great. I’m up in LA these days, filming on the new Chris Nolan project. I couldn’t be that close and not make it down for Jim’s engagement party.” He grabs a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and holds one out to me. I think about refusing it for a few seconds, but then I make the mistake of scanning the crowd. It only takes a couple of seconds for me to lock eyes with Miles, to see the small, nearly imperceptible shake of his head as he looks between Alexander and me. That’s all it takes to have me reaching for the glass with the tinkling laugh I reserve for men whose egos are bigger than their brains. “Ooh, that sounds so exciting! Chris Nolan is such a great director. What’s the new project?” Alexander launches into an answer so long and drawn out, I’m convinced I’ll regret asking the question before much longer. But I still link my free arm through his as I very deliberately turn my back on Miles. If Chloe’s brother actually thinks he can tell me what to do, he’s in for a huge disappointment. I spend the next hour or so hanging out with Alexander and his inner circle—one of whom

is his brother, Jim, who also happens to be Kathy’s fiancé. Alexander tries to cuddle up a couple of times, but I don’t let him. Spending a little while with him so he and his friends know I’m totally over him is one thing, but letting him get touchy-feely with me is quite another. No way am I going back down that road with him. Which is why as soon as I feel like I’ve done my duty—spent some time with Kathy and Jim, bolstered my friend about how great the party turned out, and flirted with a couple of Alexander’s friends just enough to make sure Miles knows I’m not interested in listening to anything he has to say—I make my excuses and head toward the elevator…and my DVD player. What I don’t count on is the way Alexander follows me like a lost puppy. Or the way he all but tries to hump my leg the second we’re out of the crush of people. “If I remember correctly,” he says, looping one arm around my shoulders and the other around my waist from behind before pulling my back against his chest, “you have a sweet little condo in this building.” “You remember correctly.” His breath is hot against my cheek, but not in a sexy way. I turn my head, pull away. “In fact, I’m heading there now. My bed is calling my name.” “I bet. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s calling my name, too.” He cocks his head to the side, pretends to listen. “See, there it is again. Can you hear it?” “I can’t.” I shake my head, deliberately widen my eyes. “Must be someone else’s bed calling for you. I know that happens a lot.” “Still bitter about the twins, huh?” He laughs like everything that happened between us is just one big joke. “Not bitter. Just cautious.” He starts to put his hands on me again, but I step back and he’s left clutching at thin air. “Where’s the fun in caution? You’re young and hot and I know you like to fuck. And since we have all that in common…” Wow. He’s a real Prince Charming. Was he always this bad, I wonder as I stare at him a little bemused, or has he gotten worse in the last couple of years? I like to hope it’s the latter, but my gut tells me it’s the former. Ugh. I can’t believe there was ever a time I thought this crude self-aggrandizement was anything other than sleazy. Maybe my taste in men for myself is no better than Ethan and Chloe’s taste for me. At least Stephen was completely up front about what he wanted. Alexander hides his douchiness behind his guileless smile and I’m-agood-guy good looks. “Since we have all that in common we should just go for it, huh?” He nods, his blue eyes gleaming in the fairy lights draped above our heads. “Exactly.” “Why wait for my condo? We could just fuck in the elevator.” His eyes light up even as he shakes his head. “I can’t do that anymore. There are cameras in all the elevators and now that I’ve gotten as famous as I have…it’s a problem.” “Aw, come on now. A good sex tape would just up your street cred, wouldn’t it?” I’m being completely sarcastic, but the sudden light in his eyes tells me the sarcasm went right over his head. Not that I’m surprised. It’ll take more than the sharp side of my tongue to penetrate that ego. At this point, I’m not sure a nuclear blast could do it. “Maybe you’re right.” This time when he reaches for me, it’s so fast that I don’t even have a

chance to step back before I’m plastered against him. “So you want to help me out with that, then?” “Not even a little bit.” I slide my hands between us and somehow manage to get enough leverage to shove him back. “But I’m sure there are a bunch of women here who would be more than willing to do whatever you ask them to.” “No doubt,” he agrees with the careless shrug of the endlessly privileged. “But I don’t want them. I want you.” “Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen. At the risk of sounding like a Taylor Swift song, we are never ever getting back together.” “Who said anything about getting back together?” He leers at me. “I just want to fuck.” “Yeah, well, you’re going to have to settle for someone else scratching that itch tonight, dude. I’m going to bed. Alone.” As the elevator doors open, I lean forward and brush a kiss over his cheek, with its exceptionally chiseled cheekbones and its perfect amount of stubble. “It was fun catching up. We’ll have to do it again some time.” Or not. “I know what would be more fun.” He follows me onto the elevator, presses the number for my floor without having to ask. Guess our couple of months together made more of an impression than I believed. The thought doesn’t make me happy, though, especially not when the last glimpse I get of the party before the elevator doors slide closed is Miles’s stormtossed blue eyes staring straight into mine. The fact that Miles sees me leaving the party with Alexander upsets me more than it should. Not because he saw me getting into the elevator with Alexander—I don’t answer to him and I never will—but because I don’t want him to tell Chloe. I’ve worked so hard to clean up my act the past couple of months, worked so hard to be the godmother Violet deserves. The last thing I want is for Miles to go tattling to her about me drinking too much and taking some random guy home to fuck. Not that Chloe would be mad at me or anything, but I don’t want to worry her. Not when she’s finally getting over all the shit that happened in the last few years. Not now that she finally has the life she deserves. “Go back to the party, Alexander. I already told you. I’m not interested.” “You did,” he agrees even as he snakes an arm around my waist and pulls me into his side. “But you didn’t sound very convincing.” I grab his hand from where it’s sliding toward my crotch and pull it away from my body. If I bend his fingers back a little in the process, well, we’ll just call that an accident. “Maybe that’s because you were too busy checking yourself out in the mirrored doors to actually listen to me. But I’m not sleeping with you.” “Come on, it’ll be fun. For old times’ sake.” “In case you forgot, the old times weren’t all that great.” “Sure they were. You’re a wildcat in bed.” “Yeah, well, these days I’m pretty boring.” “Maybe you just don’t have the right partner.” Geez. The ego on this guy is unbelievable. It would be funny if it weren’t so damn annoying. And when he leans in once more and tries to kiss me, I decide enough is enough. “Look, Alexander, we had fun for a while. But I try really hard not to make the same

mistakes twice. Especially when it comes to men.” “Are you calling me a mistake?” Outrage brings out the British in his accent. “I’m calling you a lesson learned. Let’s leave it at that.” Thank God the elevator comes to a stop and the doors whoosh open. I smile at him as I step out, pausing just long enough to push the button to return the elevator to the roof. “Have a good rest of the night.” His mouth actually drops open. “Are you actually serious about not sleeping with me?” “I am absolutely serious about not sleeping with you.” I give him a little wave as I step back, then watch in satisfaction as the elevator doors slide shut before he can say anything else. “The douchiness is strong in that one,” I say in my best Yoda voice as I make my way back to my condo. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little ashamed about the fact that I let that guy stick any part of himself inside any part of me. There’s a part of me that wants to dwell on the bad decision making of my past—that wants to brood on it—but I take a deep breath, tell myself to just let it go. I’m not that girl anymore and I’m never going to be her again. That’s enough, isn’t it? I kick off my Loubis, then sigh in relief as I sink onto the couch and kick my feet up. I think about getting up and searching through my DVD collection for 10 Things I Hate About You, but the idea of moving again is completely unappealing. Instead I reach for the remote and start to surf my DVR. As I settle on one of my favorite episodes of Scandal, I tell myself once more that this new Tori—this new me—is enough. She has to be, because right now, she’s all I’ve got going for me.

Chapter 4

Miles I watch the elevator doors close on Tori and that blond jackass and decide to hell with it. I’ve stayed long enough to be polite—I can head home now and finally get back to work. I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place—I’ve still got too much work to do on the desalinizer I’m working on—but Jim and I are good enough friends from work that I felt I had to at least show my face. Chloe keeps reminding me that I need to at least pretend that I’m a well-rounded human. So I came and now I’m regretting it. Not that I care who Tori takes downstairs to fuck— after all, it’s none of my business if she wants to sleep with the biggest asshole at the party. It’s just that I have work to do. After excusing myself from the very tedious conversation I’m having with a very pretty woman with very boring hair, I say a quick goodbye to Jim and his fiancée, then head for the elevator. If my luck holds, I’ll be back in my workshop in under fifteen minutes. And then, with the whole, uninterrupted weekend in front of me, maybe I can actually work through the latest problem that’s crept up in my desalinizer. Normally, I’d be able to work for days on end without interruptions—part and parcel of being the resident mad genius. But now that I’m at Frost Industries—after walking away from my family’s company when I found out what my parents had done to Chloe—I don’t get to play the mad genius nearly as often. Partly because Ethan’s IQ rivals mine and he manages to behave in a totally rational, respectable manner ninety-nine percent of the time and partly because he keeps heaping non-project-related responsibilities on me whenever I’m not looking. Chloe keeps teasing me, telling me if I’m not careful, I’m going to end up being second in command of Ethan’s company. Not that I think there’s a chance in hell of that happening. Chloe has forgiven me for my part in her nightmare, but the people who love her aren’t so quick to forgive—or forget. Tori may be meaner than Ethan, but it’s not hard to tell that he’s reserving judgment for a while. Not that I blame him. I’ve hated myself from the minute I found out about our parents selling Chloe out and using the money to build a company around my inventions. She’s tried to tell me that it isn’t my fault, but how can it not be? How could I have been so fucking blind when it mattered most? How could I have not seen what they were doing? These are the questions that keep me up at night, and the fact that I don’t have satisfactory answers to them—even after all these months—eats at me like few things besides my projects can. I didn’t join Frost Industries because I wanted a shot at the CTO’s office, no matter how

lucrative that position might be. I joined Frost Industries because I want a chance to get to know my sister again—and to make up for what my parents did to her. To make up for all those years when she had no family, when she couldn’t come home even if she wouldn’t tell me why. Oh, I know she has a family now—Ethan and the baby and even Tori adore her. But she was my little sister long before she was Tori’s honorary one and I want that relationship back. So does she. So here I am, working on my biggest project yet for a man who doesn’t know whether to trust me or despise me. And until he does, I know he—and his subordinates—will continue to watch me like a hawk. And I’ll continue to put up with it because I know—after everything that’s happened—that I deserve it, even though I have only his and Chloe’s best interests at heart. The elevator doors finally slide open and I start to step on, only to realize that the car is still occupied by the blond douchebag who hadn’t been able to keep his hands off Tori. Judging from the scowl on his face, he hasn’t gotten nearly as lucky with her as he thought he would. The knowledge makes me grin like a hyena. I know it shouldn’t matter to me one way or the other, but for some reason it does. I like that she didn’t sleep with him, like even more that she’s a better judge of character than I’ve ever given her credit for. Then again, I’m not sure what that says about me, considering she hates my guts… It’s a nice night, and though the walk home from Tori’s building doesn’t normally take more than twenty minutes or so I dawdle a little. Instead of walking along the most direct route, I take off my shoes and walk in the sand instead, just close enough to the water that the ocean occasionally laps over my toes. It’s been a little over a year since I reunited with my sister, and almost a year since I moved to San Diego. And now that I’m here, I can’t believe it took me so long to make the move. I love the ocean, love the mountains, love pretty much everything about my newly adopted city. And that’s not even mentioning how much I like being close to Chloe and Violet. Or that I never would have had the idea for my latest invention if I hadn’t moved to California. And since I’m pretty sure that this baby is going to be a huge game changer—for Frost Industries, for California, and for the environment—I’m extremely grateful. When I’m only a couple of minutes from home, I drop my shoes on the sand and then walk a little farther into the ocean. I pull three test tubes out of my pockets and—ignoring the way the water drags at the bottom of my pants—I bend down and wait for a fairly decent-sized wave to roll in. Once one does, I fill each of the tubes with ocean water, then cap them. Depending on how tonight’s tests go, this might not be enough. But lucky for me—and if I have my way, lucky for California—there’s always more salt water where this came from. After sliding the test tubes back into my blazer pocket, I make my way up the staircase to the main road, and then walk another couple of blocks until I’m home. As I head up the driveway, I can’t help turning back and looking back toward Tori’s building, can’t help wondering what she’s up to now that she sent Mr. I’m-A-Movie-Star So-You-Should-Kiss-MyAss packing. Then I’m annoyed with myself for thinking about her when I know she’s not thinking about me. But it’s not my fault she’s so goddamn hot with her heart-shaped ass and her bedroom eyes. Not to mention her mouth. I’m not even sure I like the woman—and I

know she doesn’t like me—but that hasn’t stopped me from having any number of fantasies about that drop-dead-sexy mouth of hers. I may be a geek, but I’m still a man and I’d be lying if I said my dick wasn’t twitching right now at the thought of those gorgeous lips anywhere near it. As I key in the gate code, I think about taking a dip in the pool, just to clear my thoughts and help me focus. Once I’m in my workshop, Tori’s lips—or any other part of her anatomy— are pretty much the last thing I need to be thinking about. But then I press the button on my key fob and open the door to the climate-controlled garage that doubles as my work area. Once I’m in, with my research and tools and gauges all around me, I forget about Tori’s mouth and pretty much everything else as well. I forget everything but the project I’ve been pouring my heart and soul into for several long months. After taking the test tubes out of my pocket and laying them gingerly on my lab table, I pull off my jacket and tie and drop them on the nearest chair. Then with my pant legs still wet around the cuffs, I roll up my sleeves and get down to work. I made some tweaks on the desalinizer this morning—nothing major, but enough that I want to see what it does to this round of seawater. I need to figure out how much salt it strips out on the first, second, and third passes. While my ultimate goal is to deliver purified water after only one pass through the system, right now I’ll settle for almost purified after three. At least then I’ll know that these new changes are taking me in the right direction. Time slips away as I work, and it’s not until my laptop craps out—and takes my dictation software with it—that I even look up. I get up and start hunting for a charger, but I can’t find any of the four I usually have in here. Which is utterly ridiculous. The main reason I have so many chargers is so that even when I misplace one—which, I admit, I do a lot—I’ll have backups. And considering I charged the damn computer in here this morning, I don’t know how all the chargers could suddenly be missing now. Muttering to myself, I make my way into the house to search for one of the damn things, and it’s not until I glance out the wall of windows that I realize dawn is breaking over the water. Once again, I’ve worked all night without even being aware that time was passing. No wonder my whole body feels like somebody took a hammer to it. With the onset of dawn comes fatigue—I’ve been up over twenty-four hours at this point— and I decide to hell with the charger; I can find it when I wake up. I’m fairly satisfied with the work I got done today, so taking a few hours to sack out won’t hurt. I strip off, then climb into bed with my tablet. I’ve got some vague idea of playing a mindless round of WordBubbles as I settle in for sleep, but as I scroll through Yahoo, a picture of someone I’m pretty sure is Tori catches my eye. Her photo is side by side with one of Alexander Parsons, aka the blond douchebag, and they’re both under the salacious headline: IS ALEX AS HOT IN BED AS HE IS OUT? I almost scroll past it, considering I’m not the least bit interested in whether or not he’s good in bed. But there’s something about its key placement in Yahoo’s news stream—and something about the fact that they aren’t using a joint picture of the couple—that has my spidey senses tingling. More than a little disgusted with myself, I click on the piece—then wish I hadn’t when a well-known gossip site comes up, along with the opening shot to a video and a link promising

a sex tape of actor Alexander Parsons and socialite Tori Reed. Fuck. Shit. Goddamnit. Looks like she doesn’t have good taste in men after all. How the hell could she be this stupid? Making a sex tape with that asshole? What the hell did she think was going to happen? He’s totally the kind of guy to post something like this just to build up his own name and brand recognition. Especially considering the fact that he’s got nothing to lose. His reputation isn’t at stake, after all. If it’s a good tape, then he gets to play the stud while she’s forced into the role of the slut. It totally sucks, but that’s how the world works. How it’s always worked. We just like to pretend that we’ve moved forward, gotten more civilized. Gotten more equitable. But the sad fact of the matter is the woman will always take the brunt of the heat in situations like this. Goddamnit. I click away from the site, then Google Alexander Parsons sex tape. Close to a million hits pop up and we’re only four hours into this debacle. Then I Google Tori Reed sex tape. Only half the number of hits come up—since he’s the main news here, not her—but half a million hits is still nothing to sneeze at. And once morning fully hits and America wakes up…this story is going to go through the roof. She’s the daughter of one of the country’s most in-thelimelight businessmen and he’s the star of the biggest action movie of the summer. There’s nowhere for this story to go but everywhere. I scroll through one of the more popular articles, making sure not to hit the PLAY button on the video. Sure I’m curious about what the tape is like, curious about whether Tori looks as hot going down on a guy as I’ve fantasized for the last year, but this is definitely not the way I wanted to find out. When did this even happen? It’s only been about six hours since Parsons came back to the party looking completely disgruntled. Unless I’d totally misinterpreted the look on his face. Which I admit could have happened as it’s not like I spent a lot of time or effort trying to figure that jackass out. Not likely, but it could happen… It’s only as I get to the second half of the article, which mentions that he and Tori dated a couple of years ago, that things click into place. Including the fact that the opening shot of the video—the one frozen on the screen for the world to see—shows Tori with very distinct, very bright blue hair. So not taken tonight then. Not taken anytime that I’ve known her, in fact. I don’t know why the knowledge settles me, but it does, even as it makes me wish I’d plowed my fist into that bastard’s face when I’d had the chance. Makes me wish I’d done a better job of watching out for her. Because now that the details are falling into place, I’m getting a much clearer picture. This was revenge on his part, pure and simple. Sure, he probably also saw it as a way to cement himself as the perfect Hollywood stud, but the primary motive here was petty schoolyard bullshit. He wanted to sleep with her, she said no, and this is how that shallow, pathetic bastard gets back at her. Jesus. It takes a real man to throw a woman under the bus just for exercising her right to say no.

An image of Chloe flashes into my head after that long-ago night when she’d been raped. Broken, shattered, ruined, just because some asshole thought he had the right to take what he wanted. To do what he wanted. Parsons might not have raped Tori, but this whole sex tape thing is just as much about power and control as rape is. See what I can do to you? See how powerless you are? Well, fuck him. No way in hell is he getting away with it. No. Way. In. Hell. I couldn’t stop Brandon—and then my parents—from hurting Chloe. But this? I can definitely do something about this. Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed and do what I should have done an hour ago. I find my damn laptop charger. And then I get to work.

Chapter 5

Tori I wake up to a pounding on the front door of my condo. Not a gentle knocking, but a pounding that shakes the whole door and has me stumbling off the couch even as I tumble into wakefulness. I grab my phone off the coffee table and crack my eyes just enough to read that it’s seven twenty-seven in the morning. Considering I didn’t fall asleep until close to three A.M. it still feels like the middle of the night to me. Obviously, whoever is on the other side of my door doesn’t feel the same way. “Who is it?” I call, even as I fumble with the chain. I don’t unlock the dead bolt, though, at least not until I hear my father answer, “It’s me, Victoria. Let me in.” “Dad?” I swing the door open as panic races through me. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?” He never shows up at my condo unannounced, never shows up at my condo at all, actually. In fact, most months I never even see him unless it’s for some engagement that’s been written on both of our calendars weeks in advance. “Is Mom—” “Your mother is fine. She’s in France, on a shopping trip.” He says it brusquely, which tells me that “shopping trip” is a euphemism for the fact that she’s on vacation in Paris with her lover. Not that he has any room to be upset—he’s got his own codes for his own leisure time with his lovers. Of which there are legion. The whole thing is very civilized between them—and something I’ve known about for as long as I can remember. Oh, my parents were—are—very discreet with their side interests, and when they’re together no one who isn’t in the know would ever guess that their marriage isn’t totally, one hundred percent genuine. But the fact is, the two of them gave up caring about each other—really caring about each other—years ago. That they also gave up caring about me around the same time is something we don’t talk about at our mandatory monthly family dinners. “Oh. All right.” I gaze at him stupidly for several seconds, at least until it registers that he’s looking me over—and looks less than impressed at what he sees. “Do you want to come in?” “Obviously, or I wouldn’t have been reduced to pounding your door down when you refused to answer your phone.” “Sorry about that. I was sleeping.” I move back and he steps inside, six feet of silver-haired, Harvard-educated disapproval. He glances around my apartment, his stony gray gaze raking over every visible surface and every nook and cranny. I start to make a joke about keeping the

orgy in my bedroom, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me my humor won’t be appreciated. Then again, with him it never is. Kind of like everything else about me. “Do you want some coffee?” I ask as I move toward the relative safety of the kitchen. As I do, I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror I have hanging on the back wall of the dining area. For the first time since I woke up, I realize what a mess I am. My hair is pressed flat against my head on all sides while last night’s makeup is smeared across my face, pooled under my eyes. Not to mention the fact that I’m still wearing my hot-pink cocktail dress. No wonder my father is looking at me like I’m a cross between a stripper and a cockroach that he has the unfortunate task of dealing with. Not for the first time I wonder if he thinks it would be easier for everyone all around if he could treat me like that cockroach and just slam his Brooks-Brothers-bedecked foot down on top of me. I’d be squished, but at least he’d be out of his misery. God knows, he’s never made any bones about the fact that being my father is a huge trial to him. “Let me get a pot brewing while I change and then—” “Sit down, Victoria.” I may have just turned twenty-three, but when my father uses that tone, I sit. It’s instinctive. “What’s wrong?” I ask as silence stretches between us. I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m very, very nervous. “Judging from your…appearance, I’m guessing you haven’t had a chance to go online yet this morning?” “I haven’t, no.” My stomach tightens as all kinds of terrible possibilities start running through my head. “What happened? Are you sure Mom’s okay?” “Your mother is fine,” he says for a second time, his tone warning me just how little he likes repeating himself. Not that I need the reminder—it’s been ingrained in me since I was a toddler. “You should be worrying about yourself.” He’s being deliberately cryptic today, and for a second I think about heading back to the living room and grabbing my phone from where it’s sitting on the coffee table. But the look on his face warns me against doing just that. It warns me against doing anything, really, besides sitting there and listening to him. I start to ask him why I should be worried about myself, but he’s waiting for that question and frankly I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, it’s obvious now that the only reason he’s here is to give me a proper dressing-down, so I might as well just shut up and take it. The sooner he gets started telling me how worthless I am, the faster he’ll be done and out of my home. It’s a pattern I know well. For long seconds he doesn’t say anything, though. Instead he just watches me with those cold, hard eyes. I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch. Refusing to give an inch. It’s a juvenile thing to do—having a staring contest like I’m some pissed-off little girl—but experience has taught me that giving in now only makes things worse later. My father may not respect me, he may not even like me, but he’d respect and like me a hell of a lot less if I just buckled for him. In the end, he looks away first. But it’s a shallow victory for me as he follows it up almost

immediately with, “How long have you known Alexander Parsons?” Every inch of my body goes on red alert. It’s no coincidence that he’s bringing Alexander up now, when I just saw the guy last night. “What happened?” He ignores my question. “Alexander Parsons. How long have you known him?” “A couple of years. Why?” I start to get up, to go for my phone despite my father’s disapproving look. But he beats me to the punch, pulling out his own and swiping his finger across it a couple of times before setting it down on the kitchen table between us. It only takes a second or two before the unmistakable sound of a couple having sex fills my apartment. A few seconds after that I recognize Alexander as being the guy in the film. I have a moment—just a moment—to think that the idiot actually took the less-than-genuine advice I’d given him last night when the woman in the video raises her head and looks straight at the camera. And that’s when it hits me. This isn’t some random sex tape Alexander made with some woman from Kathy and Jim’s party last night. No, this is so much worse. Because the woman with the blue hair staring out at me from my father’s phone—the woman who is taking it doggy-style from one of Hollywood’s hottest young actors—is me. Oh my God. Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. Oh. My. God. For long seconds, it’s all I can think as I stare at the screen. As my father stares anywhere but at the screen. As the sounds of Alexander’s moans—and the slap of his hand on my ass— fill the kitchen. When he starts with his lame version of dirty talk—and how could I have forgotten how truly lame it was—I lunge for the phone and hit PAUSE before my father hears things no father should ever have to hear being said to, or about, his daughter. Then again, judging from the frost in his eyes and the way his jaw is working, he’s already heard. Fuck. Is it too much to ask for the ground to open up and swallow me whole right here, right now? The son of a bitch. The dirty, rotten son of a bitch. I’m not sure what shocks me more—the fact that he leaked a sex tape of us to the press or that a sex tape of us even exists. Because I sure as hell never agreed to let him record us having sex—I’ve never agreed to let anyone do that. I’ve never trusted anyone enough, because—let’s face it—you never know what some pissed-off ex is going to do. Today being a fucking case in point. I want to say it’s not me on the video, want so badly to tell my dad that Alexander altered the video because he was pissed off at me last night. But it wouldn’t be the truth. I remember the night he recorded this—can pinpoint exactly where we were when this was taken in fact, partly because I only had blue hair a few days before we broke up and partly because Alexander is a missionary guy through and through. We only shook things up a little this night because he’d smoked some weed and had a little too much to drink.

“I thought you were finally growing up,” my father growls after a minute. I still can’t bring myself to look up from his phone, can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. “I thought you were finally figuring out what it means to be a Reed.” “I am. This was taken two years ago, when I was in Paris.” “And you think that makes it okay? You let this man videotape you—” “I didn’t know.” He snorts. “Yeah, right. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’ve always been an exhibitionist.” He waves a hand to encompass me from head to toe. “I mean, just look at you.” “Seriously? Just because I color my hair doesn’t mean I’d let someone videotape me having sex.” “Obviously, it does.” “I swear I didn’t know. This was Alexander’s hotel room—he must have had the whole thing set up before he brought me in there. This is on him, Dad. He did this. And he’s the one who leaked it because I wouldn’t sleep with him last night.” “Why the hell not?” he demands. His answer is so unexpected that it takes me a minute to assimilate it. And still I’m stumbling, stuttering a little when I ask, “What do you mean?” “I mean, you obviously had no problem sleeping with him before. Why the hell didn’t you do it last night if you knew he had something like this on you? Jesus, Victoria, how could you let this happen? Do you ever, for even a second, think about anyone but yourself?” For a moment I can do nothing but stare at him as I try to figure out if he’s serious or not. He can’t actually be saying what I think he is, right? He can’t actually be telling me that I should have slept with a man to keep him from releasing a tape he made, without my knowledge, of the two of us together. Like, in what world does that blatant abuse of power even make sense? I can see how my dad would blame me—hell, I blame myself for being so stupid that it never occurred to me Alexander would do something like this. But to blame me for not fucking him to keep the tape private—when I never even knew it existed? How the hell can I possibly be to blame for that? And for the fact that I trusted the man I was dating not to do something like this to me? “I didn’t know there was a tape, Dad,” I explain again. “And when I turned him down last night, I had no idea he would do something like this. I mean, really, what kind of asshole does this?” “The kind of asshole you constantly get involved with. Don’t you think it’s time you figured out that you’re only hurting yourself?” He leans down, gets in my face, and for the first time the icy mask he’s wearing slips and I can see the rage—and the disgust—that it’s been hiding. It jolts me a little, seeing disgust, for me, so plain on his face. And it scares me even more. I’ve always known he doesn’t understand me, that he doesn’t respect the choices I’ve made. And I get it. I do. Hell, even I don’t respect a lot of the choices I made in the past, and that’s why I’m working so hard to turn my life around now. But to see that kind of hate on his face when he looks at me? It hurts way more than I want it to. Way more than it should, considering the history of our

relationship. “You might not have known about that tape, Victoria, but you are still responsible for this mess,” he tells me, his voice all the more convincing for its quiet. “You’ve been running wild since you were fifteen years old, drinking too much, sleeping around, causing as much trouble as you possibly could. Every time I stepped in and tried to stop you, it just made you worse. Made you more wild, more determined to buck my authority and throw your lifestyle in my face. “And now here we are, with you the latest punch line in a global dirty joke. Why? Because you never stop to think about who you’re hurting when you do things like this and how your actions reflect on anyone else.” “Who I’m hurting?” I ask, for the millionth time glancing down at the image frozen on my father’s screen. “I’m the one getting hurt here. I’m the one who’s being turned into a joke!” “And every site that runs it lists your last name—which also happens to be my last name. I have a major board meeting—preceding a major stockholder meeting—later in the week, and I need to inspire confidence in them. I’ve spent weeks trying to figure out the best way to show them that the new direction I want to take the company in is the right one. And now you go and do this? How the hell am I supposed to get them to trust me with the future of my company when I can’t even control my own daughter?” His company. His company? I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Of course that’s what this is about. Not me, not my reputation, not how much this might hurt me. No, all that matters is the company and the price of his precious stock. Shame on me for even thinking it might be something else. After all, this isn’t the first or the last time his business—or something else—will come before me. But still, that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here and let him abuse me because of it. “Look, Dad, I don’t think your shareholders, or your board, cares about what I do in my private life. All they care about is the money you make them. And that’s not going to change just because some guy screwed me over.” “Perception changes at the drop of a hat, Victoria, and perception is everything—I just wish you would learn that and stop getting yourself involved in things like this.” “But I wasn’t involved. Alexander is the one who recorded that tape and he’s also the one who leaked it. Believe me, I would never do something like this.” “No, you would just prostitute yourself for the man—” “It’s just sex, Dad. Not prostitution, not porn. Just sex, between two consenting adults—” “I should have known you’d try to spin it that way.” “Spin it?” I’m honestly mystified. “I’m just being honest. Alexander and I dated for a couple of months a couple of years ago. Is it really so shocking that we had sex?” “I’m done arguing with you about this, especially when you aren’t even sorry it happened.” “Why should I feel remorse? I keep telling you, I didn’t do anything wrong!” “Of course not. You never do.” “That’s not true.” That’s what the whole last few weeks have been about. Making better decisions. Changing my life. Accepting myself for who I am and doing things because I want

to do them and not just because I’m angry or hurt or trying to prove I’m worth loving. “It is true and it’s time things changed. Time you learned how the real world works, young lady.” I want to tell him that I know exactly how the real world works, but we’ve been going back and forth for fifteen minutes all to no avail. My father and I are never going to see eye-to-eye on anything and it’s ridiculous to sit here fighting about it when I have a splitting headache. Which is why I finally just give in and say, “You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” “You’re damn right it won’t, because I’m done. I’m finished with enabling you, finished with fixing your messes, finished with smoothing the way for you when all you do is screw up.” He grabs my forearm, pulls me up from the table, and gives me a little shove toward the bedroom. “You’ve got five minutes to pack a bag.” “A bag?” “You need to learn some responsibility and you’re not going to learn it as long as I’m paying for your mortgage and your car and everything else you have. So go pack a bag. Now.” “You’re kicking me out of my condo?” “No, I’m kicking you out of my condo.” He deliberately glances at his watch. “You’re down to four minutes and forty-five seconds.” “You can’t mean that. I’ve lived here since sophomore year of college.” “And now it’s time for you to live somewhere else. Four minutes and thirty seconds.” “Dad—” “You’re not going to talk me out of this, Tori, and every second you waste is one less thing you get to take with you.” And then he turns his back on me—just one more sign that he’s done with this conversation. I don’t know what else to say, what else to do, so I move down the hall to my bedroom. I pull a weekend bag out of my closet and then, for several seconds, just stand there staring blankly at the clothes in front of me as my father’s words run through my head again and again and again. But then he calls, “Three minutes,” from the kitchen and it galvanizes me into action. I grab a handful of clothes and shove them in the bag without looking too closely at what they are. I stop by my underwear drawer, grab a couple of bras and panties—plus the two hundred dollars I always keep there for emergencies—then head into the bathroom for my toiletries. I grab the bare necessities, figuring I can buy more when I get to a hotel, and then rummage in my medicine cabinet for some Tylenol because—seriously—my head is going to explode if I don’t do something soon. I’m just cupping water in my hands to swallow the two capsules down when my father appears in the doorway. “Time’s up,” he says, reaching for me again, “Fine.” I rip my arm out of his grasp. “Just let me change and I’ll be ready.” “Sorry. I said five minutes. It’s been five minutes.” “Seriously, Dad? I’m still in my cocktail dress! I’ve got last night’s makeup on my face.” “Well, then, I guess you shouldn’t have gotten so drunk you didn’t bother to change last night.” “Right, because then I’d be in my pajamas and that’d be so much better?”

He just shrugs and gestures for me to precede him out of the room. After a moment of gaping at him in shock, I sling my bag over my shoulder and do just that. But when I stop at my nightstand and try to grab my laptop and put it in the front pocket, my father takes it from me. “I believe I paid for that laptop, which means it belongs to me.” “I bought it, with money from my trust fund.” “Which came from me.” “It came from Grandma and Grandpa.” “To be used at my discretion until you’re thirty. So basically, it came from me.” He puts the laptop under his arm and continues down the hall to the family room. I have no choice but to follow him. Once I get there, I see my credit cards and checkbook sitting in a neat pile on the counter. As he hands me my purse, empty of everything that might possibly help me survive, there’s a part of me that isn’t even surprised. He’s already taken everything else from me through the years—his love, his attention, his emotional support. Is it really so shocking that he takes this, too? A little more warning would have been nice, but beggars really can’t be choosers, can they? I know he’s waiting for me to say something about the credit cards, but I don’t. Arguing won’t change his mind—nothing does once my father makes a decision. Besides, it’s very obvious that he’s done with me. Even if his actions didn’t say it—which they do—the look on his face certainly gets the message across. I cross to the coffee table to get my phone, but it’s gone, too. Of course it is. I pay the bill out of my trust fund every month. I turn back to him, start to ask if I can go back to the bedroom and get shoes since I forgot to pick up a pair when I was in there. But he’s smiling that smug grin of his at me, the one that says he’s won and there’s nothing I can do about it and in the end I decide to hell with it. I’m not asking him for another thing. Not now, not ever again. I came into this rich, rarefied life barefoot and I’ll go out the exact same way.

Chapter 6

Miles I’m still working at nine A.M., trying to eradicate that stupid video from the ’Net. I’ve got several bots crawling the interwebs, marking each and every time they find it, so I can go in and take it down. But the thing is spreading exponentially fast—getting posted on social media faster than my bots can find it. Plus, at this point I’m pretty sure that fuckwit Alexander Parsons is not only behind the leak, but behind the rapid spread of the video. Someone is giving major outlets all over the world the right to post it without retribution, and that could only come from him. If he didn’t want it out there, his publicists would have threatened the hell out of each of them until they took it down. The fact that it’s being picked up by more and more sites every hour says everything it needs to. Including that he’s an even bigger fuckhead than I gave him credit for last night. I finish with the site I’m working on, then move to the next one on the list. But the screen blurs in front of me—it’s been well over twenty-four hours since I’ve slept and I’m exhausted. I know I should put the computer down and let the bots do their thing, but between the amount of caffeine I’ve imbibed in the last few hours and how pissed off I am, trying to sleep would be useless. So I might as well keep working. I know this isn’t Tori’s fault, know that that fuckwit is completely responsible for the spreading of this fucking video. Still, there’s a part of me that wants to shake her, that wants to tell her she’s worth more than these jackasses she keeps getting involved with. Yeah, everybody gets a few jerks in their life, but the odds alone state that she should have a couple of decent guys in the mix. Instead, if Chloe is to be believed, it’s just one asshole after another. It makes me wonder if Tori’s trying to sabotage herself. And if she is, why? The question is still running through the back of my mind a few minutes later when I finally put my laptop down and wander into the kitchen for yet another cup of coffee. But I’ve barely gotten the beans in the filter when I hear the alarm system issue a series of beeps warning that the front door has just been opened. More curious than concerned—sometimes Ethan and Chloe’s housekeeper shows up on off days just to check in on me—I flip the coffeepot to on before winding my way to the front door to investigate. I get there just in time to see Tori tinkering with the alarm keypad hidden behind the painting Ethan has hanging on the wall next to the door. She’s breathing harshly, her shoulders shaking just a little, and I pause on the other side of the foyer to give her a second to compose herself. The last thing Tori ever asks for or wants is pity and if she finds out I saw her crying, she’ll make both of our lives a living hell proving how tough she is until she’s convinced I’ve completely forgotten her moment of weakness. I study her as I wait, wondering what the hell has gotten into her. I get her deciding to

come here for a few days to hide from reporters or paparazzi who are looking for pics of Alexander’s newest girl, but logic would dictate that she at least put some shoes on and change out of last night’s dress. Oh, and maybe even comb her short hair, which is currently sticking up all over her head. I can’t help wondering how a picture of her like this will translate into tomorrow’s most obnoxious headline. I’d like to think it won’t, but I’m nowhere near illogical or optimistic enough to believe that. After she finishes tinkering with the alarm, she lets the overnight bag on her shoulder slide to the ground at her feet. All the strength seems to slip out of her with it, her whole body looking like it’s going to crumble. Part of me wants to go to her, to tell her that everything is going to be okay. But the more I study her, the more convinced I become that sympathy is the last thing she needs right now. Which is why I back up a few steps, just far enough to make sure I’m completely out of sight. And then I start to whistle, loudly. I give her a few seconds to compose herself before walking back into the foyer. By the time I get there, Tori’s shoulders are straight, her eyes clear, and any hint of vulnerability has been long banished, despite the fact that she has much of last night’s makeup smeared across her face. The term hot mess comes to mind, and a skitter of uneasiness works its way down my spine. Sex tape on the loose or not, in the year that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Tori look like this. Even as I catalog the mess, I can’t help wondering if it’s going to make her easier— or harder—to deal with. “What the hell are you doing here?” she snarls the second she catches sight of me. Well, that answers that. Harder, definitely. “I was just about to ask the same thing of you,” I answer, brows lifted in a deliberate attempt to annoy her. It works. Her chin shoots straight into the air and her full lips tighten into an angry slash. “You didn’t answer my question.” “And you didn’t answer mine. But”—I hold up a hand to stave off the temper I can see brewing in her coffee-brown eyes—“I’ll answer first, even though I think it’s fairly obvious. I live here.” “You live here? In Ethan and Chloe’s house?” “I do.” She looks—and sounds—like she’s waiting for more of an explanation, but I don’t give her anything else. Why should I when it’s so fun to watch the way her jaw tightens and her teeth grind together? “Since when?” “Since they moved up to San Francisco.” “And Chloe knows about this?” “She’s the one who suggested it. I’m doing extensive renovations on my place and this seemed like a perfect solution to the chaos.” I eye the bag on her shoulder. “Guess she forgot to mention that when you asked if you could stay here for a couple of days, huh?” “I’ve got a standing invitation, so I didn’t have to ask,” she says as she drops her bag at the bottom of the stairs. “But maybe I should have. A little warning that I’d have to deal with you would have been nice.”

She breezes by me then, and doesn’t stop walking until she gets to the kitchen. Once there, she grabs a mug from the cabinet and pours herself a gigantic cup of coffee. One that leaves only the dregs in the bottom of the pot for me. This time it’s my eyes that narrow. I don’t mind sharing the house for a few days until things calm down for her, but I’ll be damned if I share my coffee when I’ve been up half the night trying to help her. Which is why I swoop in and grab the cup as soon as she moves to get cream from the refrigerator. I nearly scald my mouth on the first sip, but the look on her face when she turns back around is worth the pain. “That’s mine!” she exclaims, outraged. “Really?” I ask as I take another, smaller sip. “Did you make it?” “Seriously? That’s how you’re going to play this?” “I never play when it comes to coffee.” “If you knew the morning I had, you’d let me have the stupid cup of coffee.” “If you knew the night I had, you’d let me have it.” She glares at me for a second, but she must figure out that I’m not going to budge because in the end she just rolls her eyes as she grabs the bag of beans I haven’t yet put back in the freezer. “Fine. I’ll make my own.” “Make sure you grind enough beans for a whole pot,” I tell her as I lean against the counter to watch her. She shoots me a disbelieving look. “You don’t actually think I’m going to make coffee for you, do you?” “I would have made it for you, had you actually called instead of just showing up and breaking in.” “I have a key and a standing invitation. I wouldn’t exactly call that breaking in.” “You don’t have permission from me.” “I don’t need permission from you. This isn’t your house.” “Maybe not, but I’m the only one living here right now. A courtesy call might have been nice.” “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that,” she mutters as she pours water into the pot. “Courtesy not your thing?” “That wasn’t quite what I meant, but now that you mention it…It’s hard to be courteous when I didn’t know you were even here, sponging off your sister.” She raises her voice to be heard above the coffee grinder. “Then again, you’re good at that, aren’t you?” It’s a direct hit, and the hint of maliciousness in her smile tells me she knows it. The old familiar guilt tightens my stomach but I try not to let it show on my face. If the last year has taught me anything about Tori, it’s that drawing blood only encourages her. Only has her digging in for the fight. “That seems a little like the pot calling the kettle black,” I finally answer when I can trust myself not to tell her to fuck off. “Considering I don’t see a rent check in your hand, princess.” “Like there’s one in yours?” she asks as she flips the coffeepot on.

“I pay rent every month.” I don’t tell her that I end up putting the money into an account for the baby since Chloe refuses to take it. “Do you?” She fake-applauds. “Now, see, that’s the joy of never having forced Chloe to prostitute herself. I don’t feel the need to throw blood money at her every time I turn around to try to make up for it.” This time it’s my teeth that nearly crack as I clench them as hard as I can. She’s not wrong —I carry the guilt for my part in what happened to Chloe every day of my life—and so much of what I do is because I’m trying to earn her forgiveness. Not the money I pay in rent, because that’s only fair, but the rest? Giving this invention to Ethan at a fraction of the price I could have gotten if I’d kept it in the family company. Moving to San Diego so I can be close to my sister and her family. Taking on more of the day-to-day responsibility in the company while Ethan is away, when all I really want to be doing is hiding in my workshop and thinking up new shit. Everything I’m doing, I’m doing in an effort to make up to Chloe for what happened to her all those years ago. To make up for what my parents and I did to her all those years ago. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s all I can do at this point, and the way Tori keeps throwing the past in my face is really beginning to piss me off. Chloe can take all the potshots she wants at me—she’s earned every single one of them. But Tori hasn’t and I’m getting damn sick of pulling my punches with her, getting sick of backing off just because she’s Chloe’s best friend. I don’t answer her, largely because I don’t trust myself. Instead I concentrate on draining my coffee cup and keeping my mouth shut. Chloe will be less than impressed if I verbally savage her best friend, especially today. But Tori doesn’t get the hint. Instead, she takes my silence for weakness and goes on the attack. Again. “Seriously, Miles, don’t you ever feel like a whore? Giving up your dignity and self-respect, giving up your sister, all for money?” My restraint snaps like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far. I’ve been trying to be nice, but if she wants me to be an asshole, I can be an asshole. “They say it takes a whore to know one, Tori, so why don’t you tell me? Or isn’t that you, sucking dick on the home page of every major entertainment and news site in the Western world?” She gapes at me then, eyes wide and mouth open, and I smirk as I reach past her to pick up the half carafe of coffee that she brewed just to spite me. “Nope, it’s definitely you,” I say as I very deliberately empty the whole thing into my cup. “I recognize the look. Now get the hell out of my house.”

Chapter 7

Tori Miles’s words resonate in my head as he picks up his coffee and slips silently past me into the hall. Over and over, I hear the word whore drop from his lips. Over and over, I hear the condescension and the derision in his voice as he looks me over, as he comments on me sucking dick. Like he and the rest of the world suddenly have a right to voice an opinion on what I do behind closed doors. I know the videotape supposedly gave him that right, gave my father that right—gave everyone in the fucking world that right, apparently—but it still sucks. Still makes me feel like I want to scream and like I want to curl up into a tiny ball all at the same time. For long seconds it’s all I can think about, the word whore all I can hear, again and again and again. I’ve been working so hard to get my life on the right track, working so hard to be the person I want to be. And now because of one jerk’s careless actions, I’m right back where I started all those weeks ago. Or worse, really, because now I’m also an Internet joke. One who is somehow supposed to find a job when half the country has seen what I look like having sex. If I had anywhere else to go, I would do it. If there was anyplace else I could be, I would pick up my bag and get as far away from here as I possibly could. But I have nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to, and as that knowledge sinks in, the rest of Miles’s words finally register. As they do, panic skitters through me and I take off after him at a run. He can’t kick me out. He just can’t. He moves fast when he wants to, though, and is halfway up the long circular staircase in the foyer before I even have a chance at catching up to him. “Hey!” I call up the stairs after him. “You can’t just order me to leave!” He doesn’t even glance back at me, just continues taking the wide steps two at a time. “Hey!” I say again, ignoring the pain in my bruised, abused feet as I dash up the stairs after him. “This is Ethan and Chloe’s house. You don’t have the right to just kick me out of it.” I grab his arm, tug him around to face me. Then wish I hadn’t as he glares down at me out of ice-blue eyes that are as annoyed as they are frigid. “I think we’ve already established that I’m paying rent here, Tori. Which makes it, for the duration at least, my house. And since the last thing I want to do is share a home with a spoiled, self-centered little brat who drinks too much and has a talent for fucking all the wrong people, I am kicking you out.” He points at the door with a look on his face that says he knows he holds all the cards. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

His words light a fire in me even as they strike with pinpoint accuracy. But just because he knows where to hit me doesn’t mean I’m giving up. Because I’m not. I can’t. “Oh, I won’t. Believe me. Because I’ve got no plans to leave and short of carrying me out of here, you can’t make me.” He lifts a brow. “Wanna bet?” “Yeah, I do.” I hold my arms out like I’m daring him to come at me. “We’re seriously going to get into this?” He glares at me. “You know, right, that I have no problem carrying you out of here? Just don’t complain to me when I drop you on your ass.” “You can try, but I’ll scream the whole place down the second you touch me. And when the cops come, I’ll make sure they call Chloe and tell her all about how her bastard of an older brother was manhandling her best friend. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled, aren’t you?” “She knows you well enough to know who’s antagonizing whom in this situation. And again, I’m the one who’s paying rent here—and who has the documentation to prove it.” He comes back down a couple of steps, closes the distance between us until he’s all but standing on top of me. “I was here, minding my own business, when you broke into my house without permission. So go ahead and scream until the cops are called. I have no problem having you arrested for trespassing. Let’s see how long it takes Alexander Parsons to bail you out of jail.” It’s another direct hit and Miles knows it. Alexander wouldn’t walk across the street to help me at this point—I hurt his ego too much last night. And even if he did, I’d spit in his damn face for doing this to me. And then I’d kick him in the balls hard enough to make sure he thought twice before ever doing this to another woman. I start to tell Miles that, but he’s got that look on his face again—the one that says he knows he’s won. It’s the same look my father wore this morning when he kicked me out, the same look Alexander wore when the elevator doors closed on him last night. Half pissed off, half triumphant, and one hundred percent pompous ass, it makes me see red faster than anything else ever could. I think about kicking Miles where it hurts, think about the million and one things I want to shout at him about women and human decency and getting his head out of his ass long enough to act like an actual human being occasionally. But I know if I say any of that then this situation is only going to get more out of hand and I’ll lose any chance I have of staying here until I can figure things out. Already the look on his face says that if I push him, he really will carry me out, instead of just threatening to. And since I can’t let that happen, I swallow down the bitterness inside me —all the hurt and rage and vitriol that’s welling up and begging to spill out all over him—and instead force myself to calmly say, “Come on, Miles. Please. Let me stay here just for a few days. It’s a big house, you won’t even notice me.” I nearly choke on the words, but I get them out. This time the look he shoots me is drily amused, like he knows just how much it cost me to say those words. Then again, maybe he does. I’m not exactly what one would call the shy, retiring type. “Yeah, right,” he says with a derisive snort. “Have you met yourself? You’re a force of nature, Tori. Impossible to miss and just as destructive. I can’t have that right now. I’m in the middle of some really delicate research and I need to give it my full attention.”

“So give it your full attention. Give it all of your attention. I won’t bother you.” “Like I believe that.” But he’s weakening. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his body is starting to relax. I move in for the kill, let tears well up in my eyes that are only partially fake. “Please, Miles. Don’t make me go back out there. Not today, not right now. I’m not ready to see anyone.” He sighs, shoves a frustrated hand through his hair, and that’s how I know I’ve won even before he says, “You know we’ll be at each other’s throats in under two hours.” “Not if I stay out of your way, we won’t. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?” I ask, tongue firmly in cheek. I know I shouldn’t poke the bear—especially when the bear holds all the cards—but it’s hard not to when Miles is so delightfully easy to rile up. Plus, he did just insult the hell out of me and make me beg. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make him suffer for it a little, even if he is going to let me stay. “You could call me a whore? Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. You already did. And you aren’t even the first person to do so today.” I pat his cheek like the word doesn’t hurt—like none of this hurts—and then breeze past him on my way upstairs. I’m heading for the guest room at the back, the one farthest away from the room he likes to use when he’s here. Because much as I’d like to make his life hell while I’m here—just on general principles—I know I can’t. Not when two hundred dollars and his goodwill are all that stand between me and total and complete destitution. But I’ve only made it up three or four more steps before I land wrong on my foot and feel the cut I got in the street earlier break wide open. I clench my teeth together to keep from crying out, but it’s too late to hide the high-pitched gasp of pain that came out the second I landed on the foot. I reach out for the banister and grab on, hoping against hope that Miles isn’t watching as I prepare to hobble my way—on tiptoes—to the top of the stairs. But Miles is beside me in moments, face concerned and eyes laser-sharp as they search mine. “What’s wrong? Where do you hurt?” “I’m fine,” I lie, then force myself not to flinch as I take the next step. But he’s studying me with the single-minded focus of the engineer he is, and it only takes him a couple of seconds to notice my foot is bleeding all over Ethan and Chloe’s bleached-maple steps. “What happened to you?” he demands, even as he sweeps me into his arms and carries me the rest of the way up the stairs. “Where are your shoes?” “Oh yeah. I wasn’t wearing any.” “You weren’t wearing any?” he repeats in confusion. Maybe he’s not as observant as I gave him credit for, considering I’ve been in the house a good twenty minutes and this is the first time he’s noticed that I’m barefoot. “You walked all the way from your condo to here with no shoes on?” “It’s only about a mile,” I tell him, determined to brazen it out as he continues down the hallway to his bedroom with me still in his arms. “More like two miles,” he growls. “I swear, Tori, you need to take better care of yourself.” He hits a nerve with that, but I swallow down my instinctive comeback. I can’t afford to let my mouth get away from me right now. It’s bad enough that I have to stay here where I’m not wanted. I’ll be damned if I let Miles Girard of all people know just what dire straits I’m actually in. He’d probably fall over from laughing too hard.

Except he’s not laughing as he carries me through his room and into the luxurious en suite bathroom. No, he’s actually really gentle as he places me down on the edge of the large sunken tub and then reaches past me to turn the water on. “Let’s get your feet washed off and see what kind of damage we’re dealing with.” He grabs a washcloth and towel from the nearby linen closet before kneeling next to the tub. “It’s no big deal,” I say as I start to stick my injured foot under the running water. He stops me with a gentle hand to my knee. “Give it a second to warm up. It’s brutally cold first thing in the morning. And you won’t know how big a deal it is until we get it clean and can actually see the damage.” And so I wait, watching—bemused—as he sticks one hand under the stream of water while he adjusts the faucets with the other. Finally, when he’s satisfied with the temperature, he nods for me to get my feet wet. It’s perfect—warm enough to send shivers of pleasure up my back but not hot enough to hurt my injured foot or make the blood run faster. Chloe makes fun of Miles all the time for his minute attention to detail, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate it at the moment. “I have to admit, I feel a little like Goldilocks right now,” I tell him as he sticks the washcloth under the running water. “Why Goldilocks?” he asks, before squirting some orange-and-bergamot-scented shower gel onto the wet cloth. “You know, the whole too hot, too cold, just right thing? This water is just—” I break off with a moan as he takes my foot in his hand and slides the washcloth over it. He freezes, his eyes jumping to mine. “Did I hurt you?” “No.” I duck my head, suddenly embarrassed by my overly dramatic reaction to his touch. But it’s been so long since a man has touched me tenderly—even longer since one has touched me for a nonsexual reason—that I can’t help responding to him. I know he’s just trying to help me, but the way he’s cupping my ankle while his fingers stroke the washcloth over the sole of my foot feels entirely too good. Worse, it feels right, like it’s something I’d let him do for me over and over again. Which is ridiculous, I know, considering the fact that we’ve been enemies pretty much since the beginning. I can forgive almost anything, but the way he treated my best friend is unforgivable. Just because she’s managed to move past it doesn’t mean I have. And it doesn’t mean I ever will, no matter how good he is at washing and massaging feet. “Are you sure?” he asks as he resumes cleaning my feet. He’s being even more careful— even more gentle—this time around. “It just stings a little.” Which isn’t even a lie—the soap definitely makes the cut burn whenever it touches it. “I’m sorry about that, but you don’t want it to get infected. I’ll be done washing the blood and dirt away in a second.” “It’s not your fault. I’m the idiot who walked all the way over here without shoes.” “That’s true.” He glances up at me, his lips quirked in a crooked smile that makes his already too-handsome face look positively godlike. “Why did you do that, anyway?” “Like all ultimately stupid plans, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a dozen or two half-finished inventions that fit that description.” “I wanted to feel the sand underneath my toes. But I didn’t figure on the glass close to the street. Once I hurt myself I figured I’d just buy a pair of flip-flops from a street vendor, but I forgot how early it was. No one is out yet.” “Once we get you bandaged up, I’ll run down to Chloe’s room and see if I can find you a pair of fluffy slippers to walk around in. It’ll probably be easier on your feet than shoes or going barefoot on these hardwood floors.” As he talks, he rinses off my injured foot, then moves on to my other foot. This one is just bruised with a few little scrapes on it, but he takes just as much time on it as he did the first one. He even digs his thumb into my arch, rubbing my sore muscles until I’m nearly purring in satisfaction. I try to stay stiff, try to remind myself of all the reasons I don’t like him. But it’s hard to do when he’s taking such good care of me—especially when he could have just left me hobbling along on my own. I smile at him despite myself, and he blinks a little, like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating or not. I can’t blame him for that—it may be the first time I’ve done something besides snarl at him since I found out what happened to Chloe when she was in high school. But who would have thought it was possible for Chloe’s douchebag of an older brother to actually be human instead of a robot? Not to mention…nice? Especially since it’s only been ten minutes since he called me a spoiled brat…and only fifteen since he called me a whore. Of course, I called him one first, so I’d say we’re about equal in the being-awful-to-eachother department. Though he’s making up ground fast with this whole foot-washing/massage thing that he’s got going on… I’m not sure where that leaves me, except nervous. Very, very nervous. “That should do it,” he finally says, rinsing the last of the soap from my feet. He turns the water off, then spreads a thick blue towel on the ground in front of the tub. “Swing your feet around and we’ll see about getting them dried off and bandaged up.” “I can—” My voice breaks, to my utter mortification. Determined not to let it happen again, I clear my throat way more than necessary before I try a second time. “I can take it from here.” “It’s no big deal.” He’s on his feet, opening up the medicine cabinet to the left of the sink. “I’ve got everything right here.” I can see he’s not exaggerating as he pulls down hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and a wide assortment of gauze, tape, and bandages. “Do you do double duty as an ER nurse?” I ask as he spreads everything out on the counter. “Or a serial killer?” Miles just laughs. “Since Ethan and Chloe took two of the cars with them up to San Francisco, I’ve set up a workshop in the last couple of garage bays. But there’s been a lot of trial and error with the project I’m working on, and I’ve cut myself more than a few times.” “What are you working on right now?” I ask, because I’m totally curious and have been for a while. I know he brought his idea to Ethan instead of running with it in his own family’s company—he walked away from his parents and his work there without a backward glance, Chloe told me when she was trying to talk me around to giving her brother another shot.

I always figured he had an ulterior motive—like he needed Ethan’s money or Ethan’s fabulous brain in order to make his latest idea work. But Chloe swears it’s the other way around, that Miles’s project is going to take Frost Industries to the next level. He pauses for a second, like he’s thinking about whether or not he should tell me. But he must figure out that I’ve got no one to tell—my family made their money the old-school way, in textiles and steel, not technology—because he says, “I’m working on a new technology, and a much easier, more economical process, for desalinization.” “Desalinization?” I repeat, a little disappointed after all the buildup. With the state of the California drought being what it is, everyone and their brother is working on a way to make ocean water potable. No one’s come close, though, at least not that I’m aware of. “No need to look so enthusiastic.” Miles gathers some supplies and carries them back to me before sinking onto his haunches at my feet. “Sorry. It’s just, Chloe and Ethan have made it sound like such a big deal.” “It is a big deal. Making salt water drinkable is a game changer.” “Yeah, but only if you can actually do it on a mass level.” “Oh, I can do it,” he tells me as he pours peroxide on my cut. It burns, but I refuse to flinch. I look pathetic enough today without adding wimpy to the bargain. “But right now it costs too much. I’m trying to make the process cheaper, and for that I need to invent a different kind of filter.” He holds up his hands for my inspection, and for the first time I see the fine scratches and scars running along his fingers and down his palms. “Hence the injuries from trial and error.” He doesn’t volunteer anything else about his work, and I don’t ask. Partly because I don’t want to pry and partly because he’s decided my cut needs a butterfly bandage and it hurts like hell as he squeezes the skin on either side of my wound together. Finally, after what feels like forever, he sits back and I yank my now throbbing foot away from him with only the barest hint of a whimper. He grimaces in sympathy, then gathers up the trash and tosses it in the wastepaper basket next to the sink. But when I start to get up, he stops me with a warning look. “I didn’t do all that just for you to rip everything back open,” he says as he quickly gathers up the supplies and puts them away. Then he bends down and picks me up like I weigh absolutely nothing. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the easy way he carries me around makes me rethink my whole stance on nerdy engineers… “Which room are you taking?” he asks as he carries me back through his room and out into the main hallway. “The gray room,” I answer, naming the one that’s farthest away from him. It’s one of the smaller guest rooms in the house, but I don’t care about that. I just figure the farther away from him I am, the less chance I have of irritating him—which could then lead to him kicking me out. Just because he took care of my foot doesn’t mean things are all glitter and roses between us. And since I don’t even own a pair of shoes at the moment, I don’t think I’ll get very far if I have to leave. I don’t know if Miles has figured out what I’m thinking, but instead of heading down the hall to the wing where the gray room is, he only takes a few steps before turning into a room two doors down from his.

I recognize the room immediately from its bright-turquoise-and-purple duvet and pillows. Not to mention the Picasso sketches on the wall. This is the room I’ve taken every other time I’ve spent the night—including when I hung out here for two weeks to help Chloe after Violet was born. As Miles carries me across the boldly decorated room, I can’t help wondering if he chose this room on purpose. If he knows that this is the room I usually stay in, or if it’s just a coincidence that we’ve ended up here. His face, with its firm jaw and piercingly blue eyes, isn’t giving anything away. And neither is the still surprisingly gentle way he’s holding me. I figure he’ll carry me to the bed, but instead he puts me down on the love seat inside the big bay window. I’m expecting that he’ll run away now that he’s done way more than his duty, and I start to thank him for all his help. But he just shoots me an annoyed look as he moves to the bed and starts taking off the throw pillows and turning down the covers. Watching him gives me a lump in my throat. Which is stupid, I know, but other than maids at hotels, no one has ever turned the covers down for me in my whole life. Not my parents, not any of the guys I’ve been with, not even a babysitter or nanny when I was little. And here’s this guy who doesn’t even like me, who sure as hell doesn’t want me here, doing it like it’s the easiest, most normal thing in the world. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about that, or how I’m supposed to feel. Especially once he starts testing out each of the pillows until he finds one firm enough to put about two-thirds of the way down the bed. I assume it’s there for me to rest my hurt foot on. “You really don’t have to do all this,” I say as I stand up, making sure not to put too much weight on my injured foot. “I mean, I really appreciate it—of course I do—but I’m sure you have better things to do than take care of me.” He just shoots me another annoyed look and continues with what he’s doing. Or at least he starts to, but then it must register that I’m standing on my own two feet because he all but leaps across the room at me. “Seriously?” he demands, pulling me up and against him until my breasts are pressed against his chest and my injured foot isn’t even touching the ground. Then again, neither is my uninjured one. “You couldn’t wait two minutes for me to come get you? Do you want to open that cut back up again?” “I didn’t want you to have to wait on me. I—” “I think you’re mistaking basic human decency for servitude,” he answers in obvious exasperation. He looks for all the world like he wants to give me a piece of his mind—or a good shake. I know I should pretend to look apologetic—it’s the least I can do after everything he’s done for me—but suddenly I’m all too aware of the fact that his body is pressed to mine. That my body is pressed to his. That our bodies are pressed together. I should be freaking out right now—after the morning I’ve had, this is the last thing I need. But it’s hard to get upset when being held against Miles feels this good. This natural. It’s completely ridiculous, but suddenly I’m having a hard time catching my breath. My lungs ache, the air stuttering in my throat every time I try to inhale. Desperate to look normal, to be normal, I force myself to take a deep, shuddering breath. But that only makes things worse, because now I can smell him. Oranges and bergamot and warm, dark honey flood my system, make my nipples peak and my mouth water. For him. For

Miles fucking Girard. — For Chloe’s brother, I remind myself a little frantically. This is Chloe’s brother I’m having such a strong reaction to. Chloe’s brother who is sending shivers across my skin with every slow rise and fall of his chest against mine. Chloe’s brother who has me wondering, for the first time, ever, what he would feel like, sound like, taste like, if I leaned forward just a little more and ran my lips up the strong column of his throat. The thought settles around me like a dark cloud, wrapping me up in the scent, the feel, of Miles. Suddenly I want nothing more than to tilt my head back, to loop my hands around his neck, to pull his mouth down to mine. But this is Miles! The little voice at the back of my head is screaming at me now, telling me to back up. To step away. To put some serious distance between us before I do something really, really stupid. But then it’s too late. He’s scooping me up in his arms again. Holding me against his rockhard chest as he carries me over to the bed. I’ve seen him in a bathing suit a bunch of times in the last year, but seeing him without a shirt on is very different from feeling his wellmuscled pecs and flat abs pressed so intimately against me. Especially when those ice-blue eyes of his are looking down at me with the same combination of annoyance and arousal that I’m currently feeling. When we get to the bed, he takes his time sliding me down his body to the mattress. Once he lets me go, I expect it to get easier to think—to breathe. But then his fingers—long and elegant and just a little rough—are on the bare skin of my knee, my calf, as he arranges my leg on the pillow. “Comfortable?” he asks, after a minute, and his voice is husky, jagged. Just a little off. “Yeah. Thanks.” “Good.” He backs up a couple of steps, nods toward the door. “I’m going to go get some sleep. I was up all night and I’m about to drop.” “Oh right. Thanks again. For everything.” “No problem. You can hide out here for a couple of days, until the press dies down and you’re ready to go back to your real life.” This is it, the opening I’ve been looking for. This is my chance to tell him that I can’t go back, that my father has completely cut me off from the only life I’ve ever known. But even as I open my mouth to explain everything, I can’t get the words past my too-tight throat. Miles made it very clear in the kitchen that I’m already a fuckup in his mind. The last thing I want to do is make it worse. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks of me, and God knows I don’t want it to matter. But for some reason it does. Which is why I just nod when I should speak, just look at him when I should be explaining everything. “Do you need anything before I go to sleep?” he asks after a second. “Maybe something to

drink?” “No.” I finally force the word out. “I’m good. Besides, I’m not an invalid. If I get thirsty, I can get it myself.” “You should stay off that foot as much as possible. At least for today. Give the butterfly bandages a chance to work.” He nods at the nightstand table, where the remote control for the TV is resting. “Watch some television or something. But no gossip shows. You don’t need that.” I groan because of course Alexander and I will have made E! and God only knows what else. “I definitely won’t be channel surfing.” Miles must believe me, because he doesn’t say anything else. Just gives me a wry smile and a little wave before ducking out the door. And then I’m alone, with nothing to keep me company but the million and one recriminations currently ripping through my brain. Why did I even go to that stupid party last night? Why did I talk to Alexander? How did I not know he had a sex tape of us? And maybe the worst thought yet, why didn’t I just sleep with him? I hate myself for even thinking it, hate myself even more because there’s a part of me that wishes I could go back and do just that. That wishes I had brought him into my apartment and fucked him the way he expected. Fucked him the way the old Tori would have, before I started trying to clean up my act. I never got much pleasure from those hookups, never got much but the temporary cessation of loneliness that came from being skin-to-skin with another person. And so what if I’d have woken up this morning hating myself for going backward, for undoing all the work I’ve done these last few months? At least I’d still have a condo and a car and a phone. At least I wouldn’t be here, in last night’s party dress, begging Miles to have sympathy for me. Just the idea makes my skin crawl. I hate begging anyone for anything, hate even more the idea of being dependent on someone. Yeah, technically my father paid for my lifestyle while I looked for a job, but it was my trust fund that really paid—a trust fund that was set up for me by my grandmother and that legally became mine over two years ago. The fact that there’s also a loophole in it—one that says he oversees it until I’m thirty and therefore is technically within his rights to take it all away—doesn’t make the money any less mine. In theory, anyway. In practice, it’s totally not mine because if it were, I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting on this bed trying to figure out what the hell to do. I glance down at myself, see the pink dress for perhaps the millionth time this morning. And suddenly, just like that, I can’t stand it touching me for one more second. Any more than I can stand the fact that Alexander had his hands all over this dress—all over my body— minutes before he leaked the video that would ruin both my life and whatever self-esteem I’ve managed to build up these last months. I left my bag downstairs, of course I did, but I know that Chloe—or, let’s be real here, Ethan —keeps a robe in each of the guest room closets for people to use. It’s not ideal, but it’s good enough for me. Hell, a towel from the bathroom is good enough for me at this point if it

means I get to take this stupid dress off. With that thought in mind, I push myself off the bed and half hop, half hobble my way into the bathroom, where the closet is located. Sure enough, there’s a long white robe hanging at the front of the closet. I grab it and hobble back toward the bedroom. But halfway there, I glance at the mirror and shit. Just shit. I’m still wearing last night’s makeup, though most of it is pooled under my eyes or running halfway down my cheek. Jesus. It’s a miracle Miles could even look at me with a straight face. All of a sudden the dress seems the least of my problems. Embarrassed, annoyed, horrified, I hop over to the sink. Then all but drown myself as I splash handful after handful of water onto my face. Eventually all traces of mascara and thick black liner disappear, as do the remnants of foundation and fuchsia lipstick. But that just means I’m left with myself when I look in the mirror. With plain old Victoria with her too-pale skin and her too-brown eyes. My mom always bemoaned my eyes when I was growing up, always told me how she wished they were cornflower blue like her own. I used to obsess about it when I was younger, like some white, uptown version of Toni Morrison’s Pecola Breedlove. I even got colored contacts in high school, hoping to please her. But it turns out that fake blue eyes are worse than real brown ones, at least in my mother’s book, and in the end I had to settle for the knowledge that she knew how genetics worked. If she’d wanted a blue-eyed baby so badly, then perhaps she shouldn’t have married a man with brown eyes, no matter how thick his wallet was. When my face is finally clean, I dry myself off with one of the towels hanging next to the sink, then hobble back into the bedroom, the robe clenched in my hands. I drop it on the bed, then start the awkward twisting and turning that’s necessary to pull down the back zipper of my dress. It takes a minute, but I finally get the little tab pulled down enough that I can slide the dress off my torso and over my hips. I’m just stepping out of it—clad in nothing but a pair of hot-pink panties—when the door to my room opens without warning. And I’m left staring straight into Miles’s wide sapphire-blue eyes.

Chapter 8

Miles Fuck, she’s beautiful. It’s the first thought that runs through my head as I stare straight at Tori’s naked body. I mean, sure, it’s no secret that she’s a hot, sexy woman—her bright, brash, in-your-face looks are one of the first things anyone notices about her. But looking at her now, seeing the creaminess of her skin, the light-pink tips of her breasts, the bold patterns of the ink that decorates so much of her torso—she’s breathtaking. Spellbinding. Impossible to look away from, no matter how much my manners are screaming at me to do just that. I expect her to gasp, to cover herself, but this is Tori, the woman who gives as good as she gets. Who doesn’t back down. Who may retreat for a little while but who doesn’t know the meaning of the word surrender. Which is why—despite what I expect her to do—I’m not actually surprised when all she does is stand there staring back at me, shoulders straight and chin lifted in obvious defiance. “See anything you like?” she asks after several seconds pass and neither of us moves. After my first involuntary sweep of her body, I keep my eyes pinned to hers. “I thought you were going to stay off that foot.” “I thought you knew how to knock.” She quirks a brow. “Guess we were both wrong.” Without breaking eye contact with me, she reaches toward the bed and picks up a long white cotton robe identical to the one I found hanging in my closet when I first moved in. She shrugs into it, belts it loosely at the waist. I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t sorry to see all that gorgeous skin of hers covered up, even though it makes it a lot easier for me to think—and breathe—now that her small, perfect breasts are no longer on display. “I brought your bag,” I tell her, dropping the duffel bag she’d left in the foyer at her feet. “And Chloe’s slippers, as promised.” I hold up the fluffy pink things. “Oh right. Thanks.” She takes a step toward me, but I close the distance before she can, settling one hand on her lower back as I guide her deliberately toward the bed. As I do, I try not to think about how much I’d like to tumble her onto that bed. About how much I’d like to unknot her sash and slip that robe from her shoulders. About how much I’d like to drop to my knees in front of her, spread her legs, and eat her out until she comes on my tongue at least twice. Because I suddenly do want all that—way more than I should—I bend over and put the slippers next to her feet. Take a deliberate step back. Then another and another. She’s here because some asshole just abused her trust. The last thing she needs is for a man she

despises to make a play for her, too. I may be a jerk, but I’ve got enough class not to put my hands on a woman who obviously doesn’t want me to. No matter how hard it is to keep my eyes off the delectable sliver of skin showing between the lapels of her robe. “Is there anything else you need?” I ask as I move abruptly back toward the door. She shakes her head, her eyes gleaming with an amusement that says she knows exactly how hard it is for me to ignore the sudden hardening of my dick. “I think I’m going to lie down, try to take a little nap. I didn’t sleep well last night, and this morning has been a total shit show.” She stretches then, and her robe falls off her shoulder, exposing more creamy skin and gorgeous ink. And that’s when I turn tail and run. A man only has so much self-control, after all, and I’ve always had a thing for ink on skin. Especially when the ink—and the woman it’s decorating—are as bold and beautiful as Tori is. Her husky laugh follows me into the hallway and I pull the door closed a little harder than necessary. She despises you, I remind myself—and my dick—as I make my way down the hallway to my own room. Not to mention the fact that she’s feeling vulnerable and alone right now. The last thing she needs is her best friend’s brother suddenly getting a fucking hard-on for her. I repeat the words like a mantra as I head into my room. It should work—I’ve never been one to lust after a woman I can’t have—but there’s something about the way she was looking at me, something about the wicked little twist of her lips at the end there—that gets me going despite my best intentions. I need to sleep, but my dick is way too hard for that right now. It’s way too hard for anything but fucking right now, if I’m being honest, and since that’s not an option I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Then I step in without waiting for it to warm up. The brutal cold hits me hard, has my head ducking and my shoulders hunching in in an effort to protect myself. It does nothing to calm my suddenly raging erection, however, and as the water finally warms up I brace my forearm against the shower wall and wrap my hand around my dick. As I begin to stroke, slow and steady, images of Tori flash through my head. Tori all dressed up in that hot-pink dress and those crazy high heels, her leg wrapped around my thigh and her body pressed to mine. Tori stretched out on one of the chaise longues around the pool downstairs, her chocolatebrown eyes covered by thousand-dollar sunglasses and her million-dollar body uncovered by the skimpiest black bathing suit I’ve ever seen in person. Tori in tight jeans and a tank top, hair a sexy multicolor and ink glowing on her shoulders. And lastly, Tori standing in the middle of that bedroom in nothing but a pair of hot-pink panties, her dress around her ankles and nipples peaked and hard. Fuck. It’s that image that does it, that revs me up and has me working myself harder and faster. For a moment I think about sucking her nipples, about pulling one and then the other into my mouth and sucking until they’re red and swollen and diamond-hard. Until she’s crying out and clutching at me, her body convulsing on my fingers. Shit. Fuck. Damn. She’s so fucking hot. So fucking gorgeous, with the elaborate roses

tattooed across her shoulders. I can’t believe how hot she’s gotten me or how much I’d give to be touching her right now instead of myself. To be slipping my hands over her breasts and down her stomach. To be licking my way along her ink. To be sliding my fingers through her slick folds to play with her clit until she comes screaming my name. Fuck. Heat slams through me at the thought, pools at the base of my spine and licks along every nerve ending. My dick is aching, my balls burning, and I speed up my strokes even more, tugging harder and faster as I imagine putting my mouth, my hands, my cock on Tori. As I imagine coming in her hand, between her breasts, in her pussy, on her lips. It’s the last image that fucking gets me, that revs me up and sends me careening over the edge of an orgasm that is both brutal and all-consuming. I come hard and long, pleasure tearing through me as hot water beats down on my bowed head and shoulders. I come and come and come, Tori’s name on my lips and her image emblazoned on my brain. When it’s over, I slump against the cold tile of the shower wall and struggle to steady myself. To get my breath back. It’s harder than it should be and for long seconds I just stand there, forcing my weak knees to carry me. Forcing myself not to think about Tori on her knees in front of me, her full red lips wrapped around my cock. I don’t know how long I stand there, but it’s long enough for my legs to steady and for the water to run cold again. Shivering, I do a quick wash, then shut the water off and climb out. After drying off and pulling on a pair of athletic shorts, I check my laptop to make sure my bots are still crawling through the ’Net, searching for the video. They are, so I execute a couple of quick corruption commands to add to their seek-and-destroy mission, then crawl into bed. Tori isn’t the only one who needs a nap. But as I stretch out and close my eyes, all I can see are Tori’s melted-chocolate eyes. Her fuck-me red lips. Her beautiful, beautiful breasts. I roll over with a groan and punch my pillow. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but it needs to fucking stop. Otherwise I’m going to spend the next few days in a state of perpetual exhaustion—and horniness. And frankly, I just don’t have the energy for either. — I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next time I open my eyes, the clock beside the bed reads three fifteen. There’s an annoying noise buzzing next to my head and I’m still groggy and disoriented enough that it takes me a few seconds to register the sound as coming from my smartphone. It takes a few seconds more to register that the vibration means it’s ringing. I reach for it with a groan, mumble hello without even checking to see who it is. But then, I don’t really have to. I’ve been expecting this phone call all day. “Thank God you picked up!” Sure enough, it’s my sister, sounding more stressed and frantic than I’ve heard her since the whole debacle went down with Ethan’s brother, Brandon, last year. “I need you to do me a favor. I need you to go check on Tori. Have you seen the Internet? Of course you’ve seen it,” she continues, answering her own question. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of her all day, but she’s not answering my texts or calls. I even tried to message her on Facebook and I got nothing.”

“That’s because she’s taking a nap. The whole fiasco of today really wore her out.” “Of course it did. The whole thing is a nightmare. I swear, if I could get my hands on Alexander Parsons right now I would—hey, wait. How do you know she’s taking a nap? Are you with her?” I’m not sure if I’m insulted or amused by how surprised my little sister sounds. “Yeah. She showed up here a few hours ago, looking for someplace to get away from the reporters. She didn’t know I was living here.” I do my best to keep my voice neutral, but there’s a part of me that wonders if there’s a reason my sister didn’t tell her best friend I was staying in her house. Like, maybe she’s ashamed of trying to build some kind of relationship with me because of our shit past. I would never blame her for it if that was the reason. After everything she’s been through, she deserves to let me into her life as much or as little as she pleases. I’m just grateful she’s forgiven me for my part in what happened. But just because I’m grateful, just because I understand her reticence, doesn’t mean it doesn’t also hurt a little. She was my baby sister for a lot of years, and for a lot of years it was my job to look out for her, to protect her. Often it wasn’t easy, as she somehow felt the same way about me, and the fact that I blew it so spectacularly is something that will haunt me for the rest of my life. “She didn’t?” Chloe sounds surprised. “I’m sure she was at dinner a few weeks ago when we discussed you moving in. She must have been playing with Violet or something. Anyway, how is she? It’s not like her to dodge me like this. The rest of the world, yes. But me, no.” “I told you, she’s worn out. I’ve been sleeping for the last few hours, but the last I heard she was planning on taking a nap. Do you want me to go wake her up?” “No, let her rest. Why should I make her wake up and face this mess any sooner than she absolutely has to?” That’s pretty much my thinking, too. Still, I feel honor-bound to tell her, “Tori’ll be okay. She was shaken when she got here, obviously, but there’s a core of steel under there. She’ll get through this.” “That’s what everyone thinks,” Chloe argues. “But the truth is, she’s actually pretty fragile. She acts all tough, but that’s just to hide her vulnerability.” I think back on when she got here, on the defiant chin tilt and the narrowed eyes and the fact that her hands trembled when she didn’t think I was looking. And have to concede, “Maybe you’re right.” With a groan, I throw back the covers and climb out of bed. “I’ll go check on her.” “Tell her to call me, will you? Please.” “Sure. If you don’t hear from her in the next couple of hours, call back. I’ll put her on my phone.” “Thanks, Miles.” Chloe sounds relieved. “So now that that’s out of the way,” I say as I walk into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. “How’s my beautiful niece?” “Beautiful!” she answers. “Amazing, wonderful, fantastic. Did you get the pictures I sent yesterday of her playing on the beach?”

“I did. She’s gorgeous.” “She really is, isn’t she? Must get that from her dad.” “She must, considering you’re such an ugly duckling.” Laying the phone down I splash water on my face. “Miiiiiiles…” I can all but see her rolling her eyes at me. “It’s true,” I continue as I dry my face, then head into the closet for a shirt. “You were always such a homely child. I tried not to let on, of course. Didn’t want you to feel bad about yourself and all that—” “I’m hanging up now.” “Okay, okay.” I stop metaphorically pulling her pigtails as I shrug into an old Aerosmith Tshirt. “How are you doing? How’s school?” “Hard.” I snort. “It’s Stanford Law. Of course it’s hard.” “I know,” she says, her voice pitched to just a little bit of a whine. “But it’s really hard.” “Yeah, but do you like it?” She laughs then. “I love it so much I don’t even know how to tell you how much I love it. I have this amazing professor who started her career clerking for Thurgood Marshall. Thurgood Marshall!” she repeats, like she can’t even believe her luck. “She’s amazing. And another one of my professors won most of the major environmental cases of the eighties and nineties against corporations. The stories are insane.” “I can imagine. I’m glad you like it.” “I do. I really do.” “And Ethan?” I ask as I make my way out of my room and down the hall to Tori’s. If she’s awake, maybe I can hand the phone over now and put Chloe out of her misery. “He’s doing great. You know, same old Ethan. Working, taking care of the baby, taking care of me…” “Yeah? Things still good on that front?” “They’re fine, Miles. Better than fine. And you know it.” “Hey, I’m your big brother. It’s my job to ask. To make sure you’re happy.” For a second, the past hangs between us. The fact that, for so long, I didn’t do my job. Didn’t take care of her. Didn’t make sure she was happy. And suddenly I want to kick myself. Despite her worry about Tori, Chloe sounds good, really good. The last thing she needs is me dragging up the past in a pathetic effort to make myself feel better. I wait for her to call me on it, but she wouldn’t be my sister if she did that. Instead she just says, “I’m deliriously happy. Everything is going perfectly—Ethan makes sure of it. So stop worrying about me and worry about yourself instead.” “Why do I need to worry about myself?” I demand as I knock lightly on Tori’s door. “I’m doing great.” “Oh yeah? So when’s the last time you went on a date? Or did something that didn’t involve working in your lab all night, every night?” There’s no answer, so I knock a little harder. “Excuse me, but I went to a party just last

night.” She snorts. “How many times do I tell you that a gathering of engineering nerds where you all sit around talking about totally obscure stuff and how it will make your current inventions better is so not a party.” “We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that,” I tell her. “But I will have you know, this wasn’t that kind of party.” “No?” She sounds skeptical. “No. I promise. I even danced with a beautiful woman and talked to people who aren’t engineers.” “Yeah, well, just so you know, robots don’t actually count as people. Or beautiful women.” “I’m hanging up now,” I say, echoing her words from earlier when I was giving her a hard time. “Okay, okay.” She laughs for a second, then grows serious. “Have Tori call me as soon as she can, okay? I’m going to be worried until I hear her voice.” “I will. And you keep taking the world of Stanford Law by storm.” “I think you’ve got that reversed. Currently, it’s taking me by storm.” She sounds like she’s loving every second of it. “Yeah, well, all the best graduate programs do.” Tori still hasn’t answered my knock and it’s making me more nervous than it should. But with Chloe’s words about how vulnerable she is fresh in my mind, I can’t help worrying. Not that I think Tori would do anything to hurt herself, but still, I’ll feel better once I can talk to her. See her face-to-face. “Look, I’ve got to go.” “Okay. Take care of Tori for me. And make sure she calls me!” “I will,” I promise for the second time in as many minutes. “Bye, sis.” “Bye, bro.” “You are such a brat.” “Takes one to know one,” she answers with a bright giggle right before she cuts the connection. I’m left staring at Tori’s closed door, with a bunch of increasingly upsetting scenarios running through my head. What if she fell and hit her head in the shower? What if she took too many sleeping pills by accident and is passed out on the bed? What if she deliberately tried to hurt herself because she couldn’t take all the shit currently going on in her life? It’s this thought that has me knocking harder, has me calling out her name. And when she still doesn’t answer, it’s this thought that has me pushing her door open, expecting the worst but praying for the best. Turns out, all my worry is for nothing because Tori isn’t in there. Her bag is open next to the bed, though, and Chloe’s fuzzy pink slippers are nowhere in sight, both of which I take as good signs. After closing the door behind me, I jog down the steps and do a cursory sweep of the downstairs. I expect to find her on the patio sunbathing, or maybe watching TV in the family or media room, but instead she’s in the kitchen, her back turned to me as she loads her arms up with ingredients from the fridge.

She’s dressed in a pair of black yoga pants and a plain white tank top and for a second I can do nothing but stare. Partly because of the luscious curve of her ass as she bends over in the yoga pants and partly because of the fact that she looks really vulnerable like this. I’m used to seeing her dressed in designer or punk outfits, face perfectly made up and wearing enough attitude to give a street gang a run for their money. But like this…she looks different. Sweeter. As vulnerable as Chloe warned me that she is. As she turns to put things on the counter, I feel like a total perv for getting off to images of her in the shower earlier. Because with her hair swept back to the side and held in place by a flower barrette and her face washed clean of the omnipresent makeup she wears like armor, she looks about fifteen. But she isn’t, I remind myself as I clear my throat to make my presence known. She’s in her twenties, and is currently the victim of a sex-tape scandal that’s obviously shaken her. So definitely not the naïve fifteen-year-old she resembles right now, but still definitely vulnerable. Which is why, as I walk closer, I shove my hands into my pockets to ensure I won’t do anything stupid—like slide a finger down the gorgeous swirls of ink on her bare arm or across the sliver of skin between the bottom of her tank top and the top of her pants. “I thought you’d still be napping,” I say as I stop on the other side of the center island from her. “Couldn’t sleep.” She dumps a carton of organic blackberries in a bowl, then turns toward the sink to wash them. “So I figured I’d blend.” “Blend?” “Yep.” She nods toward where Ethan’s prize Vitamix sits in a position of honor. “Your brother-in-law is always going on about the stress-relieving properties of making smoothies— and drinking them—so I thought I’d give it a try.” She reaches for a carton of strawberries next, and after washing them begins to clean them. “I didn’t know you knew how to…” I trail off because I’m not sure whether or not to call what she’s doing cooking. But she is currently hulling those strawberries like a pro. “Do anything?” She finishes my sentence with a self-deprecating laugh, but one with a slight edge to it. “Yeah, you’re not the only one.” There’s a story there—poor little rich girl, and all that—but I’m not up for digging around to find it. And won’t be until I have a cup of coffee…or six. “I was going to say I didn’t know you could cook.” “I know it’s a shock, but I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she says with a shrug. “Besides, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” “I could say the same thing to you, you know.” “As if,” she answers with a snort. “I know everything I need to know about you.” “I’m more than the mistake I made more than seven years ago.” “It was a pretty big mistake.” “Yeah, it was. But yours is a pretty raunchy sex tape and I’m guessing there’s more to you than what’s on that video. Or are you really just ‘the most spankable piece of ass on the planet’?” I quote Parson’s lame bedroom talk back to her.

“Parsons is an asshole.” “No doubt. So are my parents, obviously. I’m willing to take responsibility for being an ignorant dick who didn’t question what he should have when it came to the money my parents used to start the company, but that mistake—no matter how bad it was—isn’t all I am.” To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s Tori I’m hoping to convince, or myself. Because I’m not, I continue, “Just like that sex tape isn’t all you are, no matter what it feels like right now.” She slams the strawberry bowl onto the counter with a thump, and I brace myself for the explosion I can see brewing in the depths of her eyes. But in the end, she doesn’t explode. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all. Instead she grabs two bananas from the bunch and starts peeling them. I wait a few seconds, just to see what’s going to happen. But when nothing does, I make my way around the island to the coffeemaker. After all, pushing her buttons is usually as fun for me as pushing mine is for her. But not if she doesn’t push back. Then I just feel like a bully, and that’s a feeling I can’t abide. Tori starts the blender at the same time I begin grinding the beans, and for a couple of minutes the noise in the kitchen is bad enough that neither of us can say anything with any hope of being heard. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Tori finishes up the smoothies, then pours them into two glasses. Before I can say anything about how I prefer coffee, she reaches past me and turns the coffeemaker off before it can so much as get started brewing. Then she pushes a smoothie at me with a look that tells me I’d better take it. But all she says is, “Too much caffeine makes you impotent,” as she breezes past me and out onto the large patio that overlooks the ocean. For a second, I think about brewing the coffee anyway—just for spite—but the smoothie she made looks too inviting to turn down. So in the end I grab it and follow her onto the patio. Just because I want to pass along Chloe’s message, I assure myself. Not because I actually want to talk to her. By the time I make my way outside, Tori is already on the other side of the pool, leaning up against the waist-high rock wall that edges the patio—and the cliff that it’s built on. Beyond her is the blue Pacific, and though it’s a nice day, the water is choppy and rough, the waves pounding against the sand below us with a roar that’s impossible to ignore. It’s loud enough—and insistent enough—that I glance at the sky and wonder if a storm is brewing. But before I can so much as reach for my phone to confirm what I’m thinking, Tori turns to me with a smirk. “Glad to see you’re taking my warning seriously,” she says, eyeing the smoothie in my hand. “I like smoothies. So shoot me.” “Yeah, like that’s all it is.” She glances—very deliberately—down at my crotch, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep my dick under control. I might be a big coffee drinker, but impotence is the last thing I’m worried about, especially not when Tori’s around. “So, Chloe called me. She’s worried about you.” Tori tenses, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead she just keeps looking out at the ocean, her shoulders and her whole body stiff. It’s not the reaction I’m expecting, especially considering how protective Tori usually is of my sister, so I poke a little, trying to figure out

what’s going on. “She’s been trying to get in touch with you all day but you haven’t answered her texts or calls. I told her you were sleeping, but that’s obviously not the case.” When she still doesn’t answer, I lean against the wall next to her, bump her gently with my shoulder. “She’s not judging you, you know.” She nods even as she continues staring out at the sea. “Seriously. She’s upset for you and wants to help. You should let her.” “There’s nothing she can do to help.” “She can listen. Help you plot revenge against Parsons, the life-sized dick.” “You should probably come up with a different nickname for him. His dick really isn’t impressive enough for a name like that.” “Yeah, I noticed.” She finally looks at me. “You watched it.” “Only about the first thirty seconds.” I don’t tell her just how many times I’ve seen those first thirty seconds as I’ve checked up on the bots, made sure they were doing what I designed them to do. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. Everyone else has seen it. Why shouldn’t you have?” But the ducking of her head, the hunching of her shoulders as if she’s preparing for a blow, says otherwise. “Don’t,” I say, because I can’t stand to see the usually acerbic, kick-life-in-the-balls Tori so beaten down. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, you know. The release of this sex tape— that’s on him, not you.” “I know that.” “Do you really? Because you’re not acting like it.” She turns to glare at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means that you should be looking for a way to hit back at Parsons, not hiding out here and trying unsuccessfully to blend your damn stress away.” “The video is already out there. What exactly do you think I can do about it now?” “I don’t have a clue. I’m an inventor, not a spin doctor. But you’ve got one of the best PR departments in the world at your disposal and instead of using it, you’re dodging calls from my sister.” “Frost Industries? You want me to ask Ethan to help me?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think you have to ask him for help. I think he and Chloe are dying to offer it. You just need to pick up the phone and say yes.” “It’s not that easy.” “Nothing good ever is. But Jesus Christ, Tori, you can’t just sit here and take it like this. The press is having a fucking field day at your expense even though he’s the douchebag here.” “Isn’t that the way it always is? Alexander’s the stud and I’m the whore.” “So change the fucking conversation.” I grab her shoulders, shake her a little. “Call Chloe. Let her and Ethan help you deal with this. Alexander is an opportunistic bastard who betrayed your trust for a little publicity. Why not call him on it, let the world see who he really is?”

“Nobody cares what the truth is.” “Maybe not, but you won’t know until you put it out there. You have to take better care of yourself, Tori. You have to stick up for yourself. You can’t blame people for believing his hype if you don’t give them your side of the story.” For long seconds, she doesn’t say anything else. Instead she just stands there quietly, drinking her smoothie and—I hope—pondering what I’ve said. Eventually, though, the smoothie is gone. And so is the defeated look in her eyes. “He did this,” she says as she puts her glass down on the nearest table. “Not me. I shouldn’t be the only one paying because he’s an asshole.” “Exactly,” I agree with a nod. “I’ll call Chloe, but I need to borrow your phone to do it.” “My phone?” I ask, even as I reach into my pocket and pull out my iPhone. “What’s wrong with yours?” “Nothing’s wrong with it. Unless you count it currently being in my father’s possession.” “Your father? Why is that?” I hold my phone out to her. She takes the phone and a deep breath. Then says, “Because he disowned me this morning.”

Chapter 9

Tori “Disowned you?” Miles sputters, even as he stares at me like he’s never heard the word before in his life. “What exactly does that mean?” “You know, disowned. As in, no longer belonging to. As in, no longer his responsibility. As in, no longer allowed access to my trust fund—or the apartment, car, laptop, cellphone, and everything else that I’ve paid for with it. Disowned.” He still looks confused—which in other circumstances would amuse me, as I never thought it’d be little old me who’d be able to say something to stump the resident genius—so I start to give him yet another definition of the word. But he’s got his hand up in the universal gesture for stop talking, so I do. It’s not like I really wanted to hash it all out again anyway. He’s silent for a few more seconds, his eyes searching my face like he’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. I only wish I was. The silence has grown uncomfortable—at least on my part—before he finally asks, “Are you telling me that your father tossed you out of your apartment this morning?” “Pretty much, yeah.” “While the paparazzi were probably swarming around.” “No probably about it,” I say with a deliberately careless tilt of my head. “The paps were everywhere.” I’d had to do some fancy evasive maneuvers to avoid them—and even then, I didn’t succeed completely. They took a lot of photos of me coming out of the building, some of me ducking into my gym to get away, and though I managed to lose them by getting the management to let me out a side door, the paps were no dummies. A bunch of them were waiting for me at the bottom of Ethan and Chloe’s driveway. Considering what I looked like at that point, with my smeared makeup, bleeding foot, and last night’s dress, I can only imagine what tomorrow’s gossip rag headlines are going to read. I figure most are going to go with the whole “Tori Reed gives new meaning to the walk of shame,” but I’m sure there will be a few outliers in the group. A few surprises to make me cringe. “He threw you into the middle of a pack of paps without so much as your cellphone or your purse? Without any money?” “In his defense, he did give me five minutes to grab what I needed.” “As long as what you needed didn’t include your credit cards or anything that might actually be of use to you.” “You should probably stop talking now,” I tell him as my stomach starts to churn all over

again. He lifts a brow. “And why is that exactly?” “Because somehow you make an already sucky situation sound a million times worse.” “That’s because it’s worse than sucky. What he did to you was unconscionable. Tossing you into a pack of hyenas with no way to protect yourself. What kind of man does something like that?” “I had two hundred dollars in cash in my nightstand.” He doesn’t look impressed. “But no phone to call a cab. And no shoes to make your twomile-long walk remotely comfortable.” “Again, I had five minutes to grab what I needed. I’m the idiot who forgot her shoes.” “And he didn’t think to remedy that fact before he escorted you off the premises.” “There you go again, making it sound really bad.” I’m going for flippant, but my voice breaks in the middle. “It is really bad, Tori. It’s fucking awful.” For the first time since I got here, he looks at me with sympathy—which totally gets my back up. I clear my throat, making sure there will be no more annoying cracks to give me away. “Trust me, Miles. You don’t need to feel sorry for me. I’m doing enough of that all by myself.” “I don’t feel sorry for you,” he answers. “I feel pissed off on your behalf. They are two totally different emotions. He had no right to treat you like that.” I start to tell him that in my family, my father has whatever rights he wants to take. The right to sleep with other women long before he and my mother had their little “arrangement.” The right to miss his children’s birthdays and graduations and special achievements whenever a better offer came along. The right to ship us off to boarding school when he got tired of having us around—and the right to bring us back, whether we wanted to come or not, whenever he wanted to show the world what a devoted family man he was. But telling him all that will only make me sound more pathetic, and that’s the last thing I want. I’m quite comfortable with the healthy animosity that’s grown between Miles and me in the last year. Rocking that boat is pretty much not an option. No matter how he looked at me when he saw me earlier. The thought of those blue eyes raking over my body, all hot and interested and oh-so-sexy, sets off little flutters deep inside me. Which is so not what I need right now. I’ve got enough problems without adding lusting-after-my-best-friend’s-asshole-brother to the mix. Especially now that I’m going to have to live with him for a while. And especially now that he’s starting to seem like way less of an asshole than I’ve been giving him credit for… “Tell me you know I’m right,” Miles continues when the silence between us stretches on too long. “Tell me you know you’re not to blame for any of this. With an example like your father around, no wonder you fell for a total douche like Parsons.” “Damn right I’m not to blame for Alexander being the King of Douches. The fact that I ever slept with him—even if it was over two years ago—makes my fucking skin crawl.”

“That tape was made two years ago?” Miles asks incredulously. “Did you tell your father that?” “Of course I did. I also told him that I never gave Alexander permission to tape us having sex. He didn’t care.” “Your father is a real son of a bitch, you know that?” I wish I could argue with him, but I can’t. Tough love is one thing, but I’m the first one to say my dad went too far today. Especially when he suggested that I should have just slept with Alexander and spared him—and his company—the embarrassment of having a daughter who stars in her own sex tape. I don’t tell Miles that part. Partly because it’s the most humiliating part of this whole debacle—the idea that my dad thinks so little of me and my right to choose—and partly because Miles already looks like he’s on the verge of stroking out. I may not have much use for him, but I sure as hell don’t want to be the one responsible for bursting a blood vessel in my bff’s brother’s great big brain. In the end I go with glib. It’s easy, and—more important—it’s what I’m good at, hiding the hurt I’ve felt inside for more years than I can count. “Yeah, but think of what a great story I’ll have to tell my therapist. When I can afford a therapist, again, I mean.” He starts to say something else, but his phone buzzes before he can. He holds it out to me without even looking at it. Fuck. It’s Chloe. I was hoping to have a little time to figure out what to say to her, but it looks like my time just ran out. I take the phone, swipe my thumb across the screen to answer it. Then say, “Hello,” as Miles heads back into the house to give me privacy. Fuck. When the hell did he turn out to be such a good guy? “Tori! Oh thank God!” My best friend’s voice floods the line. “I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay? Of course you’re not okay. I swear to God, if I could get my hands on that creep, I’d rip his dick off myself. That’s if I could find it, which is doubtful, at least if that video was anything to go by. And can I just ask? What kind of a moron releases a sex tape that not only shows what a small cock he has but also makes him look like a boring, incompetent lover?” She sounds so incredulous that I crack up completely, laughing so hard and so long that tears start flowing down my cheeks. I refuse to think about the fact that they’re the first tears I’ve allowed myself since this whole nightmare began. The first I’ve shed in I don’t even know how long. Trust Chloe to make sure that when I finally gave in to them, there would be as much amusement in them as rage and frustration. “Trust me, Chlo, he doesn’t just look like a boring, incompetent lover. He is one.” “Obviously. Why else would he do something like this? What an idiot.” “I guess it’s a good thing for him you don’t need a big brain or a big dick to make it in Hollywood.” “Don’t you know, Tori? That’s why all the action heroes carry the big guns. Overcompensation is real.” “Don’t I know it.” She grows serious then, her voice losing its indignation. “How are you doing? Honestly?”

I start to do glib again, start to tell her that I’m just fine. But this is Chloe and I’ve always been shit at lying to her. This time when the tears come, they’re all about rage and fear and a hurt I barely allow myself to feel. “I’m just so mad, you know? I’m just so fucking mad!” “Damn right you are. He’s a total…” She pauses like she’s searching for an insult bad enough to describe Alexander. I sniff a little. “Your brother called him a life-sized dick.” “My brother is a smart man. Disgustingly descriptive, mind you, but also very, very smart.” This time I laugh through the tears instead of the other way around. And somehow, despite all the shit that has happened today, it really does make things a little better. Or maybe that’s my best friend doing that. My best friend and her brother, if I’m being honest, since Miles— surprisingly—seems to have my back in this situation, too. Because I don’t know quite how I feel about that, I concentrate on telling Chloe everything —including my stupid suggestion that Alexander leak a sex tape to raise his profile. In typical Chloe style, she hears me out without interruption. But just because she isn’t saying anything doesn’t mean she isn’t listening. I can all but see her lawyer’s brain working through possible scenarios as I pour everything out. Somehow, telling her makes everything better. But it also makes everything worse, because it makes it real in a way that nothing else has. Since I got here, I’ve tried not to think about just how awful a predicament I’m in, figuring tomorrow morning is soon enough to deal with this mess. But laying it all out for Chloe like this, waiting as she thinks it all through, makes it hard not to think about what a mess my life currently is. It also makes it even harder not to panic. I can feel it welling up inside me, can feel the edges of it—hard and scared and uncompromising—brushing against my stomach, my heart, the inside of my skin. I refuse to give in to it, refuse to let it out into the world for anyone else to see, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Doesn’t mean my brain isn’t beating a constant mantra of what am I going to do, what am I going to do inside my skull. And still, even as the panic rises, I know that—despite everything—I’m luckier than a lot of people. I might have lost everything this morning, but at least I have a place to stay. And people that care about me. It’s more than a lot of people have, and I need to concentrate on that instead of on the fear that’s dogged me ever since my father hit the PLAY button on his phone this morning. It’s not until I’m done, until I’ve spilled out every word of the sordid, awful story, that I realize my knees are practically knocking together. At this point, I’m smart enough to know that there’s no fighting the shakiness, so I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the ground, my knees tucked up to my chest and Miles’s phone pressed to my ear like a lifeline as I wait for Chloe to speak. She takes her time, mulling things over like she always does. And when she finally does speak, she asks the one question I’m not prepared to answer. “What do you want?”

“I don’t—what do you mean?” “I mean, you’re in the middle of a perfect storm of absolute fuckery. Between Alexander, your father, and the reporters who scent blood in the water, you’re pretty much screwed.” “Wow, I feel so much better now. Thanks.” “I’m just telling you how it is.” “Believe me, I know exactly how it is. That’s why I’m currently hiding out at your place with your brother. Do you really think I’d stay with Miles if I had any other options?” “Miles isn’t so bad, Tor. Do you know that he’s got a bunch of bots crawling the Internet, finding each and every posting of that damn video so he can go in and destroy it?” “What?” My heart nearly stops in my chest. “What are you talking about?” “I’m talking about the fact that he spent hours early this morning setting up a system to take down that video nearly as fast as it went up. He’s even hacked into some of the bigger gossip sites and destroyed their links to it.” “I don’t—I can’t—” I’m overwhelmed, my brain working to process what she’s telling me. Working to process what is the absolute last thing I expected to hear. “How do you know? Did he tell you this?” “He didn’t have to. Once we heard about the video, Ethan started to do the same thing. But someone had beat him to it, someone whose manner of coding he recognized right away.” “Miles.” “Miles,” she agrees. “But just because he’s hugely slowed the spread of the video doesn’t mean the story isn’t still out there. Every major news and gossip site in America and Britain is covering it—as well as a few from a bunch of other countries, too.” “If you’re trying to make me feel better here, you’re failing spectacularly.” “I’m trying to figure out what you want to do about it.” “What can I do about it? Like you said, the story’s already out there.” “Yes, but right now Alexander and his people are controlling the conversation. You can change that.” “Now you sound like your brother.” “I think we’ve already discussed the fact that my brother is a brilliant man.” “Yeah, but I don’t want to spin anything. I don’t want to go to war with Alexander. I just want to close my eyes and have all of this disappear.” “That’s your fear talking. And your embarrassment.” “Well, that’s fair, considering I am afraid. And embarrassed.” “But you have no reason to be. Okay, I get the fear. You’ve just had the rug yanked out from under you in every way it can possibly be yanked. But embarrassed? You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about!” “There’s a video of a man fucking me making its way around the Internet. I think I’ve got something to be embarrassed about.” “First of all, I watched the whole thing and as we already discussed, Alexander has way more to be embarrassed about than you do. You looked beautiful. And second of all, the fact that that video is out there is on him, not you. All you did was trust the guy you were dating

not to be an asshole.” “Yeah, well, I certainly picked well with him, didn’t I?” “Oh absolutely,” she answers, tongue firmly in cheek. “Then again, nearly all of us do at least once, don’t we? Think about it. How many women do you think have dated a guy who hurt them? Who betrayed their trust? Who put intimate pictures or videos of them out there on the Internet just because he could? Or who sent those pictures around to his friends or teammates or frat brothers, just to make himself look cool in their eyes?” “A lot,” I admit grudgingly. “Hundreds of thousands,” she corrects me. “Maybe even millions. Most of us know someone this has happened to, and even more of us live in fear of something like this happening to us. I’ll admit, like everything about you, your story is more spectacular than most—” “You can say that again,” I interrupt with a snort. “But that just means you’ve got a bigger audience to talk to. This is a topic that needs a spokeswoman. You can be that woman. You can change the discussion. Hell, you can frame a whole new discussion—” “Jesus Christ, Chloe. I’m not the damn Mockingjay. I don’t want to start a revolution. I just want to live my life.” “I get that. I do,” she says when I make a disbelieving sound. “But if you just bury your head, if you just go into hiding and let Alexander control the story, then he wins.” “News flash, Erin Brockovich. He’s already won.” It’s her turn to snort. “Enough with the movie references. I get it.” “Do you? Really? Because what you’re suggesting is me taking on the entire good-old-boy establishment.” “Damn right I am. Somebody needs to.” “But why does that somebody have to be me?” I demand, my voice rising with my frustration. I can’t believe Chloe’s even suggesting this, can’t believe she actually thinks I should try to take on not just Alexander and the Hollywood spin machine, but the whole damn court of public opinion as well. “It doesn’t have to be you,” she answers. “I just think it should be you.” “Why? Because I’ve got the biggest platform for it right now?” “I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t partly the reason. Because it is—of course it is. But I also think it should be you because you’re amazing, Tori. You’re vibrant and smart and witty and beautiful and most days you don’t take shit from anybody. Honestly, I can’t think of anyone I would rather see take this on.” “I think you have a skewed idea of who I am, best friend of mine.” “I don’t think I’m the one with the skewed idea,” she returns. “Look, take some time. Think about it. If you do that and you really decide you don’t want to take Alexander on, we can come up with some other way to handle this.” “I already told you, I don’t want to handle it. I just want it to go away with the next news cycle.” “It isn’t going to go away if you don’t handle it. It will always be there, waiting for some

asshole to bring it up again—at a party or during a job interview or in the press because Alexander decides to do a sexy movie and they think it will get them more play.” God. I know Chloe’s right, but hearing her lay it out like that makes me queasy. I can’t believe this. I just cannot fucking believe that this is suddenly my life. And that no matter what I do, it’s going to continue being my life for quite some time. I’m going to be everything from a cautionary tale to a punch line on late-night TV and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing but take Chloe’s advice, a little voice whispers inside my head. But I don’t want to take her advice. I don’t want to be a poster child for anything. Yes, I’ve spent the last couple of months working to clean up my act, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for anything like this. Especially not when anyone with an Instagram account can find pictures of me drunk or dancing on the beach in a bikini or…This is a disaster waiting to happen. And yet, I think of how I felt when I saw that video this morning. When I looked into my father’s face. When I realized the whole world saw me naked and at my most vulnerable just because Alexander wanted them to. Worse, they’re judging that image of me, making fun of me, jerking off to it…It makes me want to scream. Makes me want to cry. And most of all, it makes me want to make sure he can’t do this to anyone else. After all, if he recorded us having sex, he probably recorded himself with a lot of other women, too. Who’s to say he won’t do the same thing to them if they piss him off one day? “Who says it will even work?” I demand in an effort to cut off all the different thoughts running through my head on a loop. “Even if I come out against Alexander, even if I tell the world that he’s the one who leaked that video, what’s it going to change? Who’s going to believe me? It’s not like we can prove he did it—he may be an idiot, but he’s a survivor. One who’s smart enough to know he has to cover his tracks.” Chloe makes a choking sound. “Are you kidding me with that argument?” she demands. “Who exactly do you think you have on your side here? Beavis and Butthead? When Ethan and Miles work together, they’re pretty much unstoppable. I mean, if they can figure out how to cheaply and easily desalinate water and single-handedly end the drought in California, I think they can handle tracking down the IP address the video originated from. All you have to do is tell them that’s what you want.” I don’t know what I want right now. I don’t have a fucking clue. It’s been less than twelve hours since my whole damn life fell apart. I don’t think it’s too much for me to ask for a little time to think things through before I do something I’ll regret. Chloe must know what I’m thinking, because after a few seconds she says, “I know this is a lot. I know you’re freaking out. And in a perfect world you’d be able to crawl into bed and just bury your head until the next celebrity does something stupid.” She sighs. “But this isn’t a perfect world and you’re visible enough on the celebrity scene that this is a double shot of gossip. It’s not going to go away unless we make it go away. So why don’t you take the night and think about it. In the meantime, I’ll have Ethan’s PR department issue a statement for you—” “I don’t want to issue a statement!” It’s more whine than anything else, because I know she’s right. The longer they go without a comment from me, the bigger the story will get.

“Fine,” I begrudgingly agree after a couple of long, silent minutes. “What’s the statement going to say?” “Something along the lines of what goes on between two consenting adults is nobody’s business but theirs, and that your only mistake in this situation was trusting a man you cared about to keep you safe. We’ll also have legal chime in and remind them that the dissemination of this video—or any images from this video—without the express permission of the people involved puts anyone involved on shaky legal and ethical ground. Then we’ll follow it up with the injunction against it that Ethan’s lawyers have already filed on your behalf.” I bury my face in my knees as gratitude sweeps through me. Of course Ethan and Chloe have my back. Of course they do. And so, apparently, does Miles. Who would have thought that was possible? Before Chloe can say anything else, I hear Violet crying in the background. “Go take care of your daughter.” “She can wait a few more minutes,” Chloe answers. “Ethan has her.” “Yeah, but that’s her hungry cry and there’s not much he can do about that. Go.” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “And thank you. For everything.” “It’s nothing you wouldn’t—and haven’t—done for me,” she says firmly. “Who held my hand during the Brandon debacle?” “Ethan.” She makes a disgusted sound. “Considering I wouldn’t let him anywhere near me for most of it…” Violet’s crying gets louder. “Go get your daughter,” I tell her again. “I’m fine. I swear.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. And I promise to think about what you said. In the meantime, have Ethan go ahead and release that statement.” “I will.” She pauses. “It’s going to be okay, Tori. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I swear, it will be. Get some rest and we’ll talk tomorrow—or later tonight. You know you can call me anytime.” “I know.” After she hangs up, I stay where I am for a while—thinking and also trying not to think. But avoidance will only get me so far, so eventually I push to my feet and start walking back toward the house. I’m about halfway there when Miles appears at the French doors, his eyes wary and worried. Suddenly everything I’ve been feeling for the last few hours wells up inside me—the anger, the fear, the gratitude, the love, the resolve—and I walk straight up to him. I wrap my arms around his neck, thread my fingers through his hair, and pull his head down to mine. And then I kiss him with all the passion and pent-up fury of those emotions, my lips moving on his as I empty everything that I’m feeling—everything that I am in this moment— straight into him.

Chapter 10

Miles Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. At first that’s all I can think as Tori grabs on to me. As her hands tangle in my hair and her mouth all but devours mine. But once the shock wears off, I get caught up in the taste, the smell, the feel of her. Because, holy shit, does she taste good. Smell good. Feel good. Like cinnamon and vanilla all rolled up in one soft, sweet package. I’m just getting into it when she starts to pull away, and I’m having none of it. My arms wrap around her of their own volition and then I’m turning her—turning us—so that her back is pressed up against the house and I’m pressed up against her. I deepen the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, teasing, taunting, tangling with hers. She moans a little, her fingers tightening in my hair until tiny pinpricks of pain spring up along my skull. It doesn’t bother me—in fact, it turns me on even more—but it does send a warning flag up in my head and I pause for a moment, pulling away just far enough to look into her eyes. To make sure she’s okay with this. She might have been the one who initiated it, but I’m the one who took it so deep, so fast, and after everything that’s happened today the last thing I want to do is make her feel like anything else about her body is out of her control. But her eyes are wide, her pupils already wide and blown out, and when she clutches at me, tries to pull me closer again, any idea I have of backing away totally disappears. Not when she is obviously as affected by this as I am. So instead of letting her go, I cup her face in my hands, stroke my thumbs over her jaw and down her throat to the hollows just above her collarbone. I can feel her pulse beating there, fast and wild, just under the delicate softness of her skin. It turns me on even more, has my dick hardening and my body craving another taste of her. Has me craving more, more, more. Has me craving anything, everything, that she’s willing to give me. Wrapped up in her now—wrapped up in this—I lean down, start to take her mouth with mine again. But she beats me to it, yanking me down until our mouths all but slam together. It’s wicked and wild and carnal, the kind of kiss you see in movies or read about in books, where the whole world ceases to exist—where everything ceases to exist—except this one person. This one kiss. This one tangle of tongues and bodies and sensations. It goes on and on and on, tongues sliding against each other, teeth nipping at delicate lips, hands skimming over skin turned hot and sensitive. She’s breathing heavily now—we both are—and still I don’t pull away. Still I don’t let up. And neither does she. Instead her teeth close on my bottom lip hard enough to sting before she soothes it away

with a few gentle strokes of her tongue. She does it again and again, until my head is muddled and my whole goddamn body is in sensory overload. I want to touch her, want to slide a hand under her shirt and cup her breast in my palm. Want to pinch her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Want to thrust two fingers deep inside her and hear her whimper as she comes. But this is just our first kiss and it’s come out of nowhere on the heels of one of the most difficult days of her life. It’s that thought more than any other that has me pulling back, that has me resting my forehead against hers and my hands safely on her waist as we both gasp for air. “What was that?” Tori finally asks, eyes wide and voice more than a little shaky. I pull back with a grin. “You tell me. You’re the one who kissed me, after all.” She laughs a little, then pushes at my shoulders until I reluctantly step back. “It was a thank-you kiss.” “Oh yeah?” I follow her as she starts through the doors that lead back into the kitchen. I only let her get a few steps before I grab her hand and spin her back around to face me. “I’m not sure what I’m being thanked for, but I’ll take it. In fact, want to thank me again?” I lower my lips to hers with the plan of stealing another quick kiss. I expect her to shove me back, maybe even smack me—it wouldn’t be the first time Tori’s taken a swing at me considering how protective she is of Chloe. But in the end she does neither. Instead she lets me kiss her. More, she kisses me back. And though the kiss isn’t as deep or as sensual as what we shared on the patio, there’s something intensely satisfying in feeling her lips curve into a smile against my own. This time, she’s the one who pulls away first. I watch as she makes her way toward the fridge, where she starts to pull out a bunch of the random vegetables that I tend to collect when I shop, all with some vague idea of making something delicious with them. More often than not, they stay in there until Chloe comes back to visit and finally uses them in some recipe or another. I might be a world-class inventor, but a chef I am not. Still, I feel honor-bound to ask, “Do you need some help?” as she starts washing a bunch of broccolini under the tap. “That’s okay.” She shoots me a look. “I’ve seen your culinary skills before.” “Hey, I can follow a recipe as well as the next guy.” “Yeah, if the next guy is blind and missing his opposable thumbs.” She puts the broccolini on the center island’s butcher-block top, then starts washing some mushrooms and asparagus. “I resent that.” “Resent it all you want.” She reaches over and taps a wet hand against my cheek. “Truth is truth. The last time you cooked a meal I was invited to, I nearly chipped a tooth on your hamburgers.” “It was a new grill. I was just getting the hang of it.” “Yeah, well, this is a new kitchen to you, so I figure it’s better not to take chances. Besides, think of this as a thank-you dinner. You shouldn’t have to help prepare your own thank-you meal.” “I certainly won’t argue with that. But this is the second time you’ve mentioned thanking

me in the last five minutes and, to be honest, I’m a little fuzzy on what I did that deserves both a kiss and a homemade meal.” “Chloe told me what you did.” “What I did?” Alarm bells go off in the back of my head. “What exactly did my sister tell you?” “You’re seriously going to play dumb about this?” She shoots me a look, and when I still don’t say anything, she sighs. “Fine. I know you created bots to help you find wherever the video is posted and destroy it. I’m pretty sure all that work deserves more than a thank-you meal, but I’m broke, so it’ll have to do.” Jesus. Is she kidding me with this? Frustrated and more upset than I should be by her logic, I end up snapping out, “You don’t need to thank me for that.” “What?” She looks flabbergasted. “Of course I do! It was a really nice thing—” “No.” I take the carton of mushrooms from her and slam it down on the counter so hard the bottom crumbles. “You don’t. You really, really don’t.” My fists are clenched now, a rage I wasn’t even aware I was feeling welling up inside me. “Don’t you get that you’re the victim here? You’re the one whose trust was abused and you’re the one who was violated by that ridiculous fucktrumpet of a wannabe man. You don’t need to thank me for doing what anyone with an ounce of human decency should do. No woman should ever have to thank someone for that. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with the world that everyone seems to think the more vulnerable a woman is, the more she’s fair game. So don’t you dare thank me for trying to even the playing field for you a little when the media and everyone else in the world seems to have forgotten that.” I’m not a violent guy, but when I think about what Alexander did to her by releasing that videotape or what Brandon did to Chloe just because he could—while I did nothing to stop it —I want to hit something. I want to plow my fist into the wall again and again and again, until the rage and hate and guilt are so buried in physical pain that I can’t feel them anymore. For long seconds Tori doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Part of me is afraid I just offended the hell out of her—after all, the last thing she needs is to be told what to do by a man who profited from letting his own sister’s rapist off the hook. I might not have known about what my parents had done, but that’s never been a very good excuse in her opinion. Or in mine. I should have known what they’d done to Chloe. More, I should have stopped it. I wait for Tori to call me on it as she always does, to tell me all the reasons she doesn’t buy my bullshit, but in the end all she does is hand me a small basket of cherry tomatoes and say, “If you really want to help, you can wash these.” For long minutes she doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t really even look at me. But there’s something in her voice—in the way she holds her body—that tells me I’ve passed a hurdle I didn’t even know I was running toward. It’s a surprisingly good feeling, despite all the negative ones still crawling around in my belly. Which is why I take the tomatoes without another word and start doing as instructed. I’ve washed about half of them when Tori suddenly giggles. “What?” I ask, wanting to be let in on the joke. “Fucktrumpet?”

Now I’m laughing with her. “I don’t know. Some Scottish guy I follow on Twitter used it the other day and I pretty much thought it was the best insult I’d ever heard.” “Are you kidding me? It might be the best insult ever invented. Certainly since Shakespearean times.” “That’s pretty much what I’m thinking, too.” For long seconds, we just stand there grinning at each other. The sudden camaraderie feels strange, but it also feels good. Really good. So much so that when she finally breaks eye contact and turns away, I can’t help missing it a little. Especially since, as we stand there working in surprisingly companionable silence, I can’t help thinking about Chloe. About Alexander. About Tori and the mess her life has become overnight. Despite our less-than-harmonious past, I would help her out in a heartbeat if I thought she’d let me. But I know her well enough at this point to figure out that if I flat-out offer her money she’ll bite my hand off—and probably savage the both of us in the process. Which is why I’m working another angle in my head, even as I try to figure out how to broach the subject to her. “What’s up?” she asks, after plopping the freshly washed and trimmed asparagus on the counter next to the other vegetables. “Why do you have that look on your face?” I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What look?” “Like you just sucked on one of these.” She brandishes a large lemon at me before bumping me out of the way at the sink so she can wash it, too. “Lemons aren’t as bad as people think,” I tell her in a conversation change so blatant it could be seen from space. “You should try sucking on one sometime.” “Yeah, well, I would, but I prefer sucking on other things.” My eyebrows hit my hairline at that—as I’m sure she intended them to—but Tori just shakes her head at me, her mouth twisted into an amused smirk. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I was referring to Jolly Ranchers.” “Excuse me? Who has her mind in the gutter now? I was absolutely thinking about cinnamon Jolly Ranchers.” More accurately, I was thinking about how spicy-sweet Tori’s mouth is. And how much I’d like to kiss her again. Not to mention how good her lips would feel wrapped around my cock as she sucked me down her throat. But considering the way she tastes, cinnamon Jolly Ranchers aren’t actually that far off the mark. And a safer bet right now than telling her just how much I’d like her to suck on me for a while. Of course, Tori’s not buying it. In fact, she looks at me so suspiciously that I can’t help wondering if my true thoughts are actually plastered on my forehead. She seems to be weighing her words carefully and I brace myself for a zinger, but in the end all she says is, “I’m a green apple girl myself.” “Oh yeah?” I answer, tilting my head to study her appraisingly. It seems like an innocuous answer, but the look in her eyes tells me there’s more to it than she’s letting on. Or that I can figure out. Normally that would grate on me—I’m the kind of guy who spends his life figuring things out, after all. Problems, puzzles, enigmas are pretty much my thing. The fact that Tori is definitely the latter—and that I’ve never quite been able to put my finger on who she is or how she thinks—should make me crazy. Instead it just intrigues me. Makes me want to dig

deeper even as I pore over every new thing I learn about her. “Now, that surprises me.” “Good,” she says with a grin. “Good?” “Yeah, good.” She cocks a challenging brow my way. “All girls need a few surprises up their sleeves, don’t you think?” “What I think is that you’ve got more than a few.” And suddenly I’m more interested than I want to be in unraveling as many as I can. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But she’s smiling as she fills up a pot with water and sets it on the stove to boil. “I’m almost an open book.” I snort. “Yeah, one that’s written in code maybe.” She laughs, then, her brown eyes sparkling in a way I’ve rarely seen. It’s a good look, one I can’t help but drink in—at least until she turns back to the center island and begins chopping the asparagus into one-inch pieces. “I really can do more than wash tomatoes,” I tell her as I put the now clean fruit on the counter. “I may not be the best cook, but I can chop with the best of them.” “Fine,” she says with a long-suffering sigh. “If you have to do something, you can set the table and open a bottle of wine that will go with a light summer pasta.” She points to the patio. “Out there.” “In other words, I should just stay the hell out of your kitchen while you’re cooking.” “You said it, not me.” “Oh, I think you said it loud and clear.” She sticks her tongue out at me as she moves from the asparagus to the broccolini. “And who says men don’t get subtext?” “Someone who’s never met a man trying to keep up with you,” I tell her as I grab plates from the cabinet.“ For long seconds, she doesn’t say anything. But then, just as I’ve moved to pull silverware from the drawer, she asks, “Are you?” “Am I what?” “Trying to keep up with me?” “Absolutely. If by trying to keep up with you, you mean running half a mile behind while trying desperately to keep you in sight.” She laughs, bright and bubbly, then shoos me out of the kitchen. I do as she asks, but as I go I can’t help wondering if she gets that I meant exactly what I said.

Chapter 11

Tori Miles is surprisingly good company. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised—after all, because of Chloe, we’ve hung out together dozens of times in the last year—but somehow I still am. I guess I’ve been too busy hating the idea of him to pay attention to the fact that I don’t really hate him. Then again, it’s hard to hate a guy who’s gone out of his way to help me. And who, I’m learning, is working his ass off to make it up to Chloe for his past mistakes. I may not like the fact that he was so self-absorbed, he never clued in to what their parents made her sacrifice to get him the money he needed to make his first patent a reality. But I am beginning to realize he really didn’t know. And as he stands up to clear the dishes—“You cooked, I’ll clean”—I realize I’m not going to be able to go back to how I felt about him before this whole debacle unfolded. More, I don’t want to. After all, it’s hard to hate a guy when he already hates himself. When he was talking in the kitchen earlier, telling me that I should never have to thank him or any other man for doing what’s decent, I could see the regret in his face. The pain. The self-loathing. This is not a man who blithely turned his back on his little sister for his own gain after she’d been violated in the most heinous way. And this is not a man who lives his life unaffected by his sister’s pain. No, I can’t hate him. Not now that I’ve seen who he really is. With that thought in mind, I follow him into the kitchen, the open bottle of Pinot Grigio dangling between my fingers. It’s tempting to pour another glass—so, so tempting after the day I’ve had—but I ignore the temptation. I may not be planning on doing much thinking tonight, but tomorrow will come soon enough and I’m damn well not going to start my new life, whatever it may be, with another hangover. So instead of emptying the remaining half of the bottle into a very large wineglass, I slide it into the fridge and settle for pouring two glasses of water instead. “Do you want to watch a movie?” I ask as I hand one to Miles. I’ve decided I’m going to give myself the rest of the evening to hide from the mess that is my life. Tomorrow is soon enough to start trying to fix things. He doesn’t answer right away and I find myself holding my breath as I wait to see what he’s going to say. It’s not that I’m afraid to be alone or anything, I assure myself. Because I’m not. It’s just that I want to do something to keep busy. Otherwise, all there is for me to do right now is stare at the ceiling and wonder how the hell I’ve let my life get so off track. Because the truth is, no matter what Miles says, no matter what Chloe says, there’s a voice

in the back of my head telling me that this mess is all my fault. After all, I’m the one who was stupid enough to date Alexander in the first place. I’m the one who was fucking moronic enough to seek him out at the party last night, even if it was just to show off a little. And I’m definitely the one who was stupid enough to turn him down in a way that was guaranteed to piss him off. Guaranteed to make him lash out. If only I’d known what he had in his possession. If only I’d known how quick he would be to use it against me. But if I’d known, would I really have done anything different? Would I have given in and slept with him as my father suggested, just to avoid embarrassment? I don’t think so. I sure as hell don’t want to think so. But looking at where I am now, dependent on my best friend and her brother to house and feed me because I can’t take care of myself, I’m not so sure. It’s the uncertainty that enrages me the most, the idea that if I had known where I was going to end up, I might have fucked Alexander just to save myself. The fact that he has that kind of power—that I unwittingly gave him that kind of power over me when I dated him two years ago—makes me more than furious. It makes me sick. For the first time since I talked to Chloe, I let myself think about what she said. Let myself think about what standing up for myself in this situation would look like. Alexander’s people will dig up every piece of dirt on me they can. Every indiscretion. Every drunken party. Every guy I ever slept with. Before they’re done, I’m sure I’ll be labeled everything from a party-girl socialite to a whore. It’s not fair. Believe me, I know better than most that life isn’t fair. It’s a lesson I learned at an early age, despite my life of privilege, and it’s a lesson that this whole nightmare is just reinforcing. But it isn’t fair—not to me and not to all the other girls and women this same thing has happened to. So what if I wasn’t a saint before tonight. So what if I drank too much and slept with too many guys because I wanted to feel connected to someone, even if it was just for a little while. Does that give Alexander the right to do this to me just because he can? Does it give him the right to violate my trust and put my whole future in jeopardy just because he wanted to build himself up as the next big action-movie stud? It doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t. “Hey!” Miles’s sharp exclamation draws me out of my head, has me staring up into his concerned blue eyes even as he wipes his thumb across my cheek. It’s not until I feel his skin rubbing over the wetness there that I even realize that I’m crying. “You know he’s not worth it, right? “Shit!” I dash my own hands over my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me—” “Stop,” he growls, taking my hand in his and leading me from the kitchen into the family room with its big-screen TV and huge, overstuffed sofas. “For Christ’s sake, don’t apologize for being upset. It just makes me want to beat the hell out of that jackass even more.”

Before this whole thing happened the idea of brilliant inventor and engineer Miles Girard beating the hell out of anyone would have been laughable to me. After all, I’ve always thought of him as a total tech geek, one who is way more comfortable in his workshop than he’ll ever be punching someone’s lights out. But that was before he looked down at me with such fierce protectiveness. Before he dipped me on the dance floor and held me there, effortlessly, with just one hand. It was definitely before I’d kissed him and felt his surprisingly ripped and powerful body pressed against my own. Now that all that has happened, the idea of him taking on Alexander isn’t laughable at all. It’s sweet and comforting and shockingly arousing all at the same time. I’ve never been one to be turned on by men going all muscle-bound and mad for me, but I’d be lying if I said all the protective vibes emanating from Miles weren’t getting to me. And if the idea of him flattening Alexander—whose overinflated muscles are pretty much all for show anyway— turns me on, then nobody needs to know about it but me. “Alexander’s lawyers would have a field day with you if you so much as came near him,” I tell him a little regretfully. “Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got lawyers of my own.” What he leaves off is that in tech and business circles, he’s way more powerful than Alexander will ever be. Money still makes the world go ’round, and Miles’s inventions have made more money for more people and companies through the years than Alexander can even dream of… I do my best to ignore the fact that so much of Miles’s success—especially in the beginning —came at Chloe’s expense. And I sure as hell refuse to draw the parallels between that and all the extra publicity and fame Alexander is getting right now at my expense. After all, Alexander knew exactly what he was doing when he released that tape. Miles didn’t have a clue what his parents had done. So instead of thinking about the very loose parallels between the situations, I flop down on the couch and grab the universal remote. “What do you want to watch?” I ask. “You choose.” “Really?” I eye him doubtfully. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to choose some girlie love story or something?” He laughs. “First of all, I don’t mind love stories, girlie or otherwise. And second, I’m pretty sure a Nicholas Sparks movie is the last thing on your mind right now.” “Um, first of all,” I say, deliberately mimicking him, “those are not love stories. Those are love-and-then-die stories. It’s a totally different genre. And second, I think you’re bluffing.” “Do you?” “I do. And since I’ve never been able to resist calling a bluff…” I turn back to the TV and skim through the movies to buy, looking for the sappiest one I can find. Almost everything on the list is an action movie or a thriller, though, so in the end I settle on Me Before You. I’d wanted to see it when it was in the theater but it was gone before I could get out from under my finals. This time, it’s Miles’s turn to give me a look. “No offense, but I’m pretty sure that’s the epitome of a love-and-then-die story.”

“Yeah, but it’s a really good one.” “Oh, and that makes a difference, does it?” “Obviously.” Only then does it register what he said. “Hey, wait a minute. How exactly do you know that the someone dies in the end?” “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually live in a cave.” He reaches out and gently pulls at a lock of hair that’s fallen over my forehead and into my eyes. “Plus, I read the book.” “You read the book?” By this point, skepticism is all but dripping from me. “Again, I don’t actually live in a cave. Plus, I’m nowhere near as sexist as you are, obviously.” “Hey, that’s not fair!” I exclaim, sitting forward in my enthusiasm to prove my point. “I don’t doubt that you read the book because you’re a guy! I doubt it because you’re you.” “Seriously? Wow.” He studies me for a long moment before eventually shaking his head. “I’m not sure how you’ve managed it, but you’ve somehow gotten more insulting with every minute that this conversation has gone on.” “Oh come on.” I flop back against the cushy sofa in exasperation. “You have to admit that my disbelief is valid.” “I don’t have to admit any such thing.” He reaches over and pulls on the lock of hair again, then pushes to his feet. “Now, why don’t you order the movie while I make popcorn. Before I end up choosing some blood-and-gore fest just to torture you.” “Hey! Now who’s being sexist?” “Exactly,” he answers with a wink that is somehow adorable and sexy and a little bit intriguing, all at the same time. And then he’s gone and I’m left sprawled on the couch wondering why my libido has chosen now to wake up with a vengeance. He’s Chloe’s brother, for God’s sake. Isn’t there some kind of rule about not getting involved with your bff’s brother? Not to mention up until two hours ago, I was pretty sure he was as big a douchebag as Alexander. How ridiculous is it that I’m suddenly looking at his big, scarred hands and wondering what they would feel like on my body? Between my ridiculous blind date last night and Alexander leaking the sex tape, the last thing I should be thinking about is a guy, any guy, let alone Miles freaking Girard. And yet I can’t help staring after him as I wait for the movie to load, can’t help wondering what it would be like if we kissed again. Would it be as hot as it was the first time, or was that just some momentary aberration brought on by too much angst mixed with too much proximity? Not that I’m ever going to find out, I assure myself as he comes back into the room carrying a big bowl of popcorn in one hand and a bag of M&M’s in the other. “Ooooh chocolate!” I make grabby hands for the bag. “Give me.” After the day I’ve had, I figure I deserve all the chocolate in the house. Hell, in the city. Maybe even in the whole damn world. It only seems fair—comfort food, and all that. Plus, endorphins. I could really use some endorphins right now. Or some hemlock, but since that seems out of the question I’ll go with the endorphins… Except Miles is having none of it. Instead of handing over the candy, he gently smacks my hands away as he sits down. “Just wait.” “But I don’t want to wait!” I tell him, sinking back into the corner of the sofa with a pout.

“Tell me about it,” he answers with a snort. “If there’s anyone I’ve ever seen who has instant gratification written all over her, it’s you.” “What’s wrong with instant gratification?” I demand, burrowing my toes under him for the express purpose of lifting them up and digging them into his thighs. “It’s fun. And satisfying.” He yelps a little, even as he leans forward to drop the popcorn on the coffee table in front of us. Then he’s grabbing my feet and pulling them out from under him. I expect him to push my legs back onto the floor or to at least grab on to my ankles to keep me still. But he does neither. Instead he cushions my feet in his lap and digs his thumbs into the arch of my uninjured foot. And I swear to God, I almost have an orgasm right there in the middle of Ethan and Chloe’s family room. And not just any orgasm—I’m talking the monster of orgasms. That’s the kind of pleasure that swamps me, that drags me under as sparks shoot from my foot to my pussy in one hot, electric wave that nearly has my eyes rolling into the back of my head. I shudder when he does it a second time, then let out a low, breathy moan that has Miles’s thighs tensing under mine and his fingers trailing light as a feather over the top of my foot. It’s one more sensation added to my already overloaded body, and when he combines it with more of the steady pressure against my arch, every nerve ending in my body stands up and does the tango all at once. Only serious self-control—and the not-so-sexy act of biting the inside of my cheek all but bloody—keeps me from moaning again. It’s a hollow victory, though, especially considering how the rest of my body is reacting. Miles doesn’t need to be the genius that he is to figure out I want him. It’s in every clench of my fists, every squirm of my hips, every shallow rise and fall of my chest. I should stop him. I know I should—with everything that’s happened in the last twentyfour hours, I know I’m in no emotional state to even think about wanting anyone, let alone Chloe’s brother. But what I know doesn’t really matter right now, not when every muscle in my body seems to have liquefied right along with my brain. No matter what I tell myself, the only thing I’m good at right now is lying here and taking it as Miles gives me—bar none—the best foot rub of my life. Somewhere in the middle of all the pleasure, the movie started. But not even the amazing chemistry between Sam Claflin and Emilia Clarke can tear my attention away from the magical things Miles’s fingers are doing to me. And they are magical. Oh my God, they are So. Fucking. Magical. Some women might be surprised at how good he is at this, but in my mind it makes a weird kind of sense. After all, if I’ve learned anything over the last year, it’s that Miles—like Ethan— is good at everything he does. Adding in the fact that he’s inventive, not afraid to experiment, and an absolute stickler for detail, is it any wonder that he gives what might just be the best foot rub on the whole damn planet? It makes me wonder—not for the first time today—just what he would be like in bed. I can usually tell how it’s going to go pretty early on—although every once in a while I do get a surprise. Like Stephen. When I walked into that restaurant last night and saw him sitting there in his staid navy suit with his staid accountant haircut, it never once occurred to me that I’d be dodging offers of erotic asphyxiation before the main course had even arrived.

But that one mistake doesn’t take away the fact that normally I’m really, really good at this. If you’d asked me anytime in the last year, I would have said I thought Miles would be good in bed. He’s got that subtle confidence about him, the kind that says he knows he’s capable of doing whatever he puts his mind to. Plus, he’s got those great hands and that worldrenowned attention to detail. But I also would have guessed that he was a little selfish—that he took what he wanted and left his partner to catch up, which is how he is in real life. He’ll explain something his way, and if you’re too stupid to keep up, then that’s on you. This foot massage is changing my mind, though. Nothing about this reads selfish. Just the opposite, actually. It’s so obviously about me and not him that I feel a little guilty for just lying here and reveling in every second. But all good things must come to an end and eventually he stops rubbing me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t whimper a little at the loss of his thumbs digging into all the sore spots on the bottom of my foot. His only response to my involuntary protest is the look he shoots me, jaw clenched and blue flames dancing in the depths of his eyes. It’s a look designed to make me hot—to make me want—and it succeeds. Oh God, does it succeed. Instead of taking advantage of the fact that jumping his bones is suddenly the only thing I can think about, Miles just calmly checks the butterfly bandage on the heel of my hurt foot before gently lowering it back to his lap. Then hands me the bowl of popcorn. It’s a poor fucking substitute for what I really want in my mouth at this moment, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least he sprinkles the M&M’s on top and then shakes the bowl, so that they can get all gooey and melty amid the hot popcorn. I don’t know how, but this man really doesn’t miss a trick. As the movie progresses, I pretty much eat my weight in popcorn from the bowl—though I do alternate between shoving pieces into my mouth and tossing them the small distance to Miles’s open mouth. Which is why—by the time the movie is two-thirds over—the bowl is empty. And my cheeks are wet again. For the love of God, why is the love-and-die movie an actual thing? Why? I find myself rooting for them—for Lou and Will—even though I know how this is going to turn out. Even though I’ve read the book, too, curled up on my bed and sobbing like a baby all through the Mauritius trip. It’s just so hopeless, this quest she has to convince him to live. Hopeless and romantic and so, so beautiful. And when he tells her that it doesn’t matter, that he loves her but nothing she does is going to convince him not to die, I pretty much turn into a broken, sniveling mess. Miles shifts, then, letting my feet drop to the floor as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his lap. As he does, one hand tangles in my hair, keeping my cheek pressed to his shoulder as the other hand strokes soothingly up and down my back. We watch the rest of the movie that way, with me piled on top of him and him wrapped around me. It’s hot and sticky and maybe even a little uncomfortable, but I wouldn’t trade it

for a second. It’s what I’ve been missing from the moment I opened the door to my irate father this morning, the comfort of another human body pressed against mine, making me feel less alone in this nightmare. Making me feel like somehow—someday—things are going to be okay again. That thought, combined with Will’s trip to Switzerland, is all I need to go from silent tears to full-on sobs. Miles holds me through all of it, rocking me gently and murmuring soothing nonsense in my ear as the movie draws to a close. I’m not sure how long we sit there like that, with me curled on his lap, my face pressed— hot and wet—against the curve of his neck. Long enough for the ending credits to scroll across the screen. Long enough for my seemingly never-ending tears to eventually dry up. More than long enough for exhaustion to slam through me like a freight train. I collapse against him, my body melting into his so completely that for the first time in my life, I’m not sure where I leave off and he begins. It’s hot and sticky despite the air-conditioning and eventually I expect him to push me off his lap—or at least to complain. Instead he climbs to his feet with me still clutched in his arms. I’m a little drowsy and a lot wrung out by this point, so I don’t complain. Don’t tell him I’m too heavy or that I can walk or that he doesn’t have to do this. Instead I cling to him—arms wrapped around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist—as he carries me up to my room. I’m pretty much a control freak at the best of times, and I should be nervous as hell that he’s carrying me. Not that I think he’s going to drop me, because I don’t—the arms wrapped around me are made of steel, as is the chest I’m currently pressed so tightly against. But still, handing over the reins to him like this, letting him take care of me when I’ve taken care of myself for so, so long, should feel strange. Uncomfortable. I don’t even like taking help from Chloe and we’ve been best friends since freshman year of college. I’m not nervous, though, and I’m not uncomfortable. In fact, it feels good to let him take care of me. Feels good to give up that responsibility, even if for just a little while. When we get to my room, he crosses to the unmade bed and settles me against the cool sheets. Immediately I feel bereft, cold, and I refuse to let go, my arms still wrapped around him like a limpet. “Don’t leave me,” I murmur, the words barely audible as my lips are pressed against the stubble on his cut-glass jaw. “I won’t,” he soothes, even as he untangles himself from my octopus clutches. “I’ll be right back.” It’s all the reassurance I need, and I fall back against the bed, my eyes drifting closed practically as soon as my head hits the pillow. I’m pretty out of it now, only vaguely aware of Miles walking across the room, and then of water running in the bathroom. But when he comes back and strokes a cool cloth over my hot, tearstained cheeks, I shudder at the first touch of his fingers against my skin. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells me softly. “I promise you, I’m going to make sure everything’s okay.” I nod, and although I don’t believe him—not really—the words are as comforting as the

cloth. I reach for him, tangling my fingers with those on his free hand even as I curl myself around his arm. “Please,” I say, pressing kisses to the back of his hand. “Stay. Just for tonight. Please, just stay.” He doesn’t say anything at first and panic starts to race through me, destroying the sweet lassitude that has taken me over in the last few minutes. “Please,” I repeat again, my free hand sweeping along his thigh and over his already half-hard cock. I pause, squeeze a little, reveling in the sudden sound of a harshly drawn breath in the nearly silent room. I’m exhausted, totally and utterly worn out, and I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. So if sex is what will keep him here…I’m game. Because no matter how worn out I am, fucking Miles Girard will never be a hardship. He groans a little, then pulls away and I whimper. I actually whimper, as I reach for him again. “It’s okay,” he tells me again, his voice a deep rumble/growl that is somehow both comforting and sexy as hell. “I’m not going anywhere.” He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t make any move to touch me, but the reassurance in his voice is enough to have me relaxing. There’s a soft rustle—clothes hitting the floor, and then he’s leaning over me. Grabbing my hand and giving a sharp tug that has me spinning onto my side before I even know what’s happening. “Wha—” “Ssssh,” he says again, stroking one callused hand down my arm, my hip, the side of my thigh. “I’ve got you.” The bed sags just a little as he climbs on next to me. And then he’s there, his long, lithe body resting against mine as he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me even closer. My back is to his front now, and I can feel him everywhere. His hard, chiseled chest pressed against my back, with only the thin cotton of my tank top separating my skin from his. His hips pressed against my ass, the long, heavy weight of his cock pressing insistently at me. His heavily muscled arm wrapped around me, holding me close. Sheltering me. Making me feel calm and safe and settled in a way I almost never feel, even when disaster isn’t all around me. It’s that feeling that turns me on when I thought I was too exhausted to feel anything else. That feeling that has my nipples peaking and my breath catching in my throat even as I wiggle my hips against him. He groans deep in his throat, then shifts a little so that his suddenly much harder cock is actually pressed where it will do some good. But then his hand is on my waist, stilling me— stilling both of us—and he’s whispering, “Go to sleep, Tori.” “But—” “Go to sleep,” he says again, and his voice is so deep, so comforting, so soporific that I can’t help but do exactly as he says.

Chapter 12

Miles How the fuck did I get myself into this? I wonder as Tori shifts against me, that sexy-as-hell ass of hers rubbing against my dick for the fifth time in as many minutes. She’s sound asleep —as in totally-out-of-it, dead-to-the-world territory—but that’s not a surprise after the day she’s had. I’m just amazed she lasted as long as she did without breaking down in hysterics. God knows she deserved it. Every time I think of that asshole Parsons I want to beat the shit out of him. He’s probably sitting somewhere right now, drinking champagne and toasting all the publicity he’s getting from this sex tape, while Tori is devastated, exhausted. Completely wrung out. I’m not okay with that. I’m not okay with him getting off scot-free while her whole world is turned upside down. I’m not okay with him fucking her over like this just because he doesn’t like taking no for an answer. And I’m sure as shit not okay with the fact that Tori is so, so hurt and messed up right now because of some dick who doesn’t even deserve the right to touch her. As she shifts against me, her beautiful body setting every part of me aflame, I remind myself that she’s fragile right now. That she’s been hurt. That I have no business lusting after her. But as she rubs her ass over my cock and presses her tits—her beautiful tits with their hard little nipples—against the top of my forearm, it becomes more and more difficult not to wake her up and finish what we started downstairs. Any other day I’d be buried balls-deep in her by now, fucking her long enough and hard enough to make her forget about Parsons and her asshole of a father, to make her forget—at least for a little while—about the sadness that is always apparent at the back of her eyes. But this isn’t any other day. This is the day Tori’s whole world got ripped away from her and I’ll be damned if I use the crazy chemistry between us to take advantage of her fear or her loneliness—no matter how many sexy little sighs she gives or how many times she grinds back against my cock. If I did, I’d be no better than Parsons and definitely no better than Brandon, the guy who raped my sister and got away with it for far too long. I absolutely, categorically refuse to be that guy. It’s bad enough that I already took unwitting advantage of Chloe’s pain by using the money his family paid to keep her quiet. I’ll be damned if I take advantage of Tori, too. With that thought in mind, I shift around a little, pressing my hips backward as I try to put some space between us before I end up jizzing my shorts like some fifteen-year-old with his first girl. But Tori’s having none of it. For every inch I put between us, she moves that much closer, scooting back and back and back until I’m balanced on the very edge of the bed and she’s pressed right back up against me again, so close now that the hard ridge of my cock is

nestled right between her cheeks. Which is conducive to me sleeping in absolutely no way ever. And still I hesitate to untangle myself. Still I hesitate to leave her alone when she so clearly doesn’t want to be. It’s a stupid move on my part, especially since it’s going to doom me to a damn uncomfortable night—one where, instead of sleeping, I spend most of my time trying to keep my hands—and my cock—to myself. What I should do is get out of this bed and head down to my workshop so I can get some work done—and so I can distract myself from Tori. It’s hard to believe that I haven’t set foot in there since she showed up this morning, even harder to believe that I haven’t given the desalinizer more than a cursory thought. Usually I can’t get the thing out of my mind. How to make it cleaner, faster, easier—most of the time the ideas chase themselves around in my head at all hours of the day and night. The fact that I haven’t even given a thought to what is soon going to be the biggest jewel in the Frost Industries crown doesn’t bode well for me getting it finished in time. It also doesn’t bode well for what Tori does to my self-control. The smart thing to do right now is to extract myself from this situation—and from her—as quickly and as quietly as possible. If I’m going to pull an all-nighter, it might as well be in the lab, where I’m comfortable. And where my defenses are back in shape. It’s only when I’m here in bed with her that everything gets shot to hell and all I can think about is want want want. I’m about to say fuck it, about to slide off the side of the bed and crawl across the floor if that’s what it takes to keep her from waking up. After all, I have a ton of work to do to get this prototype up and running before the next board meeting; I can’t afford to be distracted. But before I can do anything more than put a foot flat on the floor, she whimpers. High-pitched and haunting, it freezes me in place. And has any thoughts of leaving her here, alone, flying right out of my head. She’s been through hell today and if a little human comfort is what she needs, then it’s what I’m going to give her. And if I end up with fucking blue balls in the process, well then, that’s the way it’s going to have to be. It’s the resolve in that thought—the inevitability of it—that finally lets me relax. That has me pulling her even closer, so that we’re sharing one pillow even as our bodies are pressed together from the neck down. As I do it, as I tighten my arm around her waist and snuggle her into me, she sighs, and her entire body relaxes—almost as if the full body contact is, even asleep, exactly what she’d been waiting for. As we lie there, her warmth seeps into me and a sweet, syrupy lassitude creeps through me as my breathing syncs up with the slow, steady rhythm of hers. There’s a part of my brain that wants to run calculations on the desalinizer, that wants to work out the latest problem with saltwater conversion. But there’s another, bigger part that just wants to lie here with her. That wants to savor this moment, savor this night, savor the feeling of Tori burrowed so close to my heart. And in the end, that’s exactly what I do. Seconds slide into minutes slide into hours as I lie

here, holding her. Sheltering her. Breathing in the sweet cinnamon-and-vanilla scent of her. Eventually, dawn streaks across the sky outside her bedroom window and only then, when the dark threat of the night has passed for her, do I slip into a deep, dreamless sleep. — I wake up to a raging erection and heat sizzling through my bloodstream. Tori is stretched out on top of me, her tiny body doing the best it can to cover me from shoulder to calf. She’s soft and warm and her lips are just a little bit wet where they’re pressed against my throat. Her nipples are hard, her body restless, and her fingers tangled with mine on either side of my head. It’s a novel experience, waking up with a woman on top of me, her hands and body pinning me to the bed. But from the way my dick is rock-hard and ready before my brain even knows what’s happening, it’s definitely not a position I mind finding myself in. “Tori, baby.” I whisper the words softly against her temple. And if my lips happen to drop down a little and graze the sensitive skin at the top of her ear as I do, well then no one needs to know about it but me. “Wake up.” “I am awake,” she murmurs, her hips moving sleepily against mine. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” Fuck, she feels good. My hips rock against the heat and wetness of her once, twice, before I manage to control myself. But it’s a close call as all I really want to do right now is slide inside her. She moans when I stop, her entire body shuddering as she turns her head and skims her lips along the line of my jaw. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, her hands clenching tightly on mine. Then she’s moving, her legs sliding off mine and onto the bed, until she’s straddling me, her knees next to my hips and her pussy pressed even more tightly against my suddenly raging cock. And fuck. Just fuck. I want to be inside her so badly that I break out in a sweat from head to toe. And can I just say, restraint and chivalry really fucking suck—especially when there’s a beautiful woman on top of me who’s giving every indication that she wants me inside her. And not just any beautiful woman. Tori, with her quick brain and multicolored hair and delicate curves that seem to be made just for my hands. For a moment I think about untangling our fingers and sliding my hands up her stomach to cup her beautiful breasts. I want to feel her nipples against my palm and the soft resilience of her flesh beneath my fingers. Want to hear the catch in her breath and see the way those big, melted-chocolate eyes of hers go all blurry. But this is Tori, I remind myself even as I rock my hips up to meet hers—once, twice. Tori, who has been through hell and is just looking for comfort, no matter what this feels like. Tori, who is my sister’s best friend and who, on a normal day, can’t stand that I even exist. No way would she be okay with the fact that only two very thin pieces of fabric—and my even thinner self-control—are all that is keeping me from sliding inside her. Taking advantage of her vulnerability and her need for human contact just because I can would make me no better than Parsons. It’s that thought, more than any other, that finally gives me the strength to lift her off me.

That gives me the strength to lay her down on the bed and slowly untangle our bodies. Once there’s some space between us, it will be much easier to think—and hopefully, much easier to break the sensual spell that seems to be holding us both in thrall. It’s a good idea in theory, but I’m not counting on her looking up at me with eyes that are wide and desperate. I’m not counting on the high-pitched, breathless sounds of protest she makes—sounds that slam straight through my bloodstream and right into my cock. And I’m sure as hell not counting on the way her hands clutch at the bare skin of my shoulders and chest as she tries desperately to hold me in place. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No good deed goes unpunished, right? Because right now, it sure as shit feels like I’m being punished, my cock so hard that it aches as it leaks against my stomach. And still I give it one more try. Still, I give her one more out. “Tori, love, this isn’t what you need right now. This isn’t—” My voice breaks and I clear my throat, try to start again. But she beats me to it. “Don’t you want me?” she asks, her eyes wide and guileless as she stares up at me. “Or are you too disgusted by that stupid video?” This time, it’s her voice that breaks. “Is that it? Am I damaged goods now that the whole world has seen me fuck another man?” “No! Of course not. How could you even think that?” “How could I not think that? I’m throwing myself at you and you can’t get out of bed fast enough.” Her lower lip trembles and finally she pulls away from me as she wraps her arms around herself. It’s what I’ve been wanting all along, to put some space between us so that the haze of sleep and sex and need can dissipate a little. But looking at her now, like this, eyes downcast and entire body shaking, I know that I’ve made another miscalculation. “How could you think I don’t want you?” It’s my turn to reach for her, my turn to pull her into the shelter of my body as I press hot kisses against her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. She’s been so open with me, so honest, that I can’t help but do the same. “I’m so hard I can barely function. All I can think about is sliding inside that sweet pussy of yours and riding you until you come half a dozen times or until you pass out from the pleasure, whichever comes first.” Her eyes widen, her tongue darting out to lick suddenly dry lips as she swallows convulsively. For a second I think I’ve finally managed it, think I’ve finally scared her away. But she doesn’t move, doesn’t try to climb out of bed. Instead her hands slide up my back to my neck so that her fingers can tangle in my hair. And then she’s pulling me close, pulling my lips down to hers. “So do it already,” she whispers right before she takes my mouth in a kiss that rocks my whole fucking world.

Chapter 13

Tori I’m trembling by the time Miles finally gives in, my whole body shaking with a combination of need and fear that is as much arousing as it is daunting. When I woke up plastered against him, all I could think about is that I wanted him, really wanted him. Not just because he’s here and I desperately want something to get me out of my head as the nightmare of yesterday comes flooding back, but because I want him. I want Miles Girard. More, I need him, every part of me craving every part of him. That’s the frightening part of the equation, the part I’m not so sure about even as I open my mouth to let him in. I have sex for fun. I have sex to forget. I have sex to prove to myself that I can feel—and to prove to my father that I don’t give a shit what he thinks of me. None of them are the best reasons, but they’re honest. They’re real. But this? Having sex with Miles because everything inside him calls to everything inside me? Having sex with him because I need to feel him against me, inside me? That’s a totally new experience for me and it makes me nervous even as it excites me. His hands come up to cup my face, and the feel of his fingers brushing against my cheeks sends shivers across my skin and down my spine, making every hair on my body stand straight up. I gasp a little at the sensation, start to pull back a little before I go into sensory overload. But Miles chooses that moment to deepen the kiss and I end up burrowing closer instead of pulling away. My fingers come up to his chest, curl against the hardness of his bare chest. He moans a little and I repeat the motion, gently scratching my fingers down his pecs and relishing the play of muscles beneath my hands. Miles groans then, his hands sliding around my head to tangle in my hair. He yanks a little, his fingers tugging hard enough to make me gasp as a crazy sexy blend of pleasure and pain courses through me. He just laughs, and takes advantage of my open mouth to dart his tongue deep inside. I’m not usually big on this kind of kissing—it’s too deep, too intimate, too raw—but with Miles I can’t get enough of it. I open wider, kissing him again and again and again as I savor the heat of him. His body may be rock-hard against mine, his fingers digging urgently into my scalp. But his mouth is warm and tender and more gentle than I’ve ever experienced before. More gentle than I deserve, probably. I love it, just like I love everything about this kiss. The softness of his lips, the seductive slowness of his tongue as it slips against mine, the sweet, sweet taste of him—like crisp apples and soft summer rainstorms. Like desire and connection and everything else I’ve gone too long without.

I want more of it, more of him. It’s been so long since I’ve wanted a man like this—if I ever have. Mind hazed, body on fire, nerve endings screaming for the pleasure I know he can give me. Desperate now, totally caught up in the flash and the fire, I slide my hands around his body and dig in, raking my fingers down the bare expanse of his heavily muscled back. And what started out gentle turns ravenous in the space between one breath and the next. Hard, hungry, filled with a desire I haven’t experienced ever, Miles’s mouth devours mine— and I let it. Let him. More, I crave it like a junkie searching for a fix. Lips, tongue, teeth—he uses them all on me until nothing matters but the feel of him against me, above me, inside me. Until he is all that I want, all that I need. Everything, in this moment, that I have to have. “Tori.” He growls my name—low, deep, animalistic. The harshness of it whips right through me, lighting me up from the inside. Making my whole body feel like New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July rolled into one. I whimper at the sensation, then open to him. I give him everything that he demands, and take what I need in return. Power. Passion. Pleasure. So much pleasure that I’m drowning it. His tongue is between my lips now, licking at the roof of my mouth before tangling with my own. And somehow my hands are in his hair now, my fingers twisting in the cool silken locks in an effort to pull him closer, closer, closer. To pull him all the way inside me. Miles groans at the sensation, his mouth growing hotter and harder against mine as he delves deeper. As he demands more, demands everything. Desperate for breath, I rip my mouth from his for one second, two. But he’s having none of it. He follows me, biting at my lips with sharp little nibbles that have my nipples tightening to the point of pain and fire gathering low in my belly. Then he’s sucking my tongue deep into his own mouth, stroking his own tongue along the length of it until all I can feel, want, taste is him. Until the nightmare of yesterday fades and every reason we shouldn’t be doing this disappears like so much smoke. Then he’s sliding his tongue between my upper lip and my gums, fluttering it softly and lighting me up like a bonfire—all light and heat and comforting, sensual warmth pouring through me. Enveloping me. Stoking the flames bursting to life inside me until I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to spontaneously combust right here. It scares me a little, the pleasure he can bring me so easily and the need I have for more of it. More of him. Suddenly I feel exposed, open to him in a way I don’t open myself to anyone in bed or out. I don’t like it. Don’t trust it—more, I don’t trust myself. Once again I rip my mouth from his, sucking large gasps of air into my starving lungs as I try to gain some kind of perspective—and some kind of control—over this fire that’s raging between us. But I’m too far gone for perspective, too far gone for control, my body crying out for anything—everything—he can give it. And more. Always more. The truth comes to me, then. That there’s nothing I can do to fight this thing between us— nothing I would do to fight it even if I could. All the sniping, all the veiled insults, all the heated dislike between us over the last year was just leading us here to this insane moment. To this insane pleasure.

It’s that knowledge, that understanding, that finally has me letting go, has me giving in to the maelstrom. My hands tighten in his hair and I tug once, twice. Again and again, harder and harder as I struggle to get closer to him. To take what I want from him and give him what he wants in return. And still he won’t yield control, still he hangs back a little, controlling the kiss—and the pace—when all I want to do is run headlong toward ecstasy. Frustrated, desperate, determined to make him need as I do, I bite down on his lower lip hard enough to have him snarling. “Fuck, Tori.” And then he’s on top of me, pinning me to the bed, his body straining against mine as he settles in the V of my legs. His cock—hot, hard, huge—pushing against my sex with each sharp thrust of his hips. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he snarls as his hands tangle in my hair, forcing my head back and baring my throat. I do what he asks and the feel of him nearly sends me over the edge, despite the fact that we’re still separated by his shorts and my yoga pants. His mouth is at my throat now, and he’s ravaging me with his tongue and teeth and lips as he sucks and licks and bites at me again and again. I know he’s leaving bruises, know he’s marking me in a primitive way I would never expect from the smooth, coolly distant engineer I’ve known for so many months. But there’s nothing cool or distant about him now, nothing that speaks of control. No, he’s as wild as I am, his body hot and seething with the same need that threatens to overwhelm me. “Fuck, Tori,” he growls against my lips as his hand slides down to squeeze my ass—and to pull us so tightly together that he’s almost inside me, despite our clothes. I can feel the hard ridge of his cock pushing against my slit, the tip rubbing against my clit with each rock of his hips. It feels good, so good, orgasm beckoning even though he’s barely touched me. His other hand is still in my hair, forcing my head back so that I’m completely open to him. Pleasure bursts inside me as his mouth skims down my neck to the hollow of my throat, and my hips lift and lower in time to the blood roaring through my ears. He moves lower still and before I can prepare myself, Miles’s mouth is closing over my nipple. Even through my tank top, I can feel the warmth and the wetness of him, the incredibly seductive heat of him. I arch against him, pulling him closer as pleasure tears through me. He’s not gentle with me, not now, as he runs his tongue in little circles around my nipple. As he sucks and bites at it until I’m once again walking the line between overwhelming pleasure and sweet, sharp pain. And when he pulls me deep into his mouth—tank top and all—I let out a strangled moan. Then I’m pushing at him, gasping “Stop,” as the need to be skin-to-skin with him rises up and nearly overwhelms me. Suddenly nothing matters but feeling his skin—hot and slick and naked—against my own. “I need—I need—” “What, baby?” he murmurs, lifting his head to look at me with those piercing blue eyes of his. “What do you need? What can I give you?”

He’s still touching me as he speaks, though, flicking the sharp edge of his thumbnail back and forth across my already sensitive nipple again and again and again. It’s too much, everything is too much right now and I let out a strangled cry as my body shoots straight over the edge into an orgasm that is somehow overwhelming and still not enough, all at the same time. My head thrashes back and forth on the pillow, my body arches up against him, and tears leak from my eyes as pleasure spirals through me. It goes on and on and on even as my hips rock against him of their own volition, looking for more. Needing more. More pleasure, more contact, more of Miles. When I come down a little, when I can finally manage to open my eyes and pull a strangled breath into my lungs, it’s to find Miles balanced on his arms above me, his eyes glazed and mouth slack as he watches me convulse. And then he’s sliding a hand between my back and the bed, bowing me up like an offering as he whispers, “You’re so fucking responsive, baby. So fucking good for me. I love it.” I whimper at the praise and at the hot look in his eyes as he once again lowers his head to my breast. “I can’t,” I gasp, twisting against him. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” “You can,” he tells me with a wicked grin. And then he’s lifting me up a little more and ripping my tank top over my head with one smooth yank. “You will.” The cold air on my still-damp nipples only makes me ache more, and this time when I open my mouth to beg him to put me out of my misery, all that comes out is a high-pitched, incoherent whine. It must be enough, though, because suddenly Miles is growing still above me, his beautiful eyes going midnight dark, midnight dangerous. Need flickers in their depths and for the first time I can see that he’s walking a razor-thin wire of control. Can see that he’s as turned on, as desperate, as moved by all that’s happening between us as I am. Knowing I’m not alone in all this, knowing that he’s as lost and out of control as I am, makes it all so much easier to bear. More, it makes me want to give him as much pleasure as he’s given me, makes me want to push him to the brink of his control and then push him past it. With that thought in mind, I lick my lips, then watch as his gaze follows my every movement like he’s a starving man and I’m the only sustenance around. I do it again and revel in the groan he doesn’t even try to hold back. Do it once more, just because, and this time I allow my tongue to linger on my lower lip as I eye-fuck him right back. Lightning crackles in the air as we stare each other down and I can feel the heat of it rip through my body, through my veins and muscles and heart and soul, through every single part of me until Miles is all that I can think about, all that I can feel. He’s pulling harder on my hair now, everything getting fiercer and stronger as he starts to spin out of control. But each tug only makes me wilder, too, makes me more and more desperate to feel him against me, inside me, all around me. Dazed with desire, filled with a need that I’m afraid will never be satisfied, I push up onto my elbows and lean forward until I can capture his mouth with mine. And then I kiss him with everything inside me, pouring all the heat and need and confusion in me straight into him.

Miles takes it all, takes everything I can give him and demands more. He demands everything and as I yield to him—as I give him everything that I have and everything that I am—I can’t help wondering if it will finally be enough. If, for once in my life, I will finally be enough.

Chapter 14

Miles Lust tears through me like a goddamn Molotov cocktail, burning, smoldering, threatening to rip me apart in one powerful conflagration. From the moment I felt Tori come, it’s been building exponentially inside me, growing faster, burning hotter, threatening to spin completely out of my control. I want to slow it down, want to pull back a little so I can take care of Tori. So that I can pay attention to every single detail and make sure that she gets what she needs from this. From me. But distance is impossible with Tori wrapped around me, her delicate fingers pulling at my shorts like they contain the answer to all her problems. All I can do is feel and want and take whatever I can get. Whatever she’s willing to give me. Pulling away from her questing hands and mouth, I stare at her breasts with hungry eyes, my mouth actually watering with the need to taste her—for real this time, with nothing between her skin and my mouth. Her breasts are small, like the rest of her, but perfectly formed and so firm my palms practically itch with the desire to feel her. Bending my head, unable to wait one more second, I take her nipple in my mouth and suck at her hard enough to have her trembling and arching against me. Tori cries out as her hands slide up my chest to tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck. “Please,” she gasps, rocking her lower body against me. “Please, Miles.” Her voice is highpitched and breathy, and it shoots another ball of adrenaline through my system. “I’ve got you,” I murmur against her skin before flicking my tongue over the velvet hardness of her nipples again and again. “Please,” she says again. “Please, please, please,” until it becomes a mantra that swims in my blood, beats in my brain. “I’ve got you,” I say again, and this time my voice is little more than a growl. The need to slide down the bed, to take her in my mouth and taste her sweetness, is creating a wicked urgency inside me, one I know I won’t be able to resist much longer. But I want to push her a little farther, take her a little deeper, make it so that she loses herself so completely that she forgets everything for a little while. Everything but this. Everything but us. “I need you,” she says, her voice breaking on the words, and it’s what I’ve been waiting—no, dying—to hear. I almost swallow her whole as my mouth closes around her nipple with a fierceness I wouldn’t have tempered even if I could have. It isn’t long before her hips are bucking harshly against me, the muscles of her stomach

contracting as her fingers twist painfully in my hair. The small hurt only makes me more desperate, though, and I hold her there for long minutes, suckling one nipple and then the other until she’s nearly incoherent with need. Until she’s almost as close to the edge as I am. She tastes amazing—like spicy cinnamon and warm vanilla. It’s a combination I doubt I’ll ever get enough of, one that is slowly and completely driving me out of my mind. There’s a part of me that wants to take her right now, to shove my shorts down, rip off her too-tight yoga pants, and plunge inside her like my sanity depends on it. Then again, maybe it does. Even so, I’m not ready for this to end so soon, not ready to let her off the hook so easily when I’ve spent the last year wondering what it would take to get her into bed—and what it would be like once I got her here. Now that I know…now that I know, I’m glad I didn’t before. The knowledge would have tormented me, would have driven me crazy every time I saw her. But now that I do know, now that she’s right here on this bed with me, I’m determined to make it last. Determined to draw every ounce of pleasure from her that I can. Which is why I don’t slip a hand down the front of her pants yet, why I don’t move her body though every instinct I have is screaming at me to take, take, take. Instead I stay where I am, kissing, licking, sucking at her breasts until sweat is dripping from both of us. Until our hips are thrusting desperately against each other and our breathing is so ragged that neither of us can fully catch our breath. And still I take her, still I push her with each swipe of my tongue, each slide of my mouth over her skin. I can feel her need to come again. It’s in every trembling breath she takes and every arch of her hips against mine—vicious, undeniable, inescapable. She’s moaning, now, begging, crying out again and again as I ride her through her pants, through my shorts. I can feel her heat even through the double layers of fabric and for a moment all I can think about is ripping it away and putting my mouth on her, my dick in her. She must feel the same way because suddenly she’s chanting, “Take them off, take them off,” as she bucks and twist beneath me. “Soon, baby,” I tell her as I slide a hand down her stomach. “I’ll take care of—” “Now!” she all but screams, her fingers ripping at her pants in near hysteria. “Now, now, now.” Fuck! Shit. Goddamn. I wanted to push her higher, wanted to give more to her—more pleasure, more sensation, more attention. But I misjudged how far gone she was and how little control I would have in the wake of her pleas. As she bucks and trembles against me, whatever control I’ve managed to hang on to slips right through my fingers. I strip her roughly then, my hands tearing off her pants in an effort to get at her. Her eyes widen at the sound, her breath catching in her throat, and somehow that only turns me on more, making my blood boil and slamming me into a near frenzy that I can barely think through. “Miles, please!” Tori wails, nearly incoherent as her head thrashes back and forth against the bed. “Okay, baby, okay.” I don’t bother to take my shorts all the way off. Instead I just shove

them out of the way with one hand while I fumble in the nightstand drawer for the box of condoms that the housekeeper always keeps stocked in the guest rooms. In my haste, I tear it straight down the middle, scattering condoms across the bed like confetti. Tori grabs one, tears it open with her teeth. And then she’s fitting it over the head of my cock and rolling it down, down, down in a hand-over-hand maneuver that has me gritting my teeth and fighting not to blow before I ever get inside her. Once she’s done—after what feels like hours but is only seconds—I slip a finger into her pussy to make sure she’s ready for me. She’s wet and hot, her sex clenching around my finger like she’ll never let it go. She feels good, so fucking good, and for long seconds I stay like that, my finger thrusting inside her while my thumb rubs circles around her clit. There’s a part of me that wants to get her off like this just so I can watch her face when she comes. But I’m too far gone, my body all but screaming at me for release. Later, I promise myself as I reluctantly pull out. Later, I’ll make her come like this. Then I’ll make her come on my mouth, on my tongue. And then I’ll start all over again. But for now, I want—no, I need—to feel her come on my dick, her sex clenching around me as we both crash over the edge together. Tori whimpers as I lift her legs over my arms, whimpers again as I line my cock up and start to push my way slowly, inexorably, inside her. She freezes when I’m about halfway in and I do, too, my eyes going to hers as I try to figure out if I’m hurting her. She’s so feisty most of the time, so much larger than life, that it’s easy to forget how small she really is. And how easily damaged. “Okay?” I ask, doing my best to fight back the need clawing its way up my spine. “Yes, yes, yes,” she chants, even as she lifts her hips against mine. It’s all the encouragement I need, and I follow her need, thrusting forward, forward, forward, until I bottom out inside her. “Okay?” I ask again, but she’s too far gone to answer as a second orgasm rolls through her. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She’s clenching around me now, the silken muscles of her sex robbing me of my ability to think, to move, to so much as breathe. Because if I do, if I so much as thrust against her right now, I know I’ll be coming, too. And that’s not going to happen. I may want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life, but there is no way I’m going to blow my wad the second I get inside her. Not when I’ve waited this long to have her. I slip a hand between us and stroke her though her climax, relishing the sounds she makes and the way her body rocks against mine, milking my dick again and again and again. And then, just as the last waves of her climax work their way through her and into me, I start to move. Pulling back, I thrust into her again and again. Fucking her. Taking her. Claiming her in a way I never would have thought possible even twenty-four hours ago. She takes it all, takes all of me, with a few low and sexy moans and hands that clutch at my back, my hips, my ass. With each thrust, I feel the heat building inside me. Feel myself getting closer to oblivion, closer to ecstasy. I try to hold on a little longer, try to stay right here—with Tori—for just a few moments more. But she wants me to let go at least as much as I want to hang on.

Wrapping her arms around my neck, she pulls my face down to hers and presses hot kisses to my cheek, my jaw, my lips. She skims her mouth down my throat, over my shoulder, across my pecs. Then she pulls my face even closer to hers as she whispers dirty, sexy things in my ear. Things that make my dick throb and my balls draw up. Things that make my brain fuzz out and my body bliss out. Things that make me come. It takes me by surprise. One second I’m holding on to my control with bloody, battered fingertips. And the next I’m flying right over the edge of the most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt. It swamps me, pulls me under. Takes me deep as I come and come and come, with my face buried in Tori’s neck and her entire body wrapped around mine. She holds me through it, her mouth pressed to my ear. Her hands tight around my back. Her body moving perfectly under mine. I want her with me, want her coming one more time as I empty myself inside her, so I slip a hand between us and stroke her clit once, twice. Third time’s the charm as she cries out, her body clenching me in a rhythm so perfect that I wish it would never end. And that’s when I know for sure. This thing between us isn’t some temporary aberration. It isn’t some early-morning fuckfest that we’ll forget as soon as it’s over. No, I think as I take her mouth with mine in a kiss that is as possessive as it is deep, whatever this is that’s unfolding between us…it isn’t casual and it isn’t temporary…at least not on my part. Now all I have to do is convince the Queen of Fuck and Run that this time, staying will be a lot more fun…

Chapter 15

Tori I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. It’s not just that Miles is heavy where he’s stretched out on top of me—he is. Nor is it that the cut on the bottom of my foot broke open sometime in the last hour—it did. It’s that every part of me—my body, my mind, my heart—feels flattened by what just happened. And I have no idea how I feel about that…or how I should feel. There’s a part of me—a big part, actually—that wants to stay right here in bed with Miles. That wants to cuddle up and wrap myself around him forever. Or at least for as long as he’ll have me. It’s that thought that scares me, actually. That thought that has me pushing him off me. That has me sliding out of bed and heading into the bathroom at what could loosely be called a jog, but is really more of a run—even with my injured foot. “Hey.” The covers rustle behind me as he sits up, makes a grab for my wrist. I manage to dodge him without making it look like I’m dodging him—it’s a gift I’ve perfected over the course of several awkward morning-afters. “Are you okay?” he asks. But I’m already halfway to the bathroom, escape the only thing on my mind. Being the one to leave instead of being the one left. “Of course.” I toss him a careless smile over my shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I be? That was amazing. You were amazing.” He doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t wait around to see if that changes. Instead I duck into the bathroom and close the door before turning the shower on. Only then do I stop. Only then do I sink down on the edge of the bathtub and give myself a second to breathe. What just happened? What the fuck just happened? Two days ago I hated Miles Girard, didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. And this morning I let him give me three orgasms? Three! Orgasms! When I’ve only ever been able to have one with a guy before—if that. I don’t know what the hell happened in that bed, or what the hell is happening inside me still, but it feels like my brain and my instinct for self-preservation went on vacation right along with my bank account. It’s only been a day, but I miss all three. Especially since I was just underneath Miles Girard, and had to fight against an overwhelming desire to stay right there—which is totally not acceptable. I’ve never been one to stay where I’m not wanted, after all. It’s a lesson I learned early on. Which means I need to get my shit together. I need to remember that staying here is just temporary because my whole damn life is in the process of falling apart. And that while Miles

may not be the total ass I’ve always thought he was, that doesn’t mean what just happened between us means anything. It sure as hell doesn’t mean that we’re going to live happily ever after or some such shit. Just the thought has me breaking out in a cold sweat. I never think about happily ever after, rarely even let myself think about what it would feel like to be happy for now with someone. So where the hell did that idea of anything even remotely resembling permanent come from? And why the hell should I care that there’s no chance for us to be anything but what we already are? I don’t care, I tell myself as I rub my hands along my suddenly goosebump-covered legs. I don’t care at all. I’m just strung out from everything that’s happened. I’m lost, adrift, and Miles is the first thing I’ve glommed on to. That has to be it. That has to be— I stand when a knock on the door interrupts my deluded musings (yes, I’m totally woman enough to know when I’m lying to myself). “Tori. Are you all right?” “I’m fine.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah, of course.” There’s a pause. “Will you please come out here and talk to me for a minute? Let me see your face?” That’s the last thing I want right now, considering how vulnerable I’m feeling. I need to get my defenses in place before I face him again; otherwise all these mixed-up emotions will be written all over me. “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I tell him. “I’m in the shower right now.” It’s a small white lie, one I don’t expect to be caught in. At least not until the bathroom door opens—why the hell didn’t I lock it—and Miles is standing there, eyebrows raised and lips twisted sardonically. “In the shower, huh?” “I was just waiting for the water to warm up.” “I can see that.” He gestures to the steam-drenched glass as he steps into the bathroom. It’s a big bathroom, but Miles has a big presence and he takes up most of the room—and most of the air. Especially when it registers on me that not only is he still naked, but this is the first time I’ve ever really seen him naked. When we were fucking I was too caught up in what he was doing to me to pay as much attention to his body as I should have. And I really should have, because…holy shit. Just holy shit. He is…wow. I may be panicking, may be freaking out about what just happened and all the feelings it’s got floating around inside me, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the sight, because I’d have to be blind and dead not to appreciate Miles Girard in his rawest, most natural form. Because he is built. Like really, really built. Like holy-shit-his-abs-should-be-in-a-museum built. He might be a tech nerd, but he’s got the body of an athlete. Long and lean with muscles in all the right places and a V-cut that makes my mouth actually water with the need to explore it. He’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Or he would be if he weren’t scowling at me, his blue eyes stormy with an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. “Look, I just want to take a shower. Then I’ll be out of your way—”

“Out of my way?” he demands, stepping closer and wrapping a hand around my upper arm. “Is that what you think I want?” “I don’t know what you want.” “I thought I made it abundantly clear this morning that I want you.” He tugs on my arm a little, just hard enough to have me stumbling against him. “But if you need more convincing, I’m happy to oblige.” He goes to wrap an arm around me, to pull me even closer, but I slap a hand on his chest and push back. “Dude, if you convince me anymore, I won’t be able to walk.” Or walk away, which is what I’m actually afraid of. He just grins at me. “I’m not seeing a downside here.” “Of course you’re not. But I have things to do today.” “It’s Sunday.” He ignores the hand pressing him back and wraps his arms around me anyway, dropping kisses on my neck and shoulder as he cuddles me close. “What could you possibly have to do today that’s more interesting than this?” He cups my right breast in his hand, rubs his thumb over my nipple. It turns me on, despite my resolve to put some distance between us. Not that that’s exactly a surprise. Miles is an incredible lover with a truly awe-inspiring attention to detail. I think it’s the engineer in him, the perfectionist who wants to make sure whatever he does is the best he can do. Including making love. Pleasure creeps through me, weakens my resolve. But even as my body starts to melt against him, my head is telling me all the reasons I shouldn’t give in. All the reasons I shouldn’t go back to bed with him. The fact that I want to is the biggest reason I can’t. Never want anything too much, I remind myself as I reluctantly pull away. And definitely never need anyone. It makes you vulnerable. That’s a lesson I learned early and well—my parents were great teachers—and I’m not going to forget it now just because Miles gave me the three—three!—best orgasms of my life. “I have to find a job,” I tell him, pulling away from him once and for all. “And I need to figure out how I’m going to handle this. If I do what Chloe wants, I need to prepare some kind of statement—” “That’s what the publicist is for,” Miles says as I open the shower door and step inside. He’s watching me through narrowed eyes, like he’s not sure whether to believe the excuses I’m throwing at him or not. He should, because they’re true. They’re just not the whole truth. But that’s okay, I remind myself as I reach for the bottle of shower gel. Fake it till you make it and all that. It’s a saying for a reason. “I don’t want a publicist speaking for me,” I tell him as I dunk my head under the water and wet my hair. “I mean, she can read what I come up with and edit it, but if I’m going to do this, I want it to be in my words. I want it to be my story.” For long seconds, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me through the glass. I’ve got my eyes closed now—to keep water from streaming into them—but I can feel his eyes on me. Can all but see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to figure me out. But better people than him have tried and failed at that. Just because we had sex doesn’t

mean I’m going to trust him. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to let my guard down. Men like Miles are used to getting whatever they want, whenever they want it. But I’m not some plaything for him to acquire and then toss aside. The sooner he learns that, the better off we’ll both be. “Why don’t you go jump in your shower, too,” I tell him as I reach for the shampoo. “Then you can work while I make breakfast.” “You don’t have to make breakfast.” “I don’t have to do anything.” I squirt some shampoo into my palm. “But I need to do something to pay you back for letting me stay here. Besides, I like cooking and I’m good at it, so why shouldn’t I do it?” I close my eyes again as I start to rub the shampoo into my scalp, but they fly open the second Miles yanks open the shower door. “What are you—” “Shut up,” he tells me as he crowds me against the side wall of the shower. “Excuse me? Don’t you dare—” “Shut. Up,” he tells me again, and this time the words are accompanied by a look—and a growl—that has my throat seizing up. Which, in turn, has me doing exactly what he asked. “That’s better,” he says as he pulls me against him, my back to his front. And then his hands are in my hair, massaging in the shampoo with firm, steady fingers. It feels good—so good—and I end up dropping my head back against his shoulder before I can stop myself. The only man who’s ever washed my hair before is my beautician, Pedro, and he never makes me feel like this. Warning bells are going off all over the place inside me, but I don’t heed them. I can’t. Not when I’m drowning in the simple pleasure of Miles’s fingers rubbing over my scalp. He keeps it up for a couple of minutes, until my knees are weak and I’m all but melting against him. Only then does he tilt my head back and rinse the shampoo out, all while being extra careful not to get it in my eyes. Then he reaches for the conditioner, and by the end I’m little more than a whimpering mess. I expect him to take advantage, expect him to push me up against the shower wall and fuck me until we both come. God knows, the way I’m melting against him can’t be mistaken for resistance, no matter how this shower started out. But he doesn’t do that. Instead he slicks his hands up with soap and slides them all over my body. Half washing me, half teasing me, he skims over every part of me and it feels good. Better than good. It feels right. Any other time, that realization would scare the crap out of me. But right now, with his body pressed against mine and his hands working their magic on every square inch of my skin, it’s hard to care. Even harder to worry. Especially when he rinses his hands off and then drops to his knees in front of me. Now I’m pressed up against the shower wall as he gently moves my thighs apart. As he slides two fingers over my slit before gently thrusting them inside me. As he leans forward and strokes his tongue right over my clit. “Oh my God.” My hands come up to clutch at his shoulder, his head—as much for support as to keep him in place as he goes down on me.

It feels good, so good that the last of my resistance melts even before he lifts up one of my legs and drapes it over his shoulder. Even before he buries his face in my sex and makes me see stars with every stroke of his tongue. Even before he makes me come harder, longer, than I ever have before in my life. And when it’s over, when he pushes back to his feet and does nothing more than finish washing both of us, I figure out that I’m in a lot deeper trouble than I thought. The fact that I suddenly can’t bring myself to care only makes the knowledge more exciting. And more terrifying.

Chapter 16

Miles “This is really good.” Tori glances up from her plate, eyes amused and mouth twisted. “Why do you keep sounding surprised when you say that? This is the second meal I’ve made for you—not to mention the smoothie yesterday afternoon—and you’ve said the same thing, in the same tone, every single time.” “Because it’s good every single time. I’m impressed.” “Again, no need to sound so surprised when you say it.” She forks up another piece of banana-stuffed French toast from the platter in the middle of the table and then pours syrup all over it. “I really do know how to cook. I’ve taken cooking lessons and everything, FYI. When I cook dinner for you later, you’re probably going to think that’s good, too.” “Of course I am. But you really don’t have to cook for me, you know.” “You’re letting me stay here free of charge. It’s the least I can do, to earn my keep.” “You don’t have to earn anything. I want you here.” I reach for her hand, thread my fingers through hers, before lifting it to my mouth and kissing first one fingertip and then a second and a third. She watches me, eyes wide and unblinking and maybe even a little bemused, and I can’t help wondering what the deal is. Can’t help wondering what kind of guys she’s been with in the past. I may be surprised at how good a cook she is, but she’s downright shocked whenever I treat her with any kind of tenderness. Whether it’s washing her hair in the shower or wrapping my arms around her waist while she cooks or now, dropping light kisses on her hand, it’s obvious she has no idea how to respond. When I touch her in bed, she’s more responsive than I could ever hope for. But outside it? She doesn’t have a clue how to deal. It’s obviously new—and uncomfortable— ground for her. Which doesn’t make sense. I know Parsons is a total dickhead, know that Chloe hasn’t approved of any of the guys Tori has dated since I’ve been in San Diego, but surely she’s had a decent guy at some time in her life, right? Someone who was actually interested in her and not just her party-girl image? Someone who cared about making her feel good not just in bed, but out of it, too? Maybe it’s just me who makes her uncomfortable. Me whom she doesn’t know how to respond to. I think about that idea, turn it over and over in my head as we finish breakfast. It’s a valid theory, after all, especially if I consider how Tori hightailed it out of bed this morning. Oh, she swore there was nothing wrong, that she just had a lot to do today, but I

wasn’t sure I bought it then and I’m really not sure I buy it now. I want to dig for the truth, want to nudge her a little and see what comes out, but she’s got a hell of a poker face when she wants to. Experience—and a healthy dose of instinct—tells me I won’t get anything from her that she doesn’t want to share. At least not by asking… So instead of prodding to find out what’s wrong, I sit at the kitchen table looking out at the never-ending blue of the ocean and help Tori pretend that everything is okay. It’s shitty and unhealthy and not the way I like to do things. But for now this is Tori’s party and the last thing I want to do is make things even more uncomfortable for her. “Are you done?” I ask a couple of minutes later as I stand up to start clearing the table. “You don’t have to do that,” she says, springing to her feet and reaching for the big platter in the middle of the table. “I’ve got it—” “You cooked, I clean.” I push her gently back down in her seat. “It’s a pretty simple equation.” “Not if you consider you’re letting me stay here, rent-free—” “You keep bringing that up. Why is it bothering you so much? I may be paying rent, but this is Chloe’s house. You let Chloe live with you rent-free when she did her internship at Frost Industries last summer and it worked fine for both of you. So why is this such a thing with you all of a sudden? Why won’t you let her do this for you?” I set the dishes in the sink and begin rinsing them off, but I keep an eye trained on Tori’s face. She’s so hard to figure out, so hard to understand that I feel like any expression I pick up from her can only help. “Because it doesn’t feel like her place right now. It feels like yours. It’s bad enough that I have to mooch off Chloe, but you too…It’s not okay.” “What’s not okay? The fact that we’re trying to help you?” I stack the dishes in the dishwasher. “I don’t get it.” “Of course you don’t get it!” she tells me as she throws her hands up in obvious exasperation. “You’re not the one who doesn’t even have a pair of shoes to her name! Staying here for convenience is one thing. Staying here because I have nowhere else to go is something else entirely. And now that I’m sleeping with you—” She breaks off as the intercom connected with the front gate buzzes. A glance at the clock tells me it’s probably the delivery I’ve been waiting for. But since reporters are still hanging out at the end of the driveway hoping to get a glimpse of Tori, I head into the security alcove to check the video feed instead of just using the security intercom in the kitchen to open the gate. Sure enough, a large delivery van waits at the gate and—after a brief exchange—I let him in. Then I watch the screen carefully, checking to make sure that none of the paps out there decide to try sneaking on the property through the open gate. None of them do, probably because Ethan had three paps arrested and prosecuted last year for both trespassing and criminal harassment after everything about Brandon and Chloe came out. I’ll never be happy with anything about that situation—anything that happened to my sister as she was victimized yet again by the press—but Ethan’s precautions with her do make it easier for me to protect Tori, and for that I am grateful. I watch as the van clears the gates, making sure that they swing closed smoothly behind it, before I head back over to the table—and Tori. “Come on,” I say once I get there, holding a

hand out to her. “Where are we going?” she asks. “Who was at the gate?” “It’s a surprise.” “A surprise?” She looks doubtful. “I’ll be honest, Miles, I’m not sure I can take any more surprises right now. Between the video and my father, I’m pretty much done.” “It’s a good surprise this time,” I tell her. “I promise.” She still looks less than impressed, but she takes my hand. Lets me pull her out of her chair and guide her toward the foyer. We get there just as the delivery guy rings the bell. “Delivery for Miles Girard,” he says, holding his electronic clipboard out to me. I sign in the box, then wait with Tori as he carries several large parcels into the house. Once he’s finished, I give him a twenty-dollar tip then close and lock the door behind him. “What is all this?” Tori asks, though I can tell from the look on her face that she has a pretty good idea. Each of the bags is marked by the name of the store it came from, after all. “Why don’t you find out?” I tell her, nodding to the large gray bags from Nordstrom. “I want to go check the security cameras and make sure he gets off the property all right. I’ll be back in a second.” It only takes a minute or two for me to watch the delivery van head back down the driveway and out the gate. From the way he turns out, it’s pretty obvious he’s nearly as annoyed with the paps as I am. Considering he almost nicks one with the bumper of his van, I’m a little sad I didn’t tip him more generously. After making sure the gate is securely closed—and all the vultures are on the other side of it—I head back toward the foyer. But I’ve only taken a few steps out of the kitchen when I run into a pale and furious Tori. “I certainly hope you wear a size two in women’s clothes,” she hisses as she pokes me in the chest. “Because if you bought all that for me, then we have a serious problem.” Okay, so this is definitely not going the way I expected it to. I stare at her nonplussed for a few seconds as I try to figure out what to say. Nothing particularly impressive comes to me, so in the end I just blurt out, “I thought you liked presents.” “Oh no,” she snaps, her finger jabbing at me. “Don’t act like what you did was as simple as buying me a present.” “I bought you several presents.” I wrap her hand in mine, pull it away from my chest before she ends up tunneling through skin and bone straight to my heart. “Didn’t I?” “No,” she says as she wrests her hand from mine. “Those aren’t presents. Those are charity.” “Charity?” My eyebrows hit my hairline. “How the fuck do you figure that?” “How the fuck would I not figure that?” “So I bought you a few things. So what? I’ve seen you buy Chloe and Violet stuff, just for the hell of it. How is this any different?” “Seriously? You’re going to use the same argument you used about me staying here on this too?” she screeches. “Don’t be obtuse, Miles. You’re one of the most brilliant men I know. You can’t tell me you don’t know the difference between me shopping for Chloe and the baby

and what you just did.” “Actually, I can tell you that. What the hell did I do wrong this time?” She looks totally disgusted. “You’re a lot stupider than people give you credit for.” “Seriously?” I shove my hands deep into my pockets because there’s a part of me that wants to reach out and shake some sense into her. But I’ve never touched a woman in anger and I’m sure as hell not going to start now. “We’re going to fling insults at each other now? You’re the who has gone completely off the rails, who isn’t making any sense, and you’re going to call me stupid?” “I’m making perfect sense, thank you very much!” “Maybe to an insane person. But to anyone with a couple of rational, functioning brain cells, you sound like a complete lunatic.” Her eyes narrow to slits. “My brain cells are functioning just fine. You’re the one who can’t put two and two together and come up with anything that even begins to resemble four.” I’ve been trying to stay calm, but it’s getting harder and harder the more frustrating she gets. “What the fuck is the big deal? You need clothes, I bought you some clothes. You need shoes, I bought you a couple of pairs of shoes. It’s not like I went out and bought you the Hope Diamond or something.” “So that makes it okay? The fact that you didn’t try to pay me off with a big, flashy diamond?” “Pay you off?” I gape at her, not quite sure I heard right. But the mutinous look on her face tells me my hearing is just fine. “What the hell are you even talking about?” “Do you want to tell me you bought me all this stuff because you wanted to?” “Why else would I buy it? You needed clothes. I could provide them. What the fuck is the big deal?” “The big deal is you didn’t buy them because you wanted to buy me a present. You bought them because you felt obligated to buy them for me.” “Obligated?” “Because we slept together.” She points at the foyer. “What’s out there isn’t a present. What’s out there is payment for services rendered.” The top of my head is going to blow off. It’s actually going to blow off and my brain is actually going to explode. There’s no other explanation for what’s going on inside me right now. Services rendered? Services rendered? Services fucking rendered? Has she lost her fucking mind? “Have you lost your fucking mind?” It may not be the most diplomatic question in the world, but it is the most diplomatic one I can actually get my mouth to spew right now. “I was about to ask you the same thing.” Her voice breaks a little on the last word, but that just makes her glare harder and lift her chin higher. Which is fine with me, because I’m pretty sure my glare is on point right now, too. I can’t even think of the last time I’ve been this damn insulted. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure you’re the only one in this room who just called yourself a whore. And me a john.” “I’m not a whore, that’s the whole point. But you’re sure as hell treating me like one. So yes, I guess that makes you a john.”

Anger blasts through me in a way that doesn’t happen very often. Hot and seething and explosive, it fucking owns me. Owns every part of me. Makes it nearly impossible for me to talk, to think, to speak. At least not without spewing a bunch of shit I don’t mean and will regret later. Or spontaneously combusting right here in the middle of the kitchen. After several seconds where I take a bunch of deep breaths and go over a bunch of elements of the periodic table in my head, I finally manage to ask, “Are you fucking serious right now? You showed up here with nothing but a backpack over your shoulder. No phone, no computer, no makeup, almost no clothes. Jesus Christ, you have a cut that practically runs the length of your foot because you don’t even own a pair of shoes right now. And because I feel bad for you, because I want to do something nice for you—to help you because your situation fucking sucks right now—I’m suddenly accused of treating you like a hooker? Of trying to buy your fucking services? What the hell is wrong with you?” “You want to help. You feel bad for me.” She crosses her arms over her chest in the classic defensive posture. “Did it ever occur to you to ask me what I want before you decided to shower me with all this stuff barely an hour after I climbed out of your bed?” “Fine.” I grit my teeth. “What do you want?” “I don’t know yet. But I know I don’t want your sympathy. And I sure as hell don’t want that mountain of stuff in there that you bought for me.” “Well, tough shit, baby, because you’ve got both.” “No, I don’t. Call the delivery guy back. Have him return everything. I don’t want it.” “At this point, I don’t actually give a shit what you want.” She’s impossible, absolutely fucking impossible, and for a second I’m torn between the desire to toss her over my knee and the desire to fuck her up against the closest wall. The only thing that keeps me where I am is the knowledge that doing either right now would ruin what I’m trying so hard to build. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to roll over for her. Not even close. I move nearer to her, crowd her up against the wall I’m even now thinking about fucking her against, then bend down enough that I can get in her face. “You need shoes, Tori. You need toiletries and underwear and something to wear on a job interview besides yoga pants. That’s what I got you.” “You think I don’t know that? Believe me, I know what I need better than you.” “Do you? Really? Because it sure as hell seems to me that you’re too irrational to know what you need right now, sweetheart. And until you can figure it out—” “Until I can figure it out, you’re going to do it for me.” “Damn straight. You’re in a shitty position and you need someone to take care of you—” “Because I can’t take care of myself.” “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to. And that’s not fair.” Her hands come up to my chest and she shoves at me. I don’t budge. “Who said anything about fair? Nothing about this situation is fair, Tori. If it was, that dipshit wouldn’t have leaked a sex tape he made without your knowledge. The press wouldn’t be vilifying you like you’re some kind of man-eater. And your father sure as shit wouldn’t have kicked you out and left you to fend for yourself in the middle of a pack of crazed

paparazzi. But that’s exactly what’s going on and it’s not fair. I’m just trying to…” “To what?” I’m a foot taller than her and somehow she still manages to look down her nose at me. “You think you’re going to save me?” “I’m going to help you, whether you like it or not.” “For the record, I don’t like it.” “For the record, that’s just too goddamn bad.” She gives a strangled little scream. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?” “For trying to help you?” I demand, on the verge of tearing my fucking hair out. “I’m a bastard for trying to help you?” “No! You’re a bastard for thinking I can’t help myself. And for trying to buy what I would have given you for free.” “Goddamnit!” I roar, finally pushed past my breaking point. “Are we seriously back to that again!” “We never left it.” “Well we have now,” I tell her, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward me, hard. Her body slams into mine and—despite the argument, or maybe because of it—heat blasts through me. She feels good, really good, and for a second all I can think about is fucking her again. I slide a hand around her waist to her lower back, press her even more firmly against me. She doesn’t fight me, doesn’t try to get away even as I move my hand lower to cup her ass. To lift her up to her toes so that all I have to do is bend my knees a little so that her sweet pussy is lined up with my suddenly hard cock. Tori still doesn’t object, so I start to lower my mouth to hers. She lets me and I figure this must be the way to deal with her when she gets irrational, to sex her out of her bad mood. It works for me, and judging from the sound she makes low in her throat, it works for her, too. Thank God. I ease her backward, closing the distance between her back and the wall as my fantasy from earlier plays out in my head. I want to lift her up, want to wrap her legs around me and fuck her right here with the roar of the ocean coming in the open patio doors. But first…I move to take her mouth in a real kiss, in one that involves teeth and tongues and the dark recesses of her mouth. I’m so caught up in the feel of her, the heat of her, that I don’t register the fact that she isn’t kissing me back—at least not until she pulls her arm back and punches me in the stomach hard enough to knock the breath straight out of me.

Chapter 17

Tori “Seriously?” I demand as Miles doubles over from the hit. “You seriously think I’m going to let you fuck me again? After everything I just said to you?” “Tori, wait!” He makes a move to grab me, but I bat his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” It takes all my self-control not to hit him again, the smug asshole. “All that stuff out there might pay for one roll in the hay, but it sure as hell isn’t enough to buy you a second. So you need to back the hell off.” “I want to talk to you!” “Frankly, Miles, I don’t give a shit what you want right now.” I deliberately mimic the words he shot at me a couple of minutes ago. “All I want is to be left alone.” I start to walk away, but this time he manages to grab on to my arm. “Stop,” he orders, holding me in place with nothing more than a hand around my wrist. “If you’d just be reasonable for two seconds—” “I’m being very reasonable,” I say as I twist my wrist back and forth in an effort to get out of his hold. “If I wasn’t, I would have clawed your damn eyes out by now. Let me go.” “Not until you listen. I don’t know what I did to make you think this badly of me, but—” “Let me go right now,” I say a second time, my voice low and darkly sincere as I glare up at him. “Or I swear to you, this will be the last time you ever touch me.” “Goddamnit, Tori. You don’t actually expect me to just let you walk away in the middle of an argument, do you? We need to work this out.” “What we need is a little time to cool off. Or at least, that’s what I need. And I’m going to take it.” I finally succeed in jerking my hand from his grasp—because he lets me, but beggars can’t be choosers right now, so I go with it. “I’m going down to the beach for a little while. Don’t follow me.” “The beach? You can’t leave the house. The reporters—” “I know you persist in thinking I’m an idiot who can’t take care of herself—and I’ll admit that I’ve done more than a few things these last few days to reinforce that belief—but I’m not a total moron, you know.” And with that, I turn and walk away. From him. From his charity. And from the look on his face that says he really doesn’t think I can handle the mess I’m caught up in. He’s right about the fact that I can’t go outside the gates right now, not with all the paparazzi lying in wait. But I can’t sit in this house with him for one more second, either. Not when Miles’s larger-than-life presence sucks up all the air. So I do the only thing I can do. I walk out the French doors to the patio, then make a

beeline past the pool to the rock staircase that leads straight down the cliff to Ethan’s small, private alcove of a beach. In my opinion, it’s the best thing about the house. A small swathe of La Jolla beach with none of the crowds or sunburned tourists. I’ve lain out here a bunch of times, but I’m not exactly in the mood to sunbathe right now. The last thing I want to do is make a spectacle of myself for some asshole pap with a longrange camera lens and a little ingenuity. But I can’t go back upstairs, either, can’t face Miles right now. So instead I walk to the very back of the alcove and sit down there, with the sand under my butt and the cliff against my back. I try to make myself as small as possible, pulling my knees up to my chest and laying my head down on them. Only then do I think about what happened upstairs, about the fight I had with Miles and everything we said to each other. Only then do I start to wonder if maybe I overreacted. Now that I’ve had a moment to think about it—to catch my breath away from that mountain of bags in the middle of the foyer—I can acknowledge that maybe he really was only trying to help. Only trying to do what anyone would do for someone they cared about. If Chloe and Ethan had bought me that stuff, would I really be this upset? If they’d bought me a phone and shoes, a computer and a couple of weeks’ worth of clothes, would I have been anywhere near as offended? I don’t even need to think about it to know that I wouldn’t. I don’t like the idea of taking help from them, but I would do it without thinking twice about it. That’s how I ended up here, after all, at their house. Because I knew they wouldn’t think twice about letting me stay here until I could figure out a plan. So what is it about Miles helping me that sets me off so badly? What is it about him trying to do something nice for me that makes me feel like a prostitute instead of someone he actually cares about? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I’m not going upstairs—I’m not facing him again—until I do. With a sigh, I look out at the ocean. It’s a cloudy day, overcast and a little bit chilly despite it being the end of summer. And the Pacific is definitely feeling the chill. The waves are a choppy blue-gray, rough and foamy and without much setup. They’re kind of ugly, actually. Kind of messy and all over the place. A little like my life right now. A little like me, right now. I don’t like the comparison, like even less that my life is suddenly so completely out of my control. Arguments could be made, I suppose, that it’s never been more in my control. That right now I have the chance to really start over, to take my life in whatever direction I choose without having to answer to anyone. And while that might be true, I still hate that it has to be like this. Not the loss of my condo, necessarily, although—not going to lie—that totally sucks. I love that place. And not even the loss of the trust fund for the next couple of years, though that sure as hell stings, too. No, it’s that Miles is seeing me this way. That he knows how lost I am, how broke and broken and afraid I am. That he knows what an absolute mess I’ve made of my life.

He’s not judging me for it—at least, I don’t think he is—but that doesn’t make me feel any less like a loser. And it sure as hell doesn’t make me feel any better about needing his help. Again, I think about accepting help from Ethan and Chloe. I think, even, about how I felt accepting help from Miles when I got here early yesterday morning. It wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t incite this bone-deep reaction in me then. Didn’t make me feel like a whore. The only thing that’s changed since then is my relationship with Miles. How I feel about him and how I want him to feel about me. From the time we first met, I’ve made no bones about the anger I felt at him—just like he made no secret of the contempt he felt for me. Now all that has changed in the course of thirty-six hours—or at least, it’s changed for me. I don’t have a clue how he feels. And that, I realize as I stare out at the storm-tossed sea, is the problem here. That I don’t know where I stand with Miles. The sex changed things between us, obviously—but did it change them enough? Or does he still feel contempt for me? Still feel like I’m a trust fund baby who isn’t good for anything but a quick fuck? Just the idea makes me wither inside. It’s not that I want a commitment from him—it’s been less than twenty-four hours since all we did was snipe at each other, after all. But I do need to know that he respects me, that he doesn’t feel sorry for me. That he doesn’t think of me as poor, pathetic Tori. And when I saw all that stuff in the foyer, when I realized he’d ordered me everything from shoes to underwear to a brand-new laptop, I was afraid that that was how he saw me. That he’d ordered me all that not because he was doing me a favor to help me get back on my feet, but because he didn’t think I could find a way to take care of myself. I was afraid that—like my father—all he could see were the screwups. The mistakes. The problems that I can’t help but create for myself. And so I took it out on him. I accused him of treating me like a prostitute because I’m terrified that that’s how he sees me. Not because he’s given me any indication that that’s how he feels, but because I can’t get my father’s words out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about him telling me that I should have slept with Alexander to keep this from happening. After all, what’s one more time, one more guy, after so many? If my own father can feel that way about me, then why shouldn’t Miles? Even though he’s never given any indication that he does… Fuck. I owe him an apology. The knowledge grates. I hate apologizing—really, really hate apologizing—but there’s no getting around it. I was a total bitch to him and he didn’t deserve it. Probably. Maybe. I mean, he could be thinking everything that I’m afraid he is…In which case, I wouldn’t really need to apologize— No. No. No. I’m not going down that road again. I’m just not. I climb to my feet with a heavy sigh. Brush the sand from my butt. Fix my hair. Straighten up my tank top. Then order myself to stop stalling as I force myself back up the stairs. But when I get back to the house, Miles is nowhere to be seen. Everything he bought me is still piled neatly in the foyer, but he is definitely gone. It’s anticlimactic, to say the least. Not to mention a little nerveracking. I mean, logically I

know that he’ll be back—soon probably—but there’s an irrational part of me that thinks maybe he’s had enough of my bullshit. God knows I have. Which only makes me more nervous about where he is and when he’s coming back. And that’s a problem, because I shouldn’t care. We just slept together for the first time this morning. I shouldn’t be so emotionally invested. And yet I am. Frustrated and more freaked out by everything than I want to admit, I pick up the cordless phone in the kitchen and call Chloe. Not to talk about Miles, because the last thing I want to do is go there with Chloe. I just want to hear a familiar voice. But Chloe doesn’t answer. I stare at the phone for a few seconds, debating, then decide to hell with it and call my brother. We’re not exactly what you would call close—he’s always been a little too much like our father for that. But with my mother in France, he’s the closest thing I have to family in this city. I half expect my call to go to voicemail—like I said, Jason and I aren’t what you’d call close —but he picks up on the second ring. “Tori! Are you okay? Where are you?” The panicked note in his voice is the last thing I expected and it warms something inside me, something that’s been frozen since my father showed up at my condo two days ago. “I’m fine. I’m at Chloe’s.” “Thank God. Do you want me to come pick you up?” “Pick me up? But you’re in LA.” “It’s a two-hour drive. I can be there before dinner.” “You want to come down here?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Jesus Christ, Tori. Just because Dad has his head up his ass doesn’t mean I do. I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking, but let me come get you. You can stay with me—” “With you?” “Are you seriously going to repeat everything I say to you?” he asks, obviously exasperated. “It’s just—” My voice breaks and fuck. Just fuck. This whole thing is turning me into a total wimp, one who cries over everything. “Tori?” “I’m here. Thanks.” He snorts. “For what? I couldn’t talk Dad out of being a total jerk, though God knows I tried. We had a huge fight when he told me what he’d done. And I’ve been looking for you ever since—I don’t know why I didn’t think about Chloe. I guess because I thought she was going to school near San Francisco.” “She is. But she’s letting me stay at her place.” “Thank God. I’ve been so fucking worried, trying to figure out where you might be. I’ve talked to everyone in town I could think of and no one had heard from you.” “Well, it’s not like I could call anyone. Dad took my phone.” “I figured that out after the hundredth or so time I called and didn’t get an answer. Look, give me Ethan’s address. I’ll come pick you up.”

I think about Miles, about the fight we just had. I don’t want to go, don’t want to just walk out when things are so up in the air between us. There’s a part of me that wants to stick around and see where this thing between us goes, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome, either. I did just show up here, unannounced, and demand to stay. “Tori?” Jason prompts. “Can I think about it?” “What’s there to think about? You can’t stay at Ethan Frost’s house indefinitely—” “Two days isn’t indefinitely. But I need to figure some things out before I do anything else.” “What’s there to figure out?” he demands. “You’re in the middle of a sex scandal, you have no job, no money, no place to live. It’s not like you have a lot of options—” “Maybe I don’t. But I’ve spent the last two days just reacting to what’s happening to me and I can’t keep doing that. I need to stop reacting and start acting. This is my life and I need to take control of it.” “I get that. I do,” he insists when I don’t say anything more. “But let me help you. Let me call in some favors. I can get you a job, get you an apartment—” “I don’t want you to do that for me.” The words are out before I even know I’m going to say them. But once they’re out, I know I mean them. Because if I let Jason help me like that, if I let him do that for me, then I’ll be right back where I was two days ago. Depending on him for what I have instead of my father, but still. If everything I have is given to me by him, then he can take it away whenever he wants. There’s no way in hell I’m doing that again. No way in hell I’m putting myself in the position to be dependent on a man again. Not my father. Not Jason. And not Miles. That’s when it hits me, when it registers why I’m really so upset about all those packages in there. Not just because I’m afraid Miles doesn’t think I can stand on my own, but because I’m afraid not to stand on my own. Every man I’ve ever known has let me down, and there’s no way I’m going to give Chloe’s too-often-self-absorbed brother the chance to be the next one to hurt me. “What do you mean?” Jason sounds totally confused. “Tor, you need help.” “I know. But I’m still so shaken up I’m not sure what help I need right now. Give me a couple of days to figure it out and then I’ll call you, okay?” “A couple of days? You don’t even have a phone!” “I’m calling from the landline at Ethan and Chloe’s. You can reach me here anytime you want—God knows, it’s not like I have the money or the desire to leave the house.” “What about food? What about—” “I’m not starving to death, I promise. I’ve got everything I need to survive. I just need some time to figure out what my next step is going to be.” “Your next step should be coming up to LA and moving in with me for a while.” The last thing I want is to move to LA—I hate the place with a passion. The idea of not only moving there, but also moving in with my brother when I get there, makes me all itchy. I don’t say that to him, though. I can’t, not when he’s being so helpful and supportive. “Maybe it will be,” I finally say, to keep the peace. “But I need to figure that out on my own. Once I know what I want to do, I’ll call you. I promise.”

“Oh you’ll call me before that,” he answers. “I want to hear from you every single day until this mess is sorted out.” “Every day?” “Every day,” he orders. “And I want your address. I’m going to send you a few things.” “You don’t need to do that.” “Don’t tell me what I need to do. You’re my baby sister. Just because we don’t see eye-toeye on stuff doesn’t mean I want to see you living on the street. I love you, Tori.” He doesn’t say it often. We don’t say it often, so the fact that he’s saying it now, when he should be turning his back on me to keep my dad happy… “I love you, too.” I have to work to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry about the vid—” “Shut up. The only thing you’re guilty of is having as bad taste in men as I do in women. Now give me your freaking address before I lose my mind completely.” “You really don’t need to send me anything,” I tell him after a second. “I’m okay here for now.” Even as I say the words, I hope they’re not a lie. Now it’s his turn to be silent. “Are you sure?” he finally asks. “Yeah. I’m trying to figure out what to do about this mess and I feel like that’s something I have to do alone.” “That’s bullshit. What the hell is family for if not to help you out when you’re in a mess?” “I don’t know. I—” “Look, Tori, I know I don’t have to tell you how much our parents suck. Especially Dad. But just because he and Mom don’t know the meaning of family doesn’t mean we don’t. So if you need some time to figure things out, take it. But don’t forget that I’m here if you need something. If you need anything. Okay?” “Okay.” I can barely choke the word out of my too-tight throat. And damnit, when am I going to stop being such a sniveling crybaby? I clear my throat a couple of times, try to sound normal. “I need to get going,” I tell him after a second. “But I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” “Okay. And Tori?” “Yeah?” “Don’t take too long to figure things out, or Ethan Frost is going to find himself with another houseguest, whether he wants one or not. Got it?” “Got it.” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “Bye, Jason.” “Bye, sis.” The line still buzzes between us, almost like he’s as reluctant to hang up as I am. Which is why, in the end, I hang up first. I’ve already got enough on my plate trying to figure out my relationship with Miles. Adding to it the murky waters of my (very) dysfunctional family relationships would require more energy than I currently have. So I will take my brother’s call at face value and, for once, let the chips fall where they may…

Chapter 18

Miles “Grovel? What the hell do you mean I need to grovel?” “It’s a verb, Miles. It means to humble oneself in an—” “I know what grovel means, Frost. I just don’t know why I need to do it. I felt bad for her so I bought her a few things. What’s the big deal? Were the shoes not fancy enough for her?” As soon as I say it I know it’s a cheap shot, but I can’t help it. I’m pissed as hell over Tori’s earlier accusations and now Ethan’s telling me that I’m the one who needs to apologize? No fucking way. Not when I was only trying to help. And not when she accused me of treating her like a prostitute. “Dude, I know you were trying to help. Chloe knows you were trying to help. Hell, deep down even Tori knows it. But just because she’s in a bad place right now doesn’t mean she doesn’t have her pride. When you bought her all those things, you stomped all over that pride. You didn’t mean to, but you did.” “I got her a few things that she desperately needed. Like a phone. And shoes—she needs shoes, Ethan, considering she cut her foot while walking barefoot for the two miles between her condo and this house. I don’t why that’s such a big fucking deal. Especially since from what I hear, you pretty much bombarded Chloe with gifts when you first got together.” “Little things. Tea bags and seashells—” “And a four-hundred-dollar Vitamix.” “That she nearly brained me with the first time she returned it. And that got destroyed in a pretty terrible way when things went south between us, so I’m not sure exactly what you were expecting when you ordered all those things for Tori.” “I wasn’t expecting anything. I don’t want anything from her because I bought her a laptop, for God’s sake. I just want her to have what she needs. I mean, come on. We both know Tori’s a hell of a lot more high-maintenance than Chloe, yet she showed up here with nothing. I figured she’d be thrilled I got her a few things.” “And by ‘a few things,’ you mean thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes and electronics.” “She needs a phone, Ethan. And a laptop. And shoes. And a few outfits—” “Like I said, gifts worth several thousand dollars. And I get that she needed them. But don’t you think Chloe would have taken care of it by now if she thought Tori was in a place to accept anything from us? Tori’s whole world just caved in on her and she’s still reeling from it. Still raw from it. You should have given her a little time to get her head together, to figure out herself what she needs—” “I didn’t want her to have to ask. I figured having to ask Chloe or me for anything would

humiliate her, and I didn’t want that for her. I wanted to make things easier, not harder—” “So tell her that. Apologize, tell her you screwed up, and tell her why you screwed up. Once she realizes it’s because you respect and care about her, not because you don’t, she’ll have a hard time staying angry.” My knee-jerk reaction to his suggestion is Not a chance in hell. I’ve never been particularly good at explaining myself to people in the best of times. The idea of explaining myself to Tori —who really isn’t going to want to hear it—pretty much flies in the face of how I normally operate. And while I usually figure, Why explain?—if whoever is pissed has it wrong, that’s on them, not me—that’s not how I feel right now. Tori’s spent so much of the last year furious with me, and the last thing I want to do is go back to that. Not after I’ve seen her laugh, not after I’ve listened to her talk, and definitely not after we spent half the morning tearing up the sheets together. Sex with Tori is absolutely the best sex I’ve ever had and I sure as hell don’t want to go back to when we weren’t having sex. But it’s more than that, more than just the fact that I won’t get laid as long as she’s pissed off. I don’t want Tori to be mad. More, I don’t want her to be hurt. And I sure as hell don’t want to be the one who hurt her. Yes, we’ve spent the last year sniping at each other. Taking verbal swings at each other and hassling each other whenever we can. But that was when she was at the top of her game. When she had the whole world in the palm of her hand. Taking a swipe at her now—even unintentionally—feels fucking awful. Especially when I think about the look on her face as she told me off. And, worse, the look on her face when she walked away. “Hey, Girard, you still there?” “I’m still here, damnit. Just trying to figure out the most effective way to grovel.” Ethan laughs. “I knew you’d come around.” “Yeah, well, the sooner I get her calmed down…” “The sooner you’ll get her back into your bed, where she belongs.” He pauses. “And hey, no one is happier about this development than Chloe and I. We’ve thought you’d be good together for a while now—which is why we’ve been setting her up on the worst blind dates known to man. But she’s Chloe’s best friend, and she’s vulnerable, so it probably goes without saying…but I’m going to say it anyway. Don’t hurt her, man. She’s got it rough enough right now without dealing with a broken heart, too.” His protectiveness gets my back up—which is ridiculous, considering he thinks of Tori like a sister. But I still don’t want him to be protective of her. I don’t want any man to be protective of her but me, and— Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where the hell did that come from? Caring about the woman I’m sleeping with is one thing. Going all he-man over her is another, and not something I’m prone to. Most of the women I date are casual. We sleep together a few times and then I move on because they’re not that interesting once we’re out of bed and sitting across the breakfast table from each other. It may sound harsh, but it’s the truth. Most women can’t keep up, let alone give as good as they get from me. The fact that I don’t have that problem with Tori— that she’s been infinitely fascinating to me for a year now—is something I’m just registering. Right along with the protectiveness.

I don’t know what it means—or more, I don’t want to know. Two days ago we were at each other’s throats and now I’m getting my back up about Ethan warning me to take care of her. Ethan, for God’s sake, who is so crazy about my sister that it’s a little pathetic to watch. It’s crazy. Or, more likely, I’m going crazy. Just the thought is enough to have me up and moving. I don’t have any desire to sit here dwelling on any of this. Not now, when Tori’s still pissed at me. And definitely not when I don’t have the answers to any of the questions I can’t help asking myself. I don’t tell Ethan that, though. I can barely handle being this fucked up—let alone having my sister’s husband know about it, too. So instead I say the one thing I am sure of. “I’m not planning on hurting her, dude.” “Yeah, well, I never planned on hurting Chloe. And neither did you.” What he leaves unsaid, of course, is that, in our own ways, we both nearly destroyed my sister. As always, when I think of it, the guilt almost eats me alive. “How is she?” I ask, because I can’t not ask. Even though I know she’s happy, even though I know things have worked out for her better than she could ever have hoped, I can’t help but worry. I didn’t worry enough when she was younger, always took her word when she told me she was doing okay. I’ll be damned if I fall into that same trap ever again. “She’s really good,” Ethan answers. “First month of law school is kind of a shock for her, but she’s holding her own. And she’s totally in love with Violet, so…she’s good.” “I’m glad. I—” A knock on the door sounds and I immediately lose my train of thought. “I’ve got to go, Ethan.” “Don’t forget to grovel,” he reminds me, assuming correctly that Tori is what suddenly has me so distracted. “I won’t.” I hang up before he can say anything else, then watch as the door to my workshop swings open. “Hey,” I say, walking over to the doorway where Tori is standing, looking a little pissed off and a lot uncertain. “You okay?” “I’m fine.” The words are hard and stilted. “And you can stop asking me that every time you see me. I’m not dying, you know. I’m just broke and suffering the consequences of my own stupidity.” “You weren’t stupid,” I told her, gesturing for her to come in. “You just trusted the wrong guy.” “Which makes me a clueless idiot.” “It makes you human.” I put a hand on the small of her back, guide her farther into the room to where I have a couple of stools. Half of me is expecting her to tear my head—or my hand—off, so I keep my touch gentle as I escort her over to the closest thing I have to a seat. She lets me—no snapping or clawing involved—and my radar goes on alert as I try to figure out what she’s up to. Either she’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security so she can go for my jugular the second I lower my guard, or she’s calmed down significantly since she stormed out of the foyer earlier. Considering I haven’t had a chance to apologize yet, I’m pretty sure it’s the former. “I’m sorry,” I tell her as she settles onto one of the stools. “I shouldn’t have ordered all that

without at least talking to you first. It bothers me to see you going without, especially when it’s something I can so easily provide. But I should have checked with you first, should have at least let you tell me how you felt about what I wanted to do.” “You should have,” she agrees, nodding with all the regalness of a long-lost queen, even with her crazy multicolored hair. “But I’m sorry, too. You were just trying to help and I totally overreacted.” An apology is the last thing I’m expecting from her—I’m prepared to prostrate myself, for God’s sake—and it throws me off my game. For long seconds I don’t say anything. Instead I just stand there staring at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, as I try to get with the new program. I’d planned on at least five more minutes of groveling before she even spoke to me. I finally get it together enough to say, “The last thing I want is for you to feel like I expect anything just because I bought you a few things, because I don’t. Whatever happens—or doesn’t happen—between us has nothing to do with a new phone or a pair of Jimmy Choos. If you want, I can send it all back.” She looks amused, all pursed lips and raised eyebrows. “Oh really? You’d be okay with sending it all back?” “No,” I tell her, because it’s the truth and I’m not going to lie to her, even if she doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. “I’m not okay with sending back the phone or the laptop, because you need both. And I’m sure as shit not okay with sending back the shoes.” I still can’t believe her bastard of a father let her walk out of that condo barefoot. If Tori thinks it’s bad that I bought her all this stuff, I can only imagine how she would feel if I do what I’m dying to—which includes showing up at that son of a bitch’s office and beating him within an inch of his life. Every time I think about how he kicked her out with nothing but a hastily packed backpack, it makes me insane. It doesn’t matter how angry or embarrassed he is by that video—though I can’t imagine ever being angry or embarrassed enough to kick someone I love out like that. It’s his job to take care of her when she needs him, not to make things harder for her. “You really have a thing about those shoes,” she says, sliding her fingers through the belt loops on my jeans and pulling me between her suddenly spread thighs. “I do,” I agree. “Your foot was a mess when you got here—you had no business walking two miles barefoot and he had no business letting you. Not to mention the fact that you’re still limping.” “I’m not—” “Don’t bullshit me. You’re doing your best not to show it, but there’s a slight hesitation every time you go to put weight on that foot.” “That’s not—” The look I give her shuts her up before she can even finish the lie. “It’s barely there,” she says, with an exaggerated eye roll. “How did you even notice it?” She still hasn’t let go of my belt loops, and I choose to look at that as a good sign. Especially considering the fact that her knees are now resting on the outside of my thighs. I can feel the heat of her sex through my jeans, and it makes my dick hard and my nerve endings stand at attention. It also gives me the confidence to slide a hand up her arm and over her shoulder

until I can gently grab hold of the nape of her neck. “I notice everything about you, Tori. Which is why I shouldn’t have made such a rookie mistake with you earlier. I mean it when I say I’ll send it all back. Except for—” “The shoes,” she tells me with a grin. “Exactly. And—” “The phone.” “Yes. And—” This time she cuts me off with a finger against my lips. “Hey, Miles,” she says, voice low and eyes seductive. “Yeah?” Fuck. Ethan really knew what he was talking about when he said to suck it up and grovel. If it makes her look like that, sound like that, I’ll be happy to grovel for the rest of my damn life. “Why don’t you shut up and kiss me?” “I’d be happy to,” I answer with a grin. And then I open my mouth and pull the finger she’s got resting against my lips deep into the recesses of my mouth. She gasps as I nip at her fingertip, then moans when I do it again. And again. “Hey, Tori,” I tell her when I finally let go of her finger. “Yeah?” This time her voice is husky, breathless. Exactly as I like it. “I’m going to do a lot more than kiss you.” She grins as she leans forward and brushes her lips against mine. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

Chapter 19

Tori I tremble at the first touch of Miles’s mouth on mine. There’s a part of me that says I shouldn’t be doing this, not here, not now, and definitely not with him. I sought him out in here to apologize, and maybe—just maybe—for a quick, meaningless little hookup. But there’s nothing meaningless about the way Miles is holding my neck. Nothing meaningless in the way he’s pressed up against me. And definitely nothing meaningless about the way he’s licking slowly, carefully, deliberately inside my mouth. I know I need to be careful, know that Miles is absolutely the last man that I can afford to fall for right now. But that doesn’t seem to matter as he presses closer into the V of my legs. As he slides a hand along the outside of my thigh. As he sucks my lower lip between his teeth and bites down just hard enough to send electricity streaking along my spine. He tastes so good, feels so good, that all my good intentions go out the window and all I’m left with is this crazy beat in my blood, this powerful throb in my brain. It’s a feeling that somehow turns into a mantra of want him, need him, have to have him. Over and over and over, the words echo in my head. In my heart. In the soul I’ve tried so long to pretend that I don’t have. For a second, just a second, warning bells go off in my head and I put my hands on his shoulders, begin to push him away. I shouldn’t want him this much, shouldn’t need him this much. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be charmed and excited and thrilled at the way he’s holding me. But I am. I am. Because the way he’s holding me doesn’t say Casual hookup. It doesn’t say Good time. It says that he wants me, that he needs me, as much as I want and need him. And that is both the most exhilarating and most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced. Even being cut off with nothing by my father wasn’t as scary as this. Because even as I walked those two miles barefoot, I knew that I had a place to go at the end of it. I knew that I had Chloe to lean on. But this? There is no cushy landing at the end of this, no one to hold my hand and make everything okay. If I give myself to Miles, if I really give myself to him, there is no going back. It’s fly or fall, do or die, and my track record with men isn’t exactly golden. And yet I still don’t pull away. Despite all the doubts, all the fear burning inside me, I pull him closer with the hands I meant to use to push him away. I open my mouth to him, let him delve deeper, then wrap my legs and arms around him so tightly that I can feel the thud of his heart against my own. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my lips. “So goddamn beautiful.”

“So are you,” I whisper back. “And I want you so much.” This time it’s my turn to suck his lower lip between my teeth. My turn to bite down. My turn to take his groan into my mouth and swallow it down. And just that easily the kiss that had been warm and tender and sweet turns hard and hungry. His fingers tangle in my hair and yank my head back. I moan a little, arch against him, and give myself up as he invades me. As he devours me. Lips and tongue and teeth, he uses them all to stoke the flames inside me, to bring me to a frenzied state where nothing matters but the feel of him against me, around me, inside me. Until everything I want, everything I need, everything I have to have is him. “Tori.” He growls my name—low and deep and so harsh it batters its way through me. Has heat sizzling along my nerve endings and every hair on my body standing on end. I whimper in response, the only sound I can make, and do the only thing I can do. I open myself to him. Give him everything I have, everything he needs. Then take what I so desperately need in return. Once again, his tongue slips between my parted lips. It tangles with my own before licking along the roof of my mouth, the inside of my cheek. Somehow my hands are in his hair, my fingers twisting in the cool, silken locks in an effort to pull him even closer. In an effort to pull him all the way inside me. He groans again, his mouth growing hotter and harder against my own as he demands everything I have to give and more. He bites at my lips now, sharp little nips that make fire gather low in my belly. Then he sucks my tongue deep into his mouth and strokes it. Strokes me. Again and again and again, until all I can feel, want, need is him. Until all my fears don’t seem to matter anymore. Until nothing matters. Nothing but Miles. He slides his tongue between my lips, flutters it, and I light up like a bonfire as heat pours through me. Envelops me. Stokes the flames inside me until I fear losing myself—and him— to the conflagration. “Miles.” I rip my mouth from his, suck huge gasps of air into my starving lungs as I try to gain some kind of control over my very out-of-control body. But I’m too far gone, every cell and nerve ending I have crying out for everything—for anything—he can give me. And more. Always, always more. My hands tighten in his hair and he groans again. I revel in the sound even as I twist tighter, tug harder, pull him closer, closer, closer. “I need you,” I tell him. “I need you inside me. Please.” I’m on the worktable in a heartbeat, his body straining against mine, over mine, holding me in place as he slides his hands around to cup my ass. He’s everywhere—everywhere—his body hot and hard and huge as he pushes between my legs. As he lifts and lowers me so that his cock presses deep against my sex. “Wrap your legs around me,” he snarls. I do as he asks and suddenly he’s so close that I can feel the outline of his cock through his jeans and the thin fabric of my yoga pants.

“Fuck, Tori!” He squeezes my ass, continuing to lift and lower me in time to the blood roaring in my ears. Then his other hand is somehow in my hair, forcing my head back so that I’m completely open to him, the long, slender column of my neck on display before him. It’s what he’s waiting for, I decide, as his mouth skims over my cheek and down my jaw to the tender skin of my throat. He pauses there, licking and kissing and sucking at my throat until I can all but feel the bruises bloom. Then he moves lower, sucking another bruise into my collarbone and another into the tender flesh of my breast. I’m gasping now, my legs tight around his hips even as my fingers clutch at his hair, his shoulders, his back. He’s just as frantic as he tears at my tank top, flinging it across the room before doing the same to my bra. Then his mouth is on my nipple, licking, sucking, biting at me until my entire body is trembling and my eyes are all but rolling back in my head at the pleasure. He rolls my nipple between his lips, between his teeth, before tensing his tongue and flicking it over the tip so fast and hard that my entire body seizes up in a paroxysm of pleasure. He does it again and again, until I’m shivering, shaking, until I’m crying out his name as tears of need roll down my face. I’m all but sobbing now, my whole body shuddering beneath him, and he lifts his head for a second to look at my face. To check in and make sure I’m still with him. I’m not sure what he sees there, but it must be what he was looking for because he ducks his head and starts the same torture on my second breast even as he pinches my first, overworked nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It’s so much—too much, even, and I push him away as the tension, the need, continues to build inside me. “Stop,” I gasp, even as my fingers tangle in his T-shirt, keeping him from moving back too far. “What do you need, baby?” he murmurs, one hand coming up to stroke my cheek as the other continues to play with my nipple. “God, Miles, stop!” I shove him more forcefully this time and his head snaps back, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a question in them now, and genuine concern as he searches my face. When he takes a few deep, shuddering breaths, it occurs to me that he’s trying to get himself under control. That he thinks I want him to stop for good. I’m balanced precariously on the edge of his worktable, but I trust him to hold me as I shift against him and start pulling at his T-shirt. It takes a couple of seconds to get it untucked, but once I do I strip it over his head in one fluid movement. His chest is smooth, sculpted, and so hard it makes my mouth water with the need to taste him again. To run my tongue over the long, lean muscles of his sides and shoulders. To kiss my way across the heavy thickness of his pecs before taking his nipples in my mouth. He groans at the first touch of my lips on his skin, his hand moving to cup the back of my neck again and hold me in place. It’s such a proprietary hold that it should freak me out, should have me breaking away, but instead I just give myself up to it. To him. But just because I let him guide me doesn’t mean I don’t have some tricks of my own, and as he presses my mouth to his skin, I sink my teeth into his pec. He stiffens, curses, but his cock twitches against my sex and he doesn’t pull away. It’s all the encouragement I need, so I swirl my tongue over the small hurt before biting him again. And again.

His reaction is explosive, immediate, and desperate—so desperate. Almost as desperate as I am to feel his mouth on me. To feel him inside me. He thrusts his hand into my hair, then yanks none too gently until my face is on the same level as his. My first glimpse of his eyes has me gasping, growing wetter. His gaze has turned to midnight blue—dark and dangerous and oh-so-tempting. I can see his need for me flickering in the depths of his eyes, as well as the razor-thin edge of control that he’s walking. One look tells me how close he is to the edge, warns me that he’s hanging on by his fingertips. There’s a part of me that wants to back off, that wants to see what happens if I let him stay on that edge of his control for a little longer. But seeing him like this, pushed so close to the edge because of me—because he wants me, needs me, the same way I need him—is everything I want and more than I thought to ask for. Fucking men is easy, but getting inside them—letting them inside me—is hard. It’s also something I don’t do. At least not until now. But there’s something in knowing I’m not alone, in knowing—really knowing—that he’s right here with me, that makes okay even the desperate maelstrom of need roiling inside me. I lick my lips, watching as his eyes follow my every movement like I’m his salvation. I do it again and revel in the groan he doesn’t even try to hold back. Then I do it once more, this time allowing my tongue to linger on my lower lip as I use my eyes to make all kinds of promises that I have every intention of keeping. He reaches for me then, slides his hands down my neck before resting his palm against my collarbone and his fingers against the pulse points at the base of my throat. It’s an intimate hold, and a dominant one, and I’ve never let anyone touch me like that before in my life. Then again, I’ve never let anyone hold me by the nape of the neck, either, and I gave that to him just as easily. More, I took it for myself, because no matter how nerve-racking it is to have him hold me this way, I don’t want him to back off. And I sure as hell don’t want him to stop. I’m not sure what that says about me, about us, and right now I don’t actually care. Not when the heat we’re generating has lightning crackling between us, ripping through my body. Through my veins and muscles. Through my mind and heart and soul. Through every part of me until Miles is all I can think of, all I desire. His other hand is still on my breast, and the tug of his fingers on my nipple is only making me crazier. I lean forward, press my lips to his with a desperation I never thought myself capable of feeling. I’ve never felt like this before, not even when we were in bed this morning, never imagined that I could feel so vulnerable and so powerful and so wanted all at the same time. All of a sudden our clothes are too much of a barrier between us. I want his jeans gone, want my yoga pants on his workshop floor as he slides his cock deep inside me. My whole body clenches at the thought, my sex aching emptily even as my fingers fumble with the button on his jeans. “Take them off,” I tell him as I rip my mouth from his. “Take them off, take them off.” I’m desperate now, my body bucking and twisting against him as the need between us becomes painful desperation. “Soon, baby,” he murmurs, even as he sucks new bruises into my collarbone, my shoulder,

my breast. “Now!” I all but scream, my fingers ripping at my own pants as the ache continues to swell deep inside me. “I need you now.” “Fuck. Okay.” He pulls away and I whine, my hands grabbing for him even as he yanks my pants down my legs and throws them behind him. Then he’s fumbling with his own pants as I watch him with hungry eyes. His eyes are wild and his hands are shaking as he rips open the zipper. He doesn’t bother to take his jeans all the way off. Instead he just shoves them down enough to free his cock, then quickly sheathes himself with a condom he pulls from his back pocket. Seconds later he pushes deep inside me with a thrust so hard and deep that it has me seeing stars, my whole body erupting at that first stroke. For long moments, everything around me goes black as the most amazing orgasm of my life sweeps through me. Pleasure ripples along my every nerve ending, robbing me of my ability to think, to move, to even breathe. And all I can do is take it—take him—as he thrusts into me again and again and again, ratcheting up my pleasure with each slam of his hips. Before my first climax comes to an end, I can feel a second one building, this one even sharper than the first. It’s such a steep rise that it almost hurts, but it’s a good hurt, one I wouldn’t trade for anything. He’s close now, too. I can feel it as he plunges wildly inside me. I dig my nails into his shoulders, hang on for dear life as he slams me into the table so hard the thing scrapes against the floor. And then Miles is calling my name as he comes, his whole body jerking and straining and shaking as he empties himself inside me. It goes on and on and the feel of him coming ratchets up my own pleasure, sends me careening up, up, up until I teeter on the edge of a second orgasm. “Don’t stop,” I tell him as I rock against him. “Please, don’t—” He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Instead he reaches between us and rolls my clit between his thumb and forefinger. Heat slams through me and I whimper, lifting my hips in a desperate attempt to get more pressure. More pleasure. He’s still hard, still thrusting, as if his release had done nothing to dull his desire for me. The thought turns me on even more as he surges against me, each thrust a little more powerful than the one that came before it. He’s moving me up the table now and I can feel the cool metal against my back, my ass, can feel myself rising and falling as he tilts my hips forward so he can go deeper, deeper, deeper. It feels so good—he feels so good—that I can barely comprehend what’s happening to my body. To me. Desperate for release, I lock my ankles around his waist, let my head fall back against the table, as I sob his name over and over again. My whole body is wigging out and I’m spinning out of control—my mind, my body, everything that I am just opening up to him. Becoming his for the taking. It should frighten me—should terrify me, if I’m being honest—and maybe it would any other time, with any other man. But right here, right now, with Miles, all I can do is open myself up to him and let him take all that he wants. I want it to end, want to feel him empty himself totally and completely within me. I want it to go on forever, want his strong, hard body plunging into mine until I’ve had my fill. Until

my body no longer clamors for his. Until I don’t know where he starts and I leave off. His fingers dig deep into my hips and I shudder with pleasure, admitting to myself that I can’t imagine a time when I don’t want Miles—inside my body and my life. It’s a scary thought, and an intimate one. It should scare me but I’m too busy meeting each powerful thrust of his body to worry about it. Too busy chasing my next orgasm to care about anything but the incredible connection stretching between us. “Tori, look at me.” His voice is deep, distorted, but so insistent that I know I don’t have a choice. Opening my eyes through sheer strength of will, I stare into his blue ones with their desperate light and blown-out irises. The connection between us grows deeper, stronger, and I want to look away. Want to break whatever this thing is that’s so powerful, so overwhelming. But he won’t let me, his gaze capturing mine, taking me prisoner, even as his body does the same thing. I can’t break away; more, I don’t want to. I’m completely, utterly in his thrall, and the only thing keeping me together is the knowledge that he is as vulnerable as I am. That he has no more control over his body—or his heart—at this moment than I do. “Miles.” I whisper his name, lift a hand to his stubble-rough cheek. He holds my gaze even while he turns his head and presses a kiss into my palm at the same time as he increases the pressure on my clit. I cry out as an answering wave of sensation rips through me, sending me over the edge for the second time tonight. I come with his body inside me and his name on my lips. And still he refuses to relinquish my gaze. Still he keeps me pinned with those magical, mystical eyes of his that seem to see all the way to my soul. And when he follows me seconds later—his own release crashing powerfully through him— his gaze demands more than I want to give. More than I can give. But as he collapses over me, his body seeking comfort from mine even as he presses me into the table, I refuse to think about that. Refuse to worry over the connection that, even now, I can feel snapped taut between us. Instead I wrap my arms around him and whisper soft, soothing nothings in his ear as we both come down slowly. Fuck it, I think as he reaches up and takes my mouth in one last kiss. What’s going to happen is going to happen whether I worry about it or not. I’d rather stay in this moment as long as I can, living it and loving him, for as long as I can. The world will crash down around our ears soon enough. For now, I’m going to let myself love him any way that I can.

Chapter 20

Miles “How do you know I like eggplant parmigiana?” Tori asks as she unpacks the dinner order I placed while she was in her second shower of the day—this one without me, as she insisted she actually wanted to get clean. “I have known you for a year,” I answer as I open a bottle of Chianti to go with the Italian food. “And during that time we’ve eaten together numerous times.” “But I only ordered eggplant once in all those times. I know, because I only eat it from Romero’s.” “I know.” I tap the delivery bag that the food came in, which is clearly marked with the name, ROMERO’S RISTORANTE. “You’re surprisingly observant for a tech geek,” she teases with a grin. “And you are surprisingly traditional for a girl with this many tats.” I run a hand across the ink on her shoulders. She arches, pressing back into my touch even as she shivers a little. I can’t help but grin as I trace the intricate lines of the dandelion tattoo she has over her left shoulder blade—and the windborne seeds caught tumbling in midflight just above it. “I think this is my favorite,” I tell her as I press soft kisses to the wandering seeds. “Oh yeah?” She tilts her head a little to the side to give me better access. “Earlier you said the stars were your favorites.” “They’re definitely in my favorite location,” I agree, tracing my fingers over her hip bone and down to the top of her thigh, following the pattern of the stars she has there by memory now. “But there’s something about this flower, about the freedom and the grace of it. I like it.” “Me, too.” She leans into me, rests the back of her head against my chest in a move so fleeting I might have thought I imagined it if my skin hadn’t sizzled with the contact—as it always does when she touches me. “So why a dandelion?” I ask, curving my other hand around her other hip so that I can hold her in place against me. “Why not a more traditional flower?” “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Sure you do.” She turns, gives me an arch glance that I meet head-on. She doesn’t have to tell me if she doesn’t want to, but I’m not going to play dumb just to make her more comfortable. Not on this, something that I know has everything to do with who she is versus who she wants the world to think she is.

“Fine,” she says, and it’s half laugh, half sigh as she turns away. “I guess I’ve always admired the resilience, the determination, of dandelions. They’re weeds that don’t just grow, but thrive where they’re not wanted. They put down roots and grow a beautiful yellow flower that’s impossible to ignore. And then, when they’re ready—and only when they’re ready—they move on, on their terms. The wind may eventually blow them apart, may scatter their seeds all to hell and back, but then they just start over in a new place. In several new places, which just gives that first dandelion more places to shine.” Her words slam into me without warning, ripping through my chest—my heart—like a freight train that leaves me stunned, destroyed, in its wake. Tori doesn’t notice—her back is still toward me as she reaches for the wine, pours it into the two glasses she’d picked out from the bar while we were waiting for the food delivery—but that somehow makes it all the more real. Her flippant tone, the easy acceptance of the dandelion’s fate—of her own fate—breaks me to pieces even as it fills me with rage…and with emotions I never expected to feel. Not now. Not for this woman who has spent most of our acquaintance hating me—and making sure I know it. But how can I not feel deeply about Tori when she exemplifies all the strength and power and beauty of the dandelion on her shoulder, the dandelion I’m still tracing with an errant finger? “Ready to eat?” she asks, completely oblivious to the chaotic thoughts churning inside me. When I don’t answer right away, she glances back at me. Her eyes are wide and vulnerable in a way they almost never are, her lips curled in one of the first unguarded smiles I’ve ever seen from her. And just that easily, all my rioting emotions coalesce inside me and I tumble straight down the rabbit hole…and straight into love with her. It’s a powerful realization, one that has my stomach doing somersaults and my knees trembling for the first time in my life. Actually trembling, like some damsel in distress or some kid with his first crush. I want to reach out, grab the counter to steady myself, to give this sudden understanding of my feelings for her a chance to sink in. But she’s still watching me, her eyes growing careful and her smile starting to flag as seconds continue to tick by without an answer from me. Which won’t do, not at all. It takes every ounce of self-control I have to school my face before she can see it, to hide the love I have for her and the rage and the sorrow I feel on her behalf. She won’t thank me for my feelings—will read them as pity—and after the near miss this morning, the last thing I want is to alienate her all over again. So I do the only thing I can do with all these emotions rampaging around inside me. I spin her around and growl, “I’m ready for something,” as I pull her into my chest and lower my mouth to hers. She laughs as she kisses me back, then plants a hand firmly in the center of my chest to push me away. “You’re always ready for that,” she tells me. “Is that a complaint?” I fake offense even as I wonder how I can make her fuckhead of a father pay for what he’s done to her. How I can make Parsons pay. “It is absolutely a complaint. I’m starving and you’ve barely let me eat all day.” “Oh, right.” I pull her chair out for her and wait until she’s seated before moving to my

own. “Like it’s my fault you haven’t been able to keep your hands off me all afternoon.” “Oh, is that what’s been going on?” she asks as she dishes up two plates of salad. “Me not being able to keep my hands off you?” “Or your lips.” I tilt my head to show off the tiny lovebites she sucked into my jaw earlier. “Not that I’m complaining or anything. Just stating a fact.” “Of course you are.” She rolls her eyes. “It must be a curse to be so irresistible.” “Yeah, well, everyone needs a little suffering in their life. It builds character.” “And you handle it so well.” “I try. We all have our burdens, after all.” I’m grinning like an idiot at this point, but then so is she. It’s another first for me. I never knew relationships could be like this—full of banter and fun and fantastic sex. Before Tori, I always viewed relationships as distractions, as something I occasionally put up with (and resented) in exchange for regular sex with the same woman, since one-night stands got old years ago. Of course, those relationships never lasted long because I wasn’t interested in giving my attention to any of the women I dated for longer than it took to have dinner and get them off a couple of times a week. Which is why, for the last few years, I’ve tended toward friends-with-benefits situations. If there are no expectations, there’s no disappointment when I get lost in one project or another and forget to call. With Tori, it’s different. So different that I have a hard time thinking of this in the same terms as any relationship I’ve ever had before. She is absolutely a distraction—I should be working right now, in fact—but unlike the other women I’ve been involved with, I don’t mind her taking my attention away from my work. I don’t resent spending time hanging out with her when I should be working on my desalinizer. And I sure as hell can’t compartmentalize what we’re doing—and what I feel for her—the way I’ve always done in the past. Hell, since she moved in here, I’ve struggled more with forgetting about her long enough to get some work done than I have with trying to remember her. Because the truth is, to me anyway, Tori is as unforgettable as she is irresistible. The only problem is, I’m not sure what these new feelings of mine mean—for either of us. Especially considering how much she despised me just a few short days ago. Her life is a mess right now, everything topsy-turvy and inside out. It seems unfair to ask her for anything more than what we have going on, seems impossible to expect her to make a decision about being in an actual relationship with me when she has no money, no job, and nowhere else to go besides right here. Just the thought of how vulnerable she is has my skin crawling with uneasiness. No, now is not the time to try to define anything about our relationship. Or to even decide that we’re in a relationship. Not when she’s so vulnerable and confused. The fact that I’m not—the fact that I feel like I’m thinking clearly for the first time in a long time—doesn’t matter. Not when Tori is so vulnerable. She’s already accused me once of treating her like a whore. The last thing I want to do is pressure her into being with me because she feels like she has no other options. The idea grates, but then so does waiting when so much inside me is pushing me to take her, to claim her, to make her mine every way that I can.

But that’s the caveman talking, and I can’t afford to give in to that small, irrational part of my psyche. Not now, when Tori is sitting across the table and smiling at me like she means it. Smiling at me like I matter, and more, like this thing between us matters. No, I can’t push her. Not now. Not until she’s back on steady footing. If that means waiting until she has a job, waiting until she’s confident again in who she is and what her place in the world is, then that’s what I’m going to have to do. I won’t like it, but I will do it. Which is why I spend the rest of dinner making Tori laugh, telling her embarrassing stories about Chloe and the numerous disasters I’ve had in my workshop as I tried to perfect one invention or another. I want to delve deeper, want to pull her into my lap and tangle my hand in her short, multicolored hair as I demand that she spill her secrets to me. But I don’t want to scare her away. And I sure as hell don’t want to hurt her, not this woman who has a dandelion on her shoulder to remind herself how impermanent everything is. When dinner is finished, we clear the table together, then grab what’s left of the Chianti and wander into the family room to watch TV. But we’re barely settled on the sofa when Tori turns to me and says, “I’m going to do an interview.” “An interview?” I don’t know why I repeat the words, or why I make them into a question when there’s only one interview she could be talking about right now. Only one interview that would put that look on her face, that would have her wrapping her arms around herself in a weak attempt at self-preservation. Maybe it’s because I want to protect her, too. And while the logical part of my brain knows giving this interview is the right thing to do, the rest of me wants nothing more than to wrap my arms around her and shelter her. To keep her safe. “I called Chloe and Ethan when I was upstairs.” She’s not looking at me now. Instead she’s staring through the huge wall of windows and out at the roiling sea. A storm is coming in—I can feel it in the breeze blowing through the open doors—but it’s nothing compared to the storm I can sense brewing inside Tori. I hate that she’s in this position, hate even more that some low-life scum like Alexander Parsons is the one who put her in it. I don’t say that to Tori, though. I simply ask, “So what’s Ethan going to set up for you?” “An interview tomorrow afternoon at the local NBC station. They’ll put a piece together and it’ll run here and on MSNBC tomorrow evening—plus anywhere else that picks it up.” “Which will probably be everywhere, considering the publicity push the studio is giving Parsons’s movie right now.” “Pretty much, yeah.” “How do you feel about that?” I know how I feel about it. I want to find Parsons and knock his fucking teeth down his fucking throat. I want to beat the ever-loving shit out of him until he figures out that he never should have fucked with Tori like this, never should have treated any woman the way he’s treated her. I want to do more than that, though, want to do more than just fuck up that pretty face he’s

so fucking proud of. I want to ruin the bastard. I want to fucking destroy him, want to hit him so hard and with so much shit that that precious career of his rips apart at the fucking seams. It’s why he threw Tori to the fucking wolves, after all. To give his profile—and in turn, his career—a boost. Ruining that career the way he’s ruined Tori seems like poetic justice to me. I’ve already got a bunch of bots scrolling the ’Net, looking for dirt on him. So far he’s come up clean. Too clean, in fact. It took about five minutes of digging for me to figure out that he’s had his online presence professionally scrubbed. Maybe he did it just because he’s an actor and in the public arena all the time. Or maybe he did it because there’s something to find… Call me suspicious, but I’m betting on the latter. The guy is a total dick after all. So much so that I’m betting it isn’t new. I’m betting he’s been like this—self-serving and misogynistic and opportunistic—even longer than he’s been famous. Which means it’s only a matter of time before I can dig up a few skeletons on him. And when I do, I’m pretty sure they’ll be more than just skeletons. They’ll be full bodies with a hell of a lot of dirty secrets to tell. I remind myself to be patient just a little longer, to give the bots time to do what I programmed them to do. But it’s hard when I can see how much Tori is suffering. When I know how much she’ll continue to suffer because of that bastard. “I feel…I don’t know what I feel,” she finally admits. “The tape is bad enough, but this? Having to go on TV and talk about my sex life with that man, to tell the world that he recorded me without my knowledge and released it without my permission? To play the victim for the whole world to see? I’m not okay with that.” “If you’re not okay with it, then you shouldn’t do it.” She laughs, but it’s not a pleasant sound. “Yeah, easy for you to say.” “It isn’t, actually.” She looks at me for the first time since she started this conversation. “Isn’t what?” “Isn’t easy for me to say. I want to watch you hang that bastard out to dry, want to watch you fry his ass every way it can be fried. But this isn’t about me or what I want. And it’s not about Ethan or Chloe or Ethan’s PR people, either. No matter how much we’re trying to help, no matter how hard we’re trying to spin this in your favor, in the end it isn’t about any of us. It’s about you. And if you don’t want to do it, if you feel like going on TV and talking about this will only hurt you more or make you feel worse, then don’t do it.” I reach over, put a hand on her knee. There’s a part of me that expects her to pull back, to pull into herself and away from my touch—and my advice. But the opposite happens instead. It’s like she’s just been waiting for me to reach out to her, because her whole body goes limp and she melts into my touch. Melts into me. I pull her close, into my side at first and then onto my lap as I use every ounce of willpower I have to keep myself from trembling with relief. With gratitude. She burrows into me, wraps her arms and legs around me and buries her face against my neck. I pull her even closer—hold her even tighter—and start to rock her back and forth. As I do, I realize she’s not crying tonight, and she’s not shaking. She might be clinging to me like a limpet, but when she lifts her head to look at me, she is dry-eyed and resolute. “You really don’t think I should do the interview?” she asks, studying my face.

“I didn’t say that.” She looks confused. “I thought that was exactly what you said.” “What I said was, if you don’t want to do it, then it’s okay not to do it. The last thing you need is to be forced into it—even if it is by the people who love you. If going to that studio and letting them ask questions about that tape and your relationship with that asshole upsets you or freaks you out or makes you—for even one second—feel like Parsons is getting another chance to hurt you, then fuck, no, you shouldn’t do the interview. This is about you now, not him, and how you handle it needs to make sense to you. Nobody else, just you.” “So you think I should do the interview?” She looks totally confused and I don’t blame her. Because the truth is, hell, yeah, I think she should do the interview. If she’s on her game, Tori could annihilate the motherfucker in a single sound bite. She could blow his whole stack of cards ten miles high, and that is something I would pay a lot of money to see. But not if it hurts her. Not if it causes her any more pain than she’s already gone through. “I think you should do what’s right for you, sweetheart.” “Chloe said I could be a spokesperson for other women who have gone through the same thing. That I could draw attention to the double standard and—” “No offense to my sister, but fuck that.” Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?” “Seriously. Fuck that. I mean, sure, maybe you could draw a spotlight to the double standard on this sort of thing. Maybe you could do some good. But not if it risks your own psyche. Remember, you are what’s important here. You are what matters. Not the American public’s curiosity. Not being a spokesperson for other women who have suffered this same thing. And definitely not the bastard who got you into this mess.” “You’re not making this decision any easier, you know.” She sighs heavily. “I’m a grown woman. It shouldn’t be this hard to figure out what’s right for myself.” “I’m sorry.” I press a kiss to the top of her head since she’s got her face buried in my chest again. “I wish I could do this for you.” “No, you don’t.” She’s smirking when she lifts her face to mine. “No sane person would wish this craziness on themselves.” “I’d trade places with you in a second if I could. You don’t deserve this.” Her laugh is bitter. “You sure about that? A girl plays with fire long enough, she’s bound to get burned.” “This isn’t getting burned. This is getting incinerated. And yeah, I’m damn sure you don’t deserve it.” I grab the almost empty wine bottle, pour the dregs into Tori’s glass, and hold it out to her. She shakes her head. “I’ve had enough, thanks.” It’s not the answer I was expecting. Not because I haven’t noticed that Tori’s cleaned up her act recently—I have—but because I don’t think anyone would blame her for needing some liquid courage right now. Or just something to help her relax. God knows, I’m ready to grab the nearest bottle of Jack and down a couple of shots, and all of this isn’t even happening to me. I grab on to her instead, pull her even closer. And then kiss her with all the rampaging

emotion inside me. With all the love and fury and fear for her that are slowly eating away at me. She pulls back first, and when she opens her eyes I see the tears she tries desperately to blink away. It fuels the fire inside me, brings my rage to a boiling point. Goddamnit. I want to tell her not to cry, want to tell her everything is going to be okay. But who the fuck knows if that’s even true? Who the fuck knows how this is going to turn out? Look at Chloe and the mess that came back years later to tear her life apart. Tori wasn’t raped like Chloe was, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t violated. Doesn’t mean she isn’t suffering. If she wants to cry, I damn well feel like she’s earned that right. I lean forward and brush my lips over her eyes. Kiss the tears away. As I do, she lets out a sob so deep that it shakes her entire body. I wait for the rest, wait for the tears and the fury that I know are roiling around deep inside her. It never comes. Instead she swallows back the sobs, brushes away the tears. And when she looks up at me, it’s with a softness—an openness—I’ve never seen from her before. “Why are you being so kind to me?” I don’t even try to hide my confusion when I ask, “Why wouldn’t I be kind to you?” She raises a brow, gives the laugh I’ve heard dozens of times over the last year. But it doesn’t hide the vulnerability in her eyes or the slightly inward slope of her shoulders, like she’s bracing herself for a blow. Another first from this woman who has only ever shown me strength. I’d be excited by the change, by the fact that she’s finally letting me in, except for the fact that she’s suffering. I wouldn’t wish this mess on anyone, let alone on the woman I love. The woman who has been such a staunch protector of my sister for so long. The woman who took care of her and had her back long before Ethan was in the picture. Long before I understood just how completely I had failed her. “Kind isn’t really what we do, you and I.” There’s a million things I can say here, a million different ways I can play this, and each one of them will change our relationship in subtle but important ways. I could tell her that I’ve fallen in love with her, but she’s not ready to hear that yet. I could tell her that I hate what she’s going through, but she’d throw what she perceives as my pity back in my face. I could tell her that I want to be there for her because I wasn’t there for Chloe, but that would just undermine how important she’s become to me. In the end, I say the only thing I can say. The only thing that makes sense to me right here, right now. “I think it’s probably time to change that, don’t you?” And then I lower my mouth to hers, putting all the things I can’t say—all the things I want to say—into this one kiss.

Chapter 21

Tori I don’t know why, but it feels different when he kisses me this time. Maybe it’s the fight we had earlier and how angry I was at him. Maybe it’s that this is the last part of making up from that fight—something I rarely bother to do with a man. Or maybe it’s because he really is different. Because we both are—so different together from who we are when we’re apart. Whatever it is, it makes this kiss feel more intimate, more important, more…just more… and I can’t help but revel in it. Can’t help but meet it—and Miles—head-on. Leaning into him, I cup his too-perfect face in my hands. Stroke my thumbs over his cutglass jaw. Tangle my fingers in the silkiness of his hair. And give myself over to this. To him. I can tell the moment he feels my surrender. It’s in the way he pulls me more tightly against him. In the way his hands slip down to rest possessively on my hip. In the way he slides his tongue between my parted lips and into the deepest recesses of my mouth as if he, too, feels the difference. I open to him—of course I do—and brace myself for the heat and the rush. For the flash and the fire. It doesn’t come. Instead there’s warmth and care and a tenderness so sweet it makes me tremble in a whole new way. And when he stands, when he pulls me to my feet and then sweeps me up into his arms, I do more than let him. Do more than wind my arms around his neck and hold on tight. I melt into him, melt into this one perfect moment in the middle of my violently imperfect life. He doesn’t lift his mouth from mine even as he makes his way down the hall to the sweeping staircase that starts in the foyer. Doesn’t stop kissing me even as he carries me up the stairs two at a time. And he doesn’t stop touching me—doesn’t stop skimming his lips across my jaw, down my neck, over my shoulder—even as he lays me in the center of his bed. Instead he follows me down, his mouth and hands and body pressed against mine like he’s afraid to let me go, even for a moment. I know exactly how he feels. How can I not when the same desperation is clawing at me? Heat builds with each second that passes, the fire I was expecting earlier beginning to haze my mind and burn along my every nerve ending. As it does, I pull at his T-shirt, wrap my legs around his hips, press my body against the lean, strong length of his. He’s hard, his dick pressed so tightly against my sex that it might have been painful if I

didn’t want him so much. Need him so much. But I do need him—around me, inside me, filling up the emptiness I’ve felt for as long as I can remember. Part of me thinks it’s absurd that I expect him to do that, but another, bigger part knows it’s not ridiculous at all. Just like it knows that he’s already filled so many of my empty places just by being him. I’m not sure how we got here in just the space of a couple of days, how we went from a year’s worth of swiping at each other to this hot, desperate sense of rightness, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful. If I tried to pretend that I wasn’t enjoying every single second of having Miles’s beautiful, hard body covering mine. I slide my hands under his shirt in silent entreaty, then lift my hips against his in an invitation he can’t ignore. But he doesn’t take the bait. Instead he pulls away—not far, but it’s still enough to have me whimpering in protest. To have my fingers clutching at his shoulders and my legs tightening around his hips as I try to keep him against me. “Shhh,” he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to my cheeks, my collarbones, the tips of my breasts. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” And he does have me, completely and absolutely. Normally, that would be a difficult pill to swallow, but it’s hard to resent how much of myself I’ve given—how much I’m giving—to this man when the way he’s touching and kissing and looking at me says I have him just as completely. I don’t know what to do with that—what to do with him. But that’s okay, because right now he seems to know enough for the both of us. Slowly, slowly, slowly, his hands slide over my body, his fingers skimming my collarbone, tracing the tops of my breasts, smoothing along the waistband of my yoga pants. It feels good, so good that I’m already panting even though he’s barely touched me. “Please,” I whisper, my hands twining around his biceps as I try desperately to pull him closer, to make him go faster. There’s a vulnerability in the word—and my voice—that I hate, but I can’t do anything about it. Not when Miles is holding me, touching me, like I’m the most precious thing in the world. “I’ve got you,” he repeats as he kisses his way across my collarbone. “I promise.” And then he’s slipping my tank top over my head, sliding my yoga pants and underwear down my legs. Flipping me over so that I’m lying facedown on the sheet, my legs spread and my body wide open to him. Completely defenseless. With any other man, I’d be rolling over. Rolling us both over so that I was the one on top. The one doing the teasing. The one in control. But from the moment Miles took me in his arms on that dance floor the other night, I haven’t been in control. Of him. Of my life. Of anything. And while I hate it—hate the vulnerability and the uncertainty of it—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want this with Miles. Because I do. Just this once, for just this one moment, I want to open myself to him and see where it goes. And if the thought makes my hands tremble just a little, so what? Miles never needs to know what it is that’s making me so shaky. He leans over me, presses a string of hot, wet kisses along my spine, from between my

shoulder blades to the dip at the bottom of my spine. I melt all over again, my whole body going lax as he straddles my hips and digs his thumbs into the tight muscles of my neck and shoulders. I start to question him—to ask why I’m getting a massage when I thought we were going to fuck—but he’s really good at this. So good that it scrambles my synapses and renders me unable to do anything but moan as I turn boneless beneath him. He laughs a little as he works his way down my body, his callused inventor’s hands finding and destroying every knot of tension my muscles have manufactured in the last few days. At the same time, he’s leaning forward, licking and kissing and nibbling his way over my shoulders, down my back. I giggle as he presses kisses to the backs of my knees, the bends of my elbows, the dimples at the base of my spine. He grins, his lips curving against the sensitive skin of my hip as he kisses me yet again. Then he’s moving down between my legs. Moving me up onto my knees. Resting his hands on my inner thighs and spreading them even farther apart. We stay like that for long seconds, me waiting for him to fuck me and him just looking at me. Just waiting, though I don’t know for what. I turn my head, glance back at his face. There’s an intensity there that takes my breath away, a need so powerful that I can feel it, his eyes nearly black as he stares at my body. At my sex. It terrifies me, the intensity of that scrutiny, even as it turns me on. I want to cover myself, want to bring my thighs together, want to roll to my back and pull him over me. Anything to take this vulnerability away. Anything to make me feel less exposed. He’d let me move—I know he would. If I voice just the beginnings of a whimper, Miles will turn me over himself. He’ll cup my cheek in his hand and press kisses to my face as he whispers nonsense to me. As he takes care of me yet again, instead of letting me take care of him. I don’t want that for him—or me. Not now, not this time. If we ever have the chance of working out, I need to trust him to understand me. Need to prove to him that I’m his equal, not some fucked-up mess he needs to take care of. And so I wait, just as he intends. Just as he wants me to. It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, kneeling here as he studies me, my sex, my body—my soul—completely open to him. More than once, I think about closing my legs, think about rolling over, think about doing something, anything, to make his scrutiny more bearable. But I don’t. I hold myself still and let him look his fill in what is the most intimate experience of my life. “You’re so beautiful, Tori,” he tells me, voice aching, as he strokes his thumbs down my sex. As he spreads my labia and opens me even more to his gaze. “So goddamn beautiful.” A whimper—high-pitched and desperate—escapes my throat despite my best intentions. This is too much—he’s too much and I don’t know how much more of this I can take. How much more vulnerable I can let myself be. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “I’ll take care of you.” I want to take care of you. The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue, but before I can get them out he leans forward and licks a long, hot path along my slit.

I gasp at the sensations rocketing through me, at the pleasure that lights me up from the inside. My shaky arms finally give up the fight and I collapse, hitting the bed so hard I bounce. Miles laughs a little, a dark and smoky sound that has my every nerve ending standing at attention. And then he’s slipping one hand beneath my hips, lifting my hips even higher. Putting me even more on display as he slides his tongue deep inside me. “Miles!” It’s a high, keening cry as I go into sensory overload. His strong hands clenched on my hips, his silky hair tickling my thighs, his warm, wet tongue plunging inside me over and over again. I want to turn around, want to grab his dick in my hand, want to slide it into my mouth and give him even half the pleasure he’s giving me. But I can barely move, can barely breathe as pleasure swamps me. Desperate, overwhelmed, chasing an orgasm that’s so close I can all but taste it, I clench my fists in the cool cotton of the sheets. Bury my face in the softness of a nearby pillow. Rock my hips against the heat of his mouth. He groans a little then, his hands sliding down to press my thighs open even more. I love the heat and the roughness of them, love the fact that I can feel his calluses and his need as he strokes along my sex and around and around my clit. Love the feel of his stubble scratching against the backs of my thighs as he thrusts his tongue deeper, deeper, deeper. Love even more—love, the most—how I can feel his hands tremble with the same want— the same need—that’s rocketing through me and yet he can still be gentle. Still make me sigh when I usually scream. Still make me feel cherished. It’s not the same as all the other times we’ve made love—there’s no desperate race to completion, no frantic fumbling in an effort to get him inside me as soon as I possibly can. No less powerful for that, no less real and raw and devastating. Because I love him. The knowledge hits me like a tsunami, rolling through me in waves so powerful that they slam me over the edge, hurtling me into orgasm and the abyss that follows, where nothing but pleasure—endless, soul-destroying pleasure—exists. Miles makes a sound deep in his throat as I come. He takes me through it, takes me higher and higher and higher, until tears stream down my face and my body feels like it belongs more to him than to me. Like I belong to him instead of to myself. It’s a terrifying thought…and a comforting one, made bearable only by the knowledge that I love him. And that in this moment it feels right, feels necessary, to give him this. To give him all of me. I start to come down, just a little, and he rolls me over onto my back. I reach for him, try to wrap my arms around him as I expect him to slide between my thighs. To slide his rock-hard erection deep inside me. But he doesn’t cover me, doesn’t slide inside me, doesn’t fuck me as I so want him to. Instead he drapes my legs over his shoulders and once again buries his face in my sex. I nearly shoot off the bed at the first stroke of his tongue on my oversensitive flesh. “Miles, no,” I gasp, trying to wiggle away from the pleasure so keen it’s almost pain. He doesn’t answer, at least not vocally. But his hands tighten on my thighs, his tongue

stiffens as he works it around and around my clit and I go back under without a fight. I drown in sensation, drown in him, because right now I can refuse this man nothing. Can hold nothing back as he claims with tenderness what so many other men have tried to take by domination. And then I’m coming again, words I barely hear let alone comprehend spilling from my mouth as I reach for him. “Please, Miles. Please, baby, please. Please. Please.” The words are a desperate mantra, motivated more by emotional than physical need as I clutch at his shoulders, as I try to drag him up and over me. As I try to convince him to come inside me even now that my brain is mush and my body is sated. As I try to convince him to finally, finally, take away the last of the emptiness deep inside me. He must understand—or maybe his rigid self-control has finally reached its breaking point —because for the first time since he put me on this bed, Miles slides up to cover my body with his own. It’s a shock to feel him—hot and hard and naked—against me, as I don’t remember him shedding his clothes. But he feels so good that I don’t care about the logistics. All I care about is wrapping my legs around his thighs and sliding my sex against his cock. He makes an incoherent sound that might be my name, and then he’s cupping my face between his big, rough hands. Tilting my head back. Licking his way deep inside my mouth. It’s almost enough to take away the emptiness, almost enough to sate this need inside me that has only grown with the two spectacular orgasms he’s given me. But then he’s pulling away and I’m whimpering, clutching at him, winding myself around him in a desperate bid to keep the man I have somehow fallen in love with exactly where I want him. Where I need him. He curses softly, leans down to kiss me again even as he reaches out and fumbles in the top drawer of the nightstand. Then he’s pulling away, opening the small foil packet with his teeth. Pulling out the condom. He starts to put it on, but I take it from him and bat his hands away. No matter how desperate he is, he always remembers to take care of me and here, now, I want to take care of him, too. So I slide down until my shoulders are between his knees. Then I lift my head and take him in, not stopping until my nose is against his abdomen and his cock is all the way down my throat. “Fuck, Tori!” The words are ripped from him as he tries to pull back a little, determined— even now—to make things as easy for me as he can. But I don’t want easy, not now, not with him. And so I follow him, sitting up even as my hands slide around to cup his ass and jerk him forward. “Tori, baby, I don’t want to hurt—” He breaks off with a groan as I slide my tongue back and forth along the underside of his dick, before flicking gently at the spot where the head meets the shaft. I use my hands to pull him forward again, use my mouth and tongue and throat to take him even deeper. And then he’s cursing even as he leans forward and braces a hand on the headboard. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice hoarse and dark and desperate. And still he’s gentle as his hand

slides down to cup my cheek, as his eyes search mine for any hint of doubt. I have none, not now, not with Miles. And so I do the only thing I can do, clench my hands on his gorgeous ass and pull him even deeper. It must be the right thing to do, because suddenly Miles loses all that gorgeous control of his. Suddenly he looks—and feels—as desperate for me as I am for him. He groans deep in his throat as he lets loose, his hands tangling in my hair to hold me in place as his hips hammer forward again and again and again. He’s powerful and overwhelming and nearly brutal in his intensity as he fucks into my mouth, into my throat, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not when one look at his face through my tear-filled eyes tells me how much he’s enjoying this, how much he needed it. And not when for the first time in my life, I feel like the emptiness that’s haunted me—that’s taunted me—for so long is finally gone. And when he finally comes—so deep down my throat that I don’t even have to swallow—he fills me up in a way no one and nothing ever has. It’s finally enough. He’s finally enough— and so am I. Together, we’re finally enough.

Chapter 22

Miles It’s one A.M. and I can’t sleep. There’s a storm outside, churning up the ocean and sending the wind howling through the trees, and if I didn’t know better I’d think it was the end of the world. It feels a little bit like it, if I’m being honest. Tori is cuddled up in bed beside me, her soft, silky body wound around mine like a clinging vine. She’s beautiful, so fucking beautiful. And fragile. So, so fragile. Oh, she’d jump down my throat—maybe even take a swing at me—if she heard me describe her as such, but just because she won’t acknowledge it doesn’t make it any less the truth. She may have a big attitude, may seem larger than life when she’s awake and on her game, but right now as she lies next to me in bed, all I can see—all I can think—is how tiny she is. How defenseless. How much in need of my protection. As if she senses my thoughts, she moves restlessly. Moans a little. Then curls herself into a ball like she’s trying to protect herself from yet another blow. It makes me crazy, has rage boiling in my veins all over again as I think of what brought her to this state. Or more like who. Alexander fucking Parsons. She stirs again, kicks out—cries out—and I wrap an arm around her. Stroke a hand down the too-prominent bumps of her spine. It’s only been a couple of days and already she’s lost weight she can’t afford to lose, the stress and pain of all this weighing on her more heavily than she will acknowledge. My touch doesn’t soothe her the way I hoped it would, so I sweep her hair out of the way and press soft kisses to her forehead even as I murmur a bunch of nonsense, words without any purpose but to let her hear my voice. To let her know that I’m here, that I’m the one touching her, kissing her, stroking her hair. It does the trick. She settles down almost instantly, with a barely there smile and a soft sigh that reaches inside me and stokes the fury already burning there. I force myself to stay relaxed, to keep the anger locked inside, as I hold her just a little bit tighter. Comfort her just a little bit longer. My brain is racing, trying to figure out how to spare her what she wants to do tomorrow— no, what she has to do tomorrow whether she wants to or not. I get the reasoning behind her going on NBC and telling her side of the story, get that even with the statement Ethan’s PR guy issued, the public is writing the story instead of Tori. If she gets up and tells the truth about what’s going on, she’ll at least be part of the conversation. But the problem is, she has a past. There are pictures of her with different guys all over the world. The media has already

dug a lot of them up, the less reputable sites plastering them all over their front pages with all kinds of suggestive headlines. Even if she’d slept with every guy she’s pictured with—a veritable impossibility, considering the sheer numbers we’re talking about—it still doesn’t give Parsons the right to do what he did. It sure as hell doesn’t give the Internet trolls the right to tear her apart, to call her a whore who probably loves every second of her sex tape being out there, and a bunch of other things that are too vile for me to even let myself think. Tori whimpers again, her head thrashing back and forth against the pillow, and I stroke a soothing hand over her shoulder. My attention is drawn to her dandelion, and I find myself absently tracing the runaway seeds before skimming my fingers along the river tattoo that tumbles down her spine. I palm the elaborate phoenix tattoo on her right hip before sliding my hand down to the intricate dreamcatcher on her inner thigh. So much ink. So many stories she has written on her skin. I want to know them all. But how can I get her to tell them to me when so much of her life is a battlefield? How can I get her to trust me—to love me—when so many of the men in her life are so completely untrustworthy? How can I get her to want to be with me when she’s about to go on TV and get torn apart because of the actions of some other man she once trusted? Especially when he’s probably going to come out of this in even better shape than he went into it. The double standard in this country is bullshit. Even after all this time, after all these years of recognizing the ridiculousness of it all, Parsons is going to get away with what he did. Because he’s a guy—and a famous guy, at that. More, he’s the next big thing, a famous guy capable of generating hundreds of millions of dollars in profit for the studios he chooses to work for. They’ll protect him, rally the media behind him, and no matter how eloquent, how right she is, she’s still going to come off as bitter or slutty or attention seeking or (worse case) downright crazy. In fact, the better she is, the more convincing she is, the harder they’ll come at her. It’s the nature of the beast. And I am not okay with it. My sister suffered for years at the hands of her rapist and his friends. He tormented her, made fun of her, had everyone convinced she was a liar and a whore when the only mistake she’d made was to accept a ride with a guy she thought she could trust. And when the truth all came out years later, it was only the fact that she was with Ethan, the fact that she had all his wealth and connections behind her, that kept Brandon from vilifying her in the press. That kept him from putting the blame for what happened squarely on her shoulders. That’s not going to happen to Tori. I’m not going to let it happen to her. I lower my head to press kisses along her jaw. When she doesn’t wake, doesn’t so much as stir, I take it as a sign that the bad dreams have passed. And while I should probably try to get a little more sleep myself, I’m too wired to even try. Not when my brain is racing through scenario after scenario, trying to find one where Tori won’t be hurt even worse. Trying to find one that Tori won’t find it necessary to ink into her skin in a few weeks or a few months because it’s the only way she can deal with the pain. Just the idea wounds me more than it should, has a mixture of rage and pain slicing through my veins as I roll out of bed. I grab a pair of boxers from my dresser but don’t bother

with any other clothes. It’s a surprisingly warm night, and there’s no one but Tori around to see me anyway. I pad down the stairs to the kitchen, make a pot of too-strong coffee. While I wait for it to drip through, I open up my laptop from where it’s sitting on the kitchen table and get to work. The first thing I do is check the bots I’ve got combing the Internet looking for dirt on Parsons, anything I can find that I can somehow use against him. They haven’t turned up much of anything—and it only grows more obvious to me that his online profile has been professionally scrubbed. I scroll through what’s been found anyway. All the publicity for his upcoming movie, all the past interviews and paparazzi mentions and posts from fans who have met him at one time or another. It’s all the same old stuff until I run across a mention of Parsons on a small, out-ofthe-way Tumblr. It doesn’t have many followers and the girl who runs it tends to post about boy bands more than anything else. But she’s also quite political, and has a number of posts that run the gamut from commentary on politicians to criticism of current LGBTQ+ legislation. And in the middle of all of this, buried between posts about Harry Styles’s wardrobe and Justin Timberlake’s baby, is a picture of Alexander Parsons taken after he starred in one of the huge teen movies, surrounded by a group of young female fans holding up their phones and obviously asking for selfies. It’s been reblogged numerous times, but the original poster’s comment is still visible. #ThisAngel. Which in and of itself isn’t significant. Except the blogger whose Tumblr I’m on has also tagged it. Only her tag reads #ThisRapist. Chills skate down my spine as soon as I see it. It might be nothing, might just be this girl sounding off because she doesn’t like him as an actor. Or because she’s jealous she didn’t get to meet him. Or for a million other reasons—I’ve never been able to figure out why people do what they do, say what they say, on social media. This could totally be just one more inexplicable thing. Except the more I scroll through her blog, the less likely I am to believe that. She’s smart and aware and seems honest to a fault—she calls herself out for her own mistakes and preconceptions at least as often as she calls out other bloggers or singers. She seems… genuine, for lack of a better term, and while I know how dangerous it can be to buy in to that, I can’t help believing her. At least enough to dig deeper. I search her tags, come up with seven more times she’s used the word rapist in the fouryear history of her Tumblr. Five of them were to express outrage in response to a recent rape case, where a college swimmer got only a three-month sentence for raping an unconscious girl behind a dumpster. But the other two…the other two were also on photos of Alexander Parsons. One tag was #RapistsAlwaysWin and the other was #RapistsGonnaRape in response to a post about him tagged #HatersGonnaHate. So, not a one-off then. And not a short-term thing, as the three comments are spread out over more than three years. The first picture—the one tagged #RapistsAlwaysWin—has numerous other tags, including #Perrysburg. Oh shit. I click over to another window and Google Perrysburg. But even as I do, I already know what I’m going to find. Years ago—seven years, according to Wikipedia—three high school

football players were convicted of raping an unconscious girl and documenting it in real time on their social media accounts. Evidence pointed to more boys being involved, but only three stood trial, as they were the only ones actively documented while committing the crimes. There was other DNA found, but since the three refused to flip and the judge denied the request to test the DNA of all the other male attendees of the party, at least four people got off scot-free. I open yet another window, start searching for information regarding Parsons’s early life. And am not the least bit surprised when his official biography reveals that when his parents divorced, he moved with his American mother from London to a small town in Ohio for high school, though it doesn’t identify which one. Son of a bitch. I click back over to the girl’s Tumblr, spend some time trying to figure out where she’s from. There’s nothing on the Tumblr to identify her, but I get lucky with a high school yearbook shot from 2011. From Perrysburg High School. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots, to figure out that Parsons was involved in that rape even if he was never arrested for it. Son of a bitch. I start to dig in earnest now, sending a few bots after anything and everything about anyone with the last name Parsons in Perrysburg, Ohio, and surrounding towns. In the meantime, I pull up lists of all graduating seniors from Perrysburg High School between the years of 2008 and 2012. And then I go after them, sending bots through their social media accounts while I focus on varsity football players in the year the rape took place. Once I get a list of the 2010 team, I start finding them online. Once I’ve got their cell numbers, I start tracing them back—most of them have had the same number since high school. And once I’ve got their high school providers, I hack into their accounts and start scrolling through messages from the day of the rape and the days immediately after. The problem the authorities ran into is that most of the evidence was erased from cellphones and for whatever reason—corruption, protection, laziness—they didn’t go after warrants to search the actual cell providers’ servers, where all text messages are stored. I obviously don’t have a warrant, either, which means none of what I find is admissible in court. But I don’t give a shit about that. I’m not aiming to send Parsons to jail. Just to find enough on him to hang him in the court of public opinion—and in doing so help Tori and ruin his perfect fucking career and life all at the same time. It might not be justice for the victim, but it’s more justice than she’s gotten so far. And if I actually find enough, maybe the case will be reopened. A quick glance at the clock tells me I don’t have much time. It’s three A.M. and if she goes, Tori is scheduled to do the interview at noon. I can try to talk her into postponing for a day, but if I don’t find anything…the longer this story goes on, the more shit gets said about her. The more shit she has to find a way to ignore or wrap her head around. She’s suffered enough. I don’t want her to suffer any more. And so I dig faster than I’ve ever dug in my life, knowing I’m missing things as I search desperately for a trail—any trail—that leads back to Parsons.

It only takes a few minutes for me to find two of the others involved—judging from the photos they took of them raping the unconscious girl’s mouth and coming on her stomach, the unidentified DNA belongs to them. I put what I find aside in another folder, one that I will send to a couple of big newspapers before this is through, and start tracing their messages, trying to find any connection to Parsons. I’m moving so fast that I almost miss it when the first connection shows up. It’s a text message between a guy named Taylor Bradley, quarterback of the football team, and a guy he calls Al. The text itself is pretty innocuous—at least compared with a lot of the other texts that were flying back and forth among these guys that night—but combined with the name Al, it’s enough to get me buzzing a little. Add in the fact that it includes a picture of a girl’s bruised leg, naked all the way to the upper thigh where the photo cuts out, and it’s enough to have me picking out the phone number of Al and hacking into his account as well. And that’s when I hit the jackpot, because Al is no other than Alexander Parsons, a twentyyear-old college sophomore at Ohio State and former quarterback of the Perrysburg Yellow Jackets, who just happened to be home for the long weekend. From there it’s ridiculously easy to take a stroll through his incoming—and outgoing—text messages from the night in question. Well, easy if you don’t count the content I have to weed through, which points definitively to the fact that he was not only involved in photographing and texting about the unconscious girl while others performed lewd acts on her, but also very much involved in those lewd acts himself. And at twenty years old, he wasn’t a juvenile like the three who were arrested and charged. The bastard. The sick, fucking, sociopathic bastard. I save the evidence—text files, videos, and photos—then push back from my desk and walk outside for some fresh air. As the brother of a rape victim, I know better than most just how monstrous some men can be. Just as I know how unfair the justice system and the court of public opinion can be. I saw it last year when the whole sordid mess came out in the national papers, and I saw it years ago when Chloe suffered through the ridicule and violence directed at her by her classmates, led by none other than her rapist. The boy—the man—my parents had allowed to go free in exchange for an obscene amount of money. But what I just saw in those videos and photos…It was horrific. Inhumane. Unconscionable. Not just the night-long rape of an unconscious girl by at least eight different males, but the fact that they carried her from party to party, place to place, in front of dozens of their classmates. That text messages were sent out to nearly the entire junior and senior classes and no one did anything to stop them. No one stepped in and helped her and no one, not one person, bothered to call the police. I don’t understand. I don’t fucking understand. What the hell did any of them get out of it? How could doing something like that to another human being, or watching it be done, be funny? Or arousing? Or whatever the hell they thought it was? I don’t get it and I never fucking will. And Alexander Parsons, movie star, international sex symbol, and media darling, was right in the middle of the entire situation. Oh, he didn’t instigate what happened, but when they texted him somewhere around nine thirty, he made a point of showing up and joining in

pretty damn quickly. And from what I can tell, it didn’t take long for him to go from eager participant to fucking ringleader of some of the more heinous things that were done to that poor girl during the night. No wonder he had his social media professionally scrubbed when he started to get famous. No fucking wonder. The idea that this bastard had his dick anywhere near Tori makes me crazy. He could have hurt her anytime, could have done any number of horrible things to her in the time they were together. Not just could have as in having access to her, but could have as in being perfectly capable of carrying out the most heinous, horrible acts imaginable. And then, seven years after he got away with the rape, kidnapping, and assault of a minor, he is so privileged, so secure in his place in the world, that he doesn’t mind leaking a sex tape that will draw a ton of scrutiny. And not just any sex tape, but one made without his partner’s consent. How fucking certain, how fucking arrogant and entitled and smug, do you have to be to do that shit? And how fucking sick? I think about Tori lying upstairs, curling into herself and whimpering in her sleep as her whole fucking life falls apart around her. I think of Marli, the girl in Perrysburg that he did this to. Then I think of how many other women this fucking predator has come into contact with in his life. And I’m done. I’m so fucking done. He’s going down, will lose his career and his freedom before I’m done with him. I’ll make sure of it. Walking back inside, I make up several completely anonymous email addresses that I then bury under about a hundred different security measures to ensure that they can’t be traced back to me. Or, more important, can’t be traced back to Tori. Then I attach everything I’ve found on Alex Parsons and all the other boys, and I send it out—to The New York Times, The Boston Globe, the Chicago Tribune, CNN, MSNBC, The Huffington Post, The Wall Street Journal, the Los Angeles Times, USA Today, and The Columbus Dispatch. Then I use another email to send the same information to the Perrysburg Police Department, the Wood County Sheriff’s Department, and the Cleveland branch of the FBI. I have more digging to do, more information to gather, but this should be enough to get them started. And more than enough to change the story from Parsons and Tori’s sex tape to how he’s a sexual predator who hurts women just because he can. It won’t stop Tori from hurting, but it might give her her life back. It’s not enough, but it will have to do. At least for now.

Chapter 23

Tori “Holy shit, did you see it?” “See what?” I answer groggily, pulling the phone away from my ear to try to distance myself a little from Chloe’s shrieks. This so isn’t the way I expected to wake up this morning, especially since Miles’s side of the bed doesn’t even look like it’s been slept in. “The news about Alex! It’s everywhere!” Oh God, she’s talking about the stupid sex tape again. I fight the urge to hang up and settle for burying my head under the nearest pillow instead. Which is why my voice is muffled when I finally answer, “Yes, Chlo, I know it’s everywhere. That’s why I’m supposed to do this stupid interview today. To try to combat—” “Forget the interview! The video of you two is old news.” She pauses for a second, then corrects herself. “Well, not really old news because the big sites are all mentioning it as extra proof of his predatory habits. The whole world is reusing the statement we issued for you, explaining how the video was made—and released—without your knowledge. Except now everyone believes it and he’s getting hammered online. Absolutely hammered. Not that he doesn’t deserve it.” Chloe’s voice turns dark and a little ugly. “There isn’t enough bad karma in the world for that jackass to get what he deserves.” While I tend to agree—Alex is a jackass and he does deserve all the bad karma—I can’t help feeling like I’ve fallen into the middle of a joke, where everyone knows the punch line but me. “Wait, did I miss something?” “I don’t know. Did you?” “Well, you’re the one calling me to do what sounds like an awful lot of gloating. So you tell me.” There’s a long pause and it sounds like Chloe’s trying to figure out what she wants to say next. “Come on, Chlo. Just spit it out.” “So you haven’t seen the news?” “No. You just woke me up.” I turn my head and squint at the old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. Eight forty-nine. “Oh my God! I can’t believe Miles didn’t get you out of bed for this! He sent me an email at six this morning, so I know he’s awake.” Impatience sweeps through me, clearing out the last of the fogginess in my brain. I’m tired of being three steps behind my best friend. “This is ridiculous! Will you just tell me what’s going on?” “The news broke early this morning. CNN led with the story that Alex raped a girl seven years ago when he was in college.”

Forget three steps. I’m a whole city block, walking in the wrong direction. “Whoa, wait a minute. What did you just say?” “I said, Alex raped someone. He was never convicted of it because they couldn’t prove it—” “So what’s changed? If the police couldn’t prove it, then why would the media run with the story? He’s going to sue them—” “That’s the best part. He can’t. They have proof from his cellphone records and social media activity, plus those of the kids he used to go to school with. A group of them spent a night raping an unconscious girl and posting about it on social media. Three of them went to jail for it, but Alex and a few others got away with it. Until now.” I’m totally awake now, the sleepiness dissipating under the hundreds of questions bombarding my brain all at the same time. The biggest question, though—and in my mind the most important—is, “Why?” Chloe pauses, as if she’s confused. Which somehow only makes me more suspicious. Suspicious of what, I’m not sure yet. But suspicious of something. “Why is this all coming out now? If the rape happened seven years ago and they convicted someone for it, you can’t tell me that some overzealous detective just suddenly decided to take another look at the case right in the middle of my sex video scandal.” “No, of course I’m not saying that. The whole video thing has been a big deal in the media the last few days, made more so by the fact that it’s opening up a debate about how women are treated versus men in situations like this—which is why I wanted you to do the interview in the first place. In fact—” “I know, I know. I already told you I would do the interview,” I remind her as I sit up in bed. But as I do, the sheet falls to my hips. My naked hips, and I remember again what Miles and I spent a large part of the night doing. I remember, too, the realization I had in the middle of it all. The realization that I had fallen, hard, for my best friend’s big brother. The realization that, despite everything, I love Miles Girard. It’s a realization that should have me shaking in my boots in the cold light of day, and maybe it would if it wasn’t currently being overshadowed by another feeling, one I can’t quite put my finger on. “So how’d the media get the story?” I ask again. “I don’t know,” Chloe admits. “I guess someone at one of the big outlets got interested because of the story. They started to dig. Isn’t that how the press gets most of its big stories?” “No. They get most of their stories because someone leaks those stories to them.” As I say it, the reason for my uneasiness coalesces in my stomach and has my hand clenching on the phone. “Did one outlet lead with it way before the others, or did it happen one right after the other?” For long seconds there’s nothing but silence from the other end of the line and, instinctively, I know this isn’t about her being distracted by the baby. Chloe’s thinking, too, her big brain reaching the same conclusions that I just did. “CNN led with it, but within minutes everyone else had stories up. Internet-only sites, Tumblrs, hell, even local affiliates were getting in on the action.” That’s what I was afraid of. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is growing. Still, I feel honor-bound to ask. “It wasn’t Ethan who did this, right?” I wouldn’t put it past him—Ethan’s

the protective sort, the kind whose protection extends beyond his wife to her best friend, as seen by how he’s handled things for me since the sex video broke. For the first time, Chloe sounds uneasy when she answers. “No. I know he had people digging into Alex’s past, but I don’t think they found anything yet.” She pauses as she figures out what I already have. “You should talk to him before you start freaking out about what he did or didn’t do,” she finally says softly. “Ethan?” She snorts. “We both know we’re not talking about my husband anymore.” She’s right. We’re not. After listening to her voice platitudes for a couple more minutes— platitudes I can barely pay attention to when my mind is racing as fast as it is—I finally convince her to hang up. After she does, I can’t move for long seconds. Instead I just sit in the bed, listening to the sounds around me. Beyond the open balcony door I can hear the hum of morning traffic filling up the quaint La Jolla streets. I can hear the ocean slamming against the rocks in its endless cycle. And far off, in the distance, I can hear the upbeat and electric strains of Marina and the Diamonds’ “Power and Control.” It’s too far away for me to do more than make out a couple of lyrics here and there, but I don’t have to. I’ve had four and a half years to learn the lyrics even if I’m only now coming to truly understand them. We take and give a little more Eternal game of tug and war. The last half of the chorus runs through my head again and again, long after the song has ended and the music’s purveyor has moved on to other places. But absent doesn’t mean gone and I can’t help thinking about the message of the song, can’t help thinking about how much of my relationship with Miles really has been “tug and war.” And how, while it was kind of fun in the beginning—all those months when I wanted nothing more than to hate him—now it just feels sad. And wrong. And like we’re covering the same ground over and over and over. It’s that thought that finally galvanizes me, that has me throwing back the covers and strolling, bare-ass naked, from Miles’s room to mine. Once there, I grab the robe from the closet but don’t bother to put it on as I catch sight of the tablet Miles got me sitting on my nightstand, where I left it yesterday. I pick it up and open up my browser, planning on going to a couple of the big news sites to see what’s up. But I don’t even have to do that as a headline about Alex—and me—is sitting right there at the top of my browser, just asking to be clicked. ALEXANDER PARSONS, NOT Y OUR AVERAGE CREEP. DID TORI REED DODGE A BULLET?

I click on the link and then skim through the article, my stomach getting sicker with each line I read. I slept with this man. I fucking slept with this man who is so much more than an opportunist, who is a rapist and a predator and a narcissist of the first order. This man who is the biggest fucking coward I’ve ever met in my life. When I’m done reading the whole article, I can’t stop myself from Googling his name. Can’t stop myself from finding more—at CNN, at The Huffington Post, at The New York Times. Hundreds of news pieces are already up, with editorial pieces slowly creeping into the

mix. Pieces that do more than report on what happened at that long-ago party. Pieces that call for Alexander’s head on a fucking platter. I don’t know how I feel about any of this—about the fact that I slept with this monster, about the fact that I dodged a pretty damn big bullet when all this came out and took over the conversation, about the fact that all this renewed coverage has to be dragging up all the bad memories for the girl who was assaulted. The girl who is probably still just trying to move on with some semblance of her life. Maybe she’s grateful that her rapist is finally facing some sort of accountability for what he did. Or maybe she’s just tired, maybe she just wants to move on and put this whole thing behind her. Something that this new coverage cycle will make impossible to do for a while. With what Chloe went through last summer, with what she’s gone through since she was a freshman in high school, the idea that I am somehow responsible for this girl’s continued suffering hits me really fucking hard. It’s not the only thing hitting me hard this morning, but it’s definitely one of the top three. Dropping the tablet on the bed, I forgo the robe and take a quick shower instead. Then I deliberately ignore the clothes Miles got me, which are hanging neatly in my closet, and get dressed in the yoga pants and tank top that I was wearing when I showed up here. Then I pick the tablet back up and make my way down to the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee is in the air, but Miles isn’t there. He’s not in the family room, either, or out on the patio that extends over the ocean. Which means there’s only one place he can be. His workshop. A part of me longs for a cup of coffee, but I recognize it as the crutch it is and walk right past the mug Miles left on the counter, presumably for me. Instead I make my way to the temperature-controlled garage that doubles as Miles’s workshop, trying with each step that I take to figure out what I’m going to say to him. But when I get there, when I see him hunched over three different computers, spinning back and forth among them, I lose all ability to form coherent words. With his early-morning stubble and his tired eyes and his hair standing on end from the many times he’s run his fingers through it, he looks better than he has any right to. Especially considering he’s dressed in nothing but boxers. Or maybe because of it. Either way, it’s obvious that he’s been awake all night, even without taking into consideration his undisturbed side of the bed and all that he’s managed to accomplish in the national and international press in the last few hours. Looking at him, I lose my words—every single one of them—but I must make a sound, because suddenly he whirls to look at me. Then he’s pushing back from the modified workbench that serves as his desk and heading straight for me. His glorious eyes are narrowed and his jaw is tight as he studies my face, my posture, the way I have my arms folded across my middle as if I need protection from him, this man with his good intentions and bulldozer techniques. This man who has no faith in the system and almost as little in me. It’s the thought that maybe I do need protection that has me backing up a step for every one that he advances, a fact that—judging by the look on his face—isn’t lost on him. He stops abruptly, several steps away from me, and waits for me to speak.

I have nothing—and everything—to say. I start with the only thing I can start with. I hold the tablet out to him and ask, voice hoarse and heart in my throat, “Did you do this?” He barely glances at the tablet before looking back at me, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes them seem fathomless and omniscient. Silence stretches between us, and the longer it goes on, the easier it is for me to see him trying to gauge my mood, trying to handle this, trying to handle me. But in the end, to his credit, he doesn’t try to lie. He just says, “Yes,” and leans back on his heels to study me. “Why? Why would you do this without talking to me first?” “You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.” “What are you doing with all these laconic answers? Do you think the fact that you won’t explain yourself makes you look cool?” He arches a brow and I see it then, see his mask slide into place. I haven’t seen the look since the first morning I showed up here—half devil-may-care and half I’m-an-asshole-andproud-of-it. I hadn’t even realized it had disappeared until it showed up again. I can’t say I missed it. “I am explaining myself,” he tells me. “You just don’t like what I’m saying.” “I don’t understand what you’re saying, any more than I understand why you did this without so much as consulting me.” “What was there to consult you about? You didn’t want to do the interview. I made it so you didn’t have to. I’m not going to apologize for that.” The utter arrogance of his statement has me staring at him openmouthed. “Are you serious?” “What do you want me to say, Tori? I care about you and I did what I thought was best for you. What’s wrong with that?” “Do you hear yourself? You did what was best for me?” “Damn right I did.” “You don’t get to do this,” I tell him, working hard to keep my voice level. “You don’t get to make choices like this for me just because you think you know what’s best—” “I do know what’s best.” He nods toward the tablet. “Especially in this case. The press is totally on your side now and they’re crucifying Parsons. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Yes. I did want that, so much I’m a little ashamed to admit it. But still…“What about this poor girl? What about the fact that you’ve brought back everything that happened to her? How do you think she’s feeling this morning?” “Maybe vindicated that the asshole who got away is finally being forced to pay? And if Parsons is as big a weasel as we both think he is, he’ll probably roll on everyone else who was involved. Maybe she’ll finally get justice.” “That’s if he’s arrested.” “Oh, he’ll be arrested. I made sure of it.” He closes the gap between us then, and reaches for me. But he freezes, arm outstretched,

when I stiffen and scoot back until my back is literally against the garage wall. “Why didn’t you talk to me?” I demand. “Why didn’t you see if this was what I wanted before you did it?” “There wasn’t time. You were set to give the interview in a few hours and I knew you didn’t want to do it. I needed to get this info out there so you wouldn’t have to.” “Do you hear yourself?” I ask for the second time in as many minutes. “You knew, you needed. What about what I need?” “This is what you need.” He takes the tablet, scrolls through some stuff, and then holds it up to me. “Are you looking at this? Are you seeing what they’re saying about you? You’ve gone from whore to victim in the space of four hours.” “Maybe I preferred being a whore, Miles. Did you ever think of that?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah, well, you don’t always make the best choices, do you?” I gasp, which totally pisses me off because the last thing I want to sound like right now is some nineteenth-century virgin with a case of the vapors. But I can’t help it, not when his words—and the contempt that motivated them—are making me want to curl up into a ball and hide. Shame swamps me, makes my hands and my voice shake as I answer, “No, I haven’t always made the best choices. But I’ve spent the last few months trying to change that, and for you to throw it in my face now over something that isn’t my fault…that’s low, Miles. That’s really fucking low.” He sighs, shoves a frustrated hand through his hair. “You know that’s not what I mean. I’m just saying, in the past week you’ve been disowned by your father, become notorious on the Internet, and been forced to go into hiding with nothing but a backpack and a couple of pairs of yoga pants. This is your way out of that. You say you want to find a job, want to have a life. Fixing this mess gives you a chance to do all that and more.” “So you fixed it for me.” “Of course I did. I—care about you a lot, Tori. There’s no way I’m going to let you suffer through this if I can fix it.” “I get that. I do. And I care about you, too. But did it ever occur to you that I need to be the one to fix it? Not you? That I need to be the one to put my life back in order because it’s my life? We just talked about this—” “Are we back to the fucking clothes?” he demands, exasperation ripe in his voice. “We are back to the fucking clothes. And the fucking electronics and the fucking shoes and everything else you thought it necessary to buy me without consulting me.” “I was trying to help!” “I know. You’re always trying to help.” It’s why I can’t be angry at him, no matter how much I wish I could. Because if I was angry it would make what comes next so much easier to bear. “Except you’re not doing it just because you want to help. You’re doing it—” “If you’re about to accuse me of helping you for sexual favors, I strongly suggest you don’t.” His voice is deadly quiet, deadly serious. Just the idea is obviously a hot button for him—not a surprise considering the guilt he carries for what happened to Chloe—but that isn’t what I

was about to say. “You know, you could give me the benefit of the doubt and wait to hear what I say before you jump down my throat.” A bit of that anger I was looking for finally sparks to life inside me. “Then again, why would you? It’s not like you give me the benefit of the doubt on anything else, right?” It’s his turn to look offended. “What the hell does that mean?” “It means that you always think the worst of me.” “Excuse me? I’ve worked my ass off to help you because I don’t think the worst of you and I don’t want anyone else to, either.” “No, you’ve worked your ass off to help me because you don’t think I’m capable of helping myself.” For long seconds, he just stares at me, teeth clenched and jaw working overtime. Fury burns in his eyes, so dark and bright that part of me wants to take back what I just said. But I can’t—partly because I know what I said is right and partly because I refuse to back down to Miles. If I do it now, I’ll always do it, and if our relationship has any chance of working (something I’m doubting right about now) he needs to see me as an equal. More, I need to see myself as one. “That’s not fair, Tori,” he finally grinds out. “I know it’s not fair. But I also know it’s true. You think I’m a mess. You think—” “You are a mess!” he roars. “I mean, just look at you. You’ve been disowned by your father, you’re so broke that you have to crash at your best friend’s house, you don’t have a job, any clothes, or any devices to help you look for a job, and up until this morning you were the punch line to an international joke. It doesn’t get much messier than that.” His words hit like fists, so hard that I have half a mind to lift my shirt up and look for bruises. “Wow. Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think of me.” “Damnit. I didn’t mean it like that.” “Oh, I’m pretty sure there’s only one way you can mean that, Miles. But thanks for being honest with me.” Tears burn in my eyes and I turn away so he won’t see them. I blink crazily, try to force myself to think through the hurt. That’s when my eyes fall on Ethan’s bright-red Tesla roadster, parked in the last bay of the garage. It’s one of two cars still in here, and for a second all I can think about is getting in it and driving far away. From Miles. From my problems. From the messiness that is the life Miles just described. I even take a step toward the car, but then Miles is grabbing me, pulling me into his arms, holding me tight as he murmurs, “Tori, sweetheart, I just want to make things better for you.” “I know you do.” I don’t fight him, don’t do anything but stand there and let him hold me, which is usually the most comforting feeling in the world. But not right now. Right now, I can’t feel his body where it’s pressed against mine, can’t feel his arms where they’re wrapped around me. I can’t feel anything really. Except cold. Right now I feel really, really cold. “But your better isn’t necessarily mine,” I tell him when he finally loosens his hold enough that I can step back. “I’ve spent my whole life being told I’m too silly, too impractical, too

fucked up to make anything of myself. I’m messy and have bad judgment and cause more problems than I solve.” “That’s not what I said—” “That’s pretty close to what you said. I’ve heard those things my whole life, and for most of it I’ve done my best to live down to the lack of expectations set by my parents. Done my best to show them that I didn’t give a shit what they thought of me. Of course, that just made them think less of me, until one day my father pulled the rug—and everything else—right out from under me. “How he did it, why he did it—that’s on him. But the rest? The fact that I fucked up my own life to get back at him, the fact that I didn’t take responsibility for my actions, that I let him support me long after I should have been supporting myself…that’s on me. “And when I walked those two miles here from my condo, I told myself I wasn’t going to do that again. I wasn’t going to let some man take care of me when I should take care of myself. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life the way I’ve spent the first twentythree years, letting someone I care about tear me down while I try to live up, or down, to their expectations.” “That’s not what I’m doing.” “That is what you’re doing. Maybe you don’t mean to be doing it, but it’s exactly what you’re doing. You don’t trust me to make decisions about my life, you don’t even think I’m worth talking to before you make decisions for me. I spent years living like that, under my father’s thumb. I won’t do it again, not even for you, Miles.” I turn my back on him then, walk into the house and grab my purse with its small stash of cash. He follows me, demanding to know what I’m doing. Where I’m going. I don’t answer him because I don’t have an answer. I don’t know where I want to go, only that, for now, I need to be far away from here. Far away from him. And so I head back out to the garage, walking the length of it until I get to Ethan’s Tesla. Usually he keeps the keys in the cars, and as I pull down the visor to check, I realize with relief that the Tesla is no different. “Damnit, Tori, answer me. Where the fuck are you going?” I climb in the car, give him a little shrug. “I don’t know.” “You don’t have your phone.” “No, I don’t.” I open the garage door and start the car. “Goddamnit!” he mutters under his breath. “At least wait here while I go get your phone and some shoes for you. You’re fucking barefoot.” I don’t agree to do so, but I don’t disagree, either. Miles must take it as consent, though, because he takes off into the house. The second the door closes behind him I back out of the garage and start the long drive down the driveway. Barefoot, phoneless, with nothing more than what I brought with me when I showed up here a few days ago. Because Miles is right about one thing. I am a mess, and it’s past time I learned how not to be one anymore. Too bad it’s a lesson I won’t trust him to be a part of. Not now, not ever again.

Chapter 24

Miles She took off. She fucking took off the second I turned my back. There’s a part of me that can’t believe it even hours later, a part of me that half expects to find her curled up on the couch crying over some ridiculous rom-com or standing at the kitchen counter eating ice cream straight out of the carton. But she isn’t there. She’s gone and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Goddamnit. I shut my laptop with a snap, then barely resist the urge to hurl it across the room in the beginnings of the temper tantrum burning inside me. But since destroying it won’t solve a damn thing right now, I reach for my phone instead and hit the familiar number. It rings twice before my sister’s voice comes on the line. “She still hasn’t called me, Miles.” “Are you sure? Maybe she texted you. Or maybe she called the house phone. She’s—” “I’m sitting here with Violet in my arms with both my cellphone and the home phone in my lap. Believe me, if she tries to get in touch with me, I’ll know.” I know I sound like a crazy man, but I’m still not ready to give up. “Maybe Ethan—” “No, not Ethan. I swear she hasn’t contacted either one of us.” There’s a pause, and my sister’s already concerned voice grows even more worried. “Are you going to tell me what happened? What did you two fight about that was so bad it sent her running with nothing but the clothes on her back? Tori isn’t normally a runner. She’s more a—” “Fighter. Yeah, I know.” God do I know. I’ve spent the last year on the receiving end of all that fight. Which is just one of the many reasons I’m so fucking worried about her right now. It isn’t like her to just walk away, to disappear when she feels she or someone she cares about has been wronged. And where would she go anyway? The Tesla has only so many miles before it runs out of charge. And while there are charging stations she could go to, how can she find them when she doesn’t even have a cellphone to look them up? “It was nothing,” I finally say when the silence has stretched on too long between us. “We didn’t fight about anything. Not really.” “Not really?” Chloe repeats. I don’t know if it’s her bff sixth sense or her sister sixth sense that is going off, but it’s pretty obvious that she’s not buying what I’m selling. Not for a second. Not that I blame her. I was there. I know that I was only trying to help Tori, not hurt her, and still I can’t help but doubt myself. Still I can’t help replaying the conversation in my head over and over as I try to figure out where it all went wrong. Why it all went wrong.

Not that it really matters if she isn’t around to hash it out with. The thought pisses me off all over again and I walk outside to the driveway and look down at the street below. Where are you, Tori? Why the hell did you run away instead of staying here and fighting with me? Why the hell did you take the coward’s way out? When I say as much to my sister, she just snorts out a laugh. “You obviously don’t know Tori very well. She didn’t leave because she’s a coward, she left because if she stuck around when she was that pissed off, she would have eviscerated you. You should probably count yourself lucky you still have all your body parts. When threatened, she tends to shoot from the hip and ask questions later.” Don’t I know it. I still have the marks on my ass from a year’s worth of fights to prove it. “I just want to know that she’s okay,” I say almost desperately. “It’s been eight hours and no one has seen her. How the hell is that possible?” I’ve got my bots crawling through the ’Net, searching for any tweet, Snapchat, Instagram photo with her in it. Her face is pretty famous right now and if she’s out in the world, I expect someone to notice her—and to throw her face up on their social media. The fact that no one has in eight hours tells me she’s holed up somewhere. But where? It’s the million-dollar question right now, and not knowing the answer to it is making me absolutely insane. She was obviously upset when she left here. What if she got into an accident? What if she’s lying in some emergency room right now, and they don’t know to call me instead of her family? What if— I cut off the thought, try to tamp down the crazy before it takes all control. But at the same time, with these new thoughts in my head, I’m suddenly itching to get off the phone with Chloe so I can check auto accidents in the area. Make sure Tori hasn’t wrapped Ethan’s very expensive toy around a telephone pole somewhere. Just the thought has my hands shaking as I make some frantic, half-cocked excuse to hang up with Chloe. I make her promise to call if Tori contacts her, then open up my computer and start to search. Half an hour later I’m reasonably convinced that Tori hasn’t been in an accident. But the knowledge doesn’t put my mind at ease half as much as I’d hoped it would. Where is she? Where the fuck is she? How could she just run away like that in the middle of a fight? I was only trying to help, only trying to make things easier for her, and her response is to fucking disappear like this? Never again, man. Never again. When I get my hands on her, she’s going to be damn lucky I don’t turn her over my knee for all the worry she’s caused me. She’d probably claw my eyes out if I so much as tried, but I find myself looking forward to the fight. Looking forward to having her back in my arms where she belongs. Rubbing a hand over my face, I wander back into the house and consider pouring myself a drink. But I want to be sober when she shows up—sober enough to get to the bottom of this mess and sober enough to drive to go pick her up, if that’s what she needs from me. So in the end I just pace the house, our fight playing over and over in my head like a playlist gone wrong. Each time I do, it gets harder to hold my head up. Harder to tell myself that this isn’t my

fault, that she’s the one who went off half-cocked. She did, absolutely, but when I hear myself telling her that she’s a mess, when I remember the look on her face when I listed all the ways her life is currently fucked up, it makes me furious with myself. More, it pisses me off. I’ve never been one to kick someone when they’re down, especially not someone I care about the way I care about Tori. So what the fuck was I doing when I said those things to her? What the fuck was I thinking? It’s pretty clear that I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting, lashing out at her because I didn’t want to acknowledge that she had a point. That I should have talked to her before leaking that story about Parsons. But goddamnit! What was I supposed to do? What the fuck was I supposed to do? I’ve already screwed up once in my life with a woman I cared about, totally missing it when my parents sold Chloe out and sent her into a downward spiral that nearly destroyed her. That did, for a long time, destroy any chance I had at a relationship with her. I couldn’t just sit by and watch the same thing happen to Tori. Couldn’t sit on my ass while some bastard destroyed her for his own fucking entertainment. Not when I could see her light getting dimmed a little more with each day that passed, with each online comment she read that called her a gold digger or a slut or a fame whore. She didn’t deserve that—no woman deserves it—and especially not when that fuckwit got away scot-free, his career and his life enhanced by the same thing that destroyed hers. No way. No fucking way. Should I have talked to her first? Yeah, absolutely. I’m willing to acknowledge that now. But I was only trying to help, only trying to do what I thought was best. The last thing I wanted to do was make her feel like I thought she was incompetent, though. I just wish— The phone rings, interrupts my circular thoughts. I make a dive for it, answer on the second ring. Then hold my breath as Ethan’s voice comes over the line. “She’s here,” he tells me. “Just walked in the door and she looks like shit.” “She’s there?” I repeat like a fucking parrot. “In San Francisco.” “Yes,” he says, and suddenly there’s noise in the background. My sister talking, Violet laughing, and Tori cooing, fucking cooing, at the baby. “Don’t let her go anywhere,” I order him, suddenly both weak-kneed with relief and absolutely furious all at the same time. “I’m on my way.” “Yeah,” Ethan snorts right before he hangs up. “Like I hadn’t figured that out already.”

Chapter 25

Tori “I need a job,” I tell Chloe as she tries to get me to settle on the couch with a glass of wine. But I’ve been in a car for nearly nine hours straight, stopping only when the Tesla needed to charge. Every muscle in my body is tight and I need to stretch. Plus I’m too wired to sit. How can I not be when I’ve had the last eight and a half hours to play my fight with Miles back in my head in a never-ending loop? “What you need is to tell me what the hell is going on,” Chloe says quietly from her spot in the rocking chair near the window, where she’s nursing Violet. “No, what I need is a job. And a drink. Not necessarily in that order.” “Already got you covered,” Ethan says as he comes up behind me and hands me a glass of red wine. I take it, gratefully, then allow myself to sink against him as he wraps an arm around my shoulder in a brotherly embrace. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, squeezing briefly before making his way across the room to gaze adoringly at his wife and baby girl. “Is she asleep?” he asks, voice low and eyes locked on Violet’s angelic little face. “Just drifted off,” Chloe answers. “Let me take her.” He drops a kiss on my best friend’s mouth before expertly scooping the baby out of her arms. Violet wakes up a little, lets out a small, distressed cry. But he’s pulling her into his chest and shushing her before she even finishes the cry, his voice soft and soothing and so filled with love it’s like an arrow to the fucking heart. Ethan Frost adores his wife and baby girl and isn’t afraid to let the entire world know it. I’d be jealous, except Chloe deserves every ounce of love he can give her, every second of adoration he heaps on her. No one on the planet deserves a guy like Ethan more than my best friend does. They’ve been through hell together, especially this last year, and they deserve whatever happiness they’ve found together. The fact that they’ve found so much—that they have so much—has me nearly bursting at the seams with happiness for her. Or I would be if I weren’t wallowing in my own angst after my fight with Miles. “Shit!” Chloe exclaims suddenly, drawing my attention back to her as she jumps up from the rocking chair and races across the room to me. “You’re crying!” “I’m not,” I tell her even as I wipe my eyes and sniffle a few times. “San Francisco makes my allergies act up.” “Yeah, right,” she says even as she wraps me up in a Chloe-scented hug. “I’ve been here with you at least half a dozen times and I never saw you have allergies before.” “It’s the fall.” I sniff again, do my best to stem the tears still swimming in my eyes. “There’s different stuff in the air now.”

She pulls me closer. “Okay, baby. You just go on telling yourself that.” “I will.” I squeeze my eyes shut, press my face into her shoulder, and will myself not to start sobbing. I’m too afraid that if I do, I’ll never stop. It’s been such a long week—such a long fucking week—filled with so many emotional highs and lows that no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop a few more tears from leaking onto her sweater. No more than I can stop one heartbroken sob from escaping. I manage to beat the rest into submission, manage to swallow them down, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. Chloe pulls back, her eyes worried as they search my face. “It’s been a hell of a week, huh?” Another sob escapes. “You have no idea.” “So tell me,” she says as she links her arm through mine and propels me toward the couch. “Tell me everything. Start at the beginning and leave absolutely nothing out.” And so I do, starting with the rooftop party where Miles and I danced and I pissed off Alexander before moving on to my dad’s visit to my apartment and his subsequent disowning of me. Chloe’s heard the story before, right after I moved into her and Ethan’s house because I had nowhere else to go, but she’s no less outraged than she was the first time I told her. “Your dad is such a dick!” she says for the millionth time, her green eyes blazing and her voice shaking with rage. “Yeah,” I answer with a shrug. “But I don’t know. Maybe he was right to do what he did. I’m twenty-three years old. It’s past time I grew up and got my shit together.” “You are getting your shit together,” Chloe tells me, outraged. “You got your degree, you’re looking for a job, you’ve stopped partying and getting drunk. You’re looking for a decent guy instead of a string of one-night stands that were as much a fuck-you to your family as they were about you getting off. It sounds to me like you’re doing a hell of a good job at getting your life together.” I laugh. “Yeah, if you don’t count the fact that I’m in the middle of a sex scandal and that I’m living off the generosity of my best friend and her family because I literally have nowhere else to go. I’m totally getting my life together. Abso-freaking-lutely.” “Okay, dial it down, drama queen,” she says. “Don’t you think you should cut yourself a little bit of a break considering everything that’s happened in the last few days?” “I think that’s the problem. I think I’ve given myself too much of a break for too long. About everything. It’s past time for me to put on my big-girl panties and clean up the mess I’ve made of my life.” My voice breaks as I say the words, and suddenly I can’t stand to be on the couch for one second longer with Chloe gazing at me sympathetically. I get up, walk over to the huge picture window that makes up one wall of the living room, and gaze out at the moody Pacific. It’s so much grayer up here than in San Diego, so much darker and wilder that it barely feels like the same ocean. Not that I’m complaining. Dark and moody fit my vibe just fine right now. “I beg to differ,” Chloe says after letting me brood for a few minutes. “You’ve got your biggirl panties on and you’re doing exactly what you need to do.” “I’m not actually wearing any panties at the moment, so…”

She cracks up, just as I intend her to. But instead of acknowledging what a disaster I am, she turns the tables and says, “See? You’re doing such a good job getting your life together that you don’t even need your big-girl panties.” I gag a little and she laughs again. “Too much?” “A little,” I agree. She shrugs philosophically. “Better too much than too little. You need someone in your corner right now.” “What I need is a job,” I say for the third time since I walked through the front door. No matter what Chloe says, it’s Miles’s words that are playing over and over in my head, reminding me of how useless I am. How much of a mess I am. How utterly incompetent I am at living my own damn life. It’s humiliating and heartbreaking and absolutely devastating— the fact that he sees me like that and, more, the fact that he’s right. “I already told you that Ethan and I can help with that,” Chloe responds. “He’s got openings up here and in San Diego. Just say the word and one of them can be yours.” I want to say no, want to tell her how much I appreciate the thought but I want to make my own way. Want to do this myself. But losers can’t be choosers, and the fact of the matter is, my face has been plastered all over the Internet for days, and even though the story has spun off in a totally different direction thanks to Miles, that doesn’t mean I’m not recognizable as the girl in the Alexander Parsons sex tape. I won’t be that girl forever, but for now I am, and trying to get a job with that hanging over my head isn’t going to be easy. At least not if I want a job that requires me to keep my clothes on… The truth is, I can’t afford to wait for things to die down. Not if I want to take control over the mess that is my life. And not if I don’t want to spent the next three months sponging off my friends. “I’m good with whatever Ethan’s got that he thinks I might be qualified for,” I tell her softly. For a second, she doesn’t answer, her mouth hanging open in shock. “Really? You want to work at Frost? Really?” “Yeah. I mean, if you guys will have me—” “Of course we’ll have you!” She claps her hands together, nearly jumps up and down with excitement. “Now the only questions are, what do you want to do and where do you want to do it? Here or in San Diego?” A part of me—a very large part—is screaming at me to say San Diego. That’s home, and more, it’s where Miles is. I just realized how I felt about him, and even though we won’t be getting back together—if we ever were together—there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to leave San Diego, that doesn’t want to break that last tie. Of course, that reluctance is a pretty big reason why I should leave San Diego. Getting away from Miles and my feelings for him is probably the fastest way to move on. To forget how much I’ve come to care about him. To forget how much I love him. But trying to eke out a living in San Francisco on an entry-level salary probably isn’t going to happen. And running away might be my modus operandi, but part of putting on my big-girl panties is learning how not to do that. Learning how to stay and face my problems instead of ducking out at the first sign of trouble. “San Diego, I guess. It’s easier to find an apartment that won’t take my whole salary. Not

that I expect a lot,” I rush to tell her, afraid of how that came out. “I know I’m starting at the bottom.” “Ethan takes care of his employees. Plus, you know you’re welcome to stay with us. We’d love to have you.” “Yes, because what I need to do is crash my bff’s newlywed nest long-term,” I answer with a snort. “So not going to happen.” “It’s more a mansion than it is a nest,” she tells me. “And I swear, I’d love to have you. I have Ethan and Violet and they’re wonderful, but being married and a mom sets me way apart from my classmates. It gets lonely up here sometimes. Having you around would totally fix that.” “Funny, but you don’t look lonely.” “Funny, but you don’t look like you’re not wearing any panties,” she says with a smirks. “Appearances can be deceiving.” “Okay, okay.” I hold my hands up in defeat. “Let’s talk to Ethan, see what open positions he thinks I might be able to fill—if any. And then we’ll decide where I’m going to live based on where the job is. Sound good?” “Sounds great.” She loops an arm through mine and starts dragging me toward the kitchen. “Now you can pour the wine while I get dinner on the table. I’m starving.” — Dinner goes by quickly as Ethan and I discuss possible jobs I might be interested in—and, more important, suited for. At this point I’m interested in any job that will help me put a roof over my head and shoes on my feet, considering the only pair I currently own are a pair of flip-flops I bought for ten bucks at a convenience store halfway between LA and San Francisco. Thank God I don’t actually have to interview for this position or I would be screwed. Somehow I doubt yoga pants and flip-flops will cut it at Frost Industries. After going over about a dozen different jobs, we decide I might be best trying my hand at employee event planning for human resources. Frost Industries has weekly employee gettogethers, monthly events that employees can bring their families to, plus a ton of training opportunities that need to be organized by someone. It might as well be me. After all, I’ve planned hundreds of events in my life—everything from small gatherings to huge parties and charity galas—and I love doing it. Considering I thought I’d start out as an assistant to somebody’s PA, I couldn’t be happier with the job. Even if it is in San Diego. The idea of going back to Ethan and Chloe’s house, of living with Miles until I get my first couple of paychecks, makes me sick to my stomach. And while Chloe totally offered to loan me some money until I get on my feet, I won’t take anything else from her. She and Ethan are already giving me a job and a place to live. If I took anything else, I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror. Besides, I have to face Miles eventually. He’s Chloe’s brother, which means no matter how badly things ended between us, I’m still going to have to see him. Chloe, Ethan, and Violet are my only family now and he’s her family, so it’s no stretch to assume we’re going to be running into each other a lot. Just like we did before we decided to jump into bed together.

Before I made the colossal mistake of falling in love with a man who doesn’t respect me. In his defense, it’s not like I’ve given him much to respect. But that all changes tomorrow, I tell myself as I pull on the pajamas I borrowed from Chloe and slide gratefully into bed. It hasn’t been that long a day for me, time-wise anyway, but I am totally and completely exhausted. Probably because my emotions have been all over the place since I woke up this morning. I don’t know how long it takes me to get to sleep, or how long I am asleep, but sometime in the middle of the night I jerk awake. At first I’m not sure what woke me, but then it registers that someone is sitting at the bottom of the bed. Someone big and hard and very obviously male. I start to scream, but then Miles is there, his hands wrapped around my upper arms. His face close to mine. “Ssssh,” he murmurs and I feel my heartbeat going down from oh-myGod-I’m-going-to-be-murdered levels to the still frantic but not as frantic oh-shit-the-guyI’m-still-in-love-with-even-though-we-just-broke-up-is-sitting-on-my-bed levels. It’s a subtle but important distinction… But as he eases off me, letting my arms go because he obviously thinks the threat has passed, I’m suddenly filled with rage. Rage that he would sneak into my room and scare the hell out of me with so little compunction and rage that he has the nerve to sneak into my room in the middle of the night at all. Especially with the fight we had less than twenty-four hours ago. It doesn’t take long before I’m at can’t-think-I’m-so-mad levels, and I start pummeling his chest with my fists. “Tori, stop!” he hisses, trying to grab my hands. “It’s me, Miles.” “I know who it is,” I snarl back, continuing to hit him wherever he presents me an opening. “You scared the hell out of me! What were you thinking sneaking in here in the middle of the night! What if I was armed? I could have killed you!” “I thought it was a pretty safe bet that you weren’t,” he tells me as he finally manages to grab hold of both my wrists in one of his big hands. He smooths the other one over my back in soothing circles. “Considering you drove away without your shoes or underwear this morning.” “How did you know I didn’t have underwear on this morning?” It’s a stupid question, and the least of what I want to ask him. But I’m still half asleep and the words tumble out of my mouth without my permission. “How would I not know? I’m the man who’s sleeping with you. I notice these things.” “You’re the man who was sleeping with me. Big difference between is and was, dude.” “Maybe there is. But one fight doesn’t end a relationship, even if one of the people in the relationship runs away before anything is even settled.” He finally lets go of my wrists, but only so he can pull me closer—so close, in fact, that I’m practically sitting on his lap. “I didn’t run away!” I tell him, and suddenly my heart is beating fast all over again. But for very different reasons. “I left because I had nothing else to say.” “Well, good for you. Because I had a lot left to say.” “I’m pretty sure you said enough.”

I struggle against his hold on general principle, even go so far as to push against his chest. But we both know I’m not going anywhere, even before he tightens his arms and murmurs, “Stop that.” “Look, I know I said shit the wrong way and I’m sorry about that. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you.” “It’s not that you hurt me. And it’s not that you said it the wrong way. It’s that I’m a mess and I need to—” “You’re not a mess.” “I’m a total mess and you know it. You’re the one who called me on it, after all—” “You’re not a mess and I was an asshole to say you were.” “No, you’re an asshole because you’re sleeping with me and you don’t respect me. But I get it. I do. I’m a total fuckup whose life is in ruins and who needs you and Chloe and Ethan to ride in and save her.” “I never said that!” “You didn’t need to say it. It’s in everything you do for me. Buying me clothes and electronics without talking to me. Sending those bots out to destroy the video without so much as mentioning it to me. Sending them out again, to find dirt on Alex, still without letting me know. And then using the information you found to destroy his life without so much as mentioning it to me. I’m betting you wouldn’t have said a word about what you’d done if Chloe hadn’t called me and told me.” “That’s not true. I would have stopped you before you went to the interview.” “Oh my God!” I push off his lap and start to pace in the early-morning grayness. “Are you even listening to yourself? You would have stopped me. You would have told me only because you couldn’t not tell me. From the moment this shitstorm happened, you’ve made every major decision for me without so much as consulting me. That’s not respect and that sure as hell isn’t a relationship. Believe me, I know. I watched my father do it to my mother for years.” “Goddamnit!” he roars, leaping to his feet and planting himself directly in my path. “I wasn’t trying to make decisions for you. I was trying to help you!” “By cutting me completely out of the process?” “By keeping you from being hurt!” “Well, news flash, asshole. It didn’t work. You hurt me way worse than Alexander Parsons ever could.” “I know.” Just like that, the fight goes out of him. “Believe me, I know. And I’m sorry for it. Hurting you is the last thing I ever want to do. I love you, Tori, and all I want is to keep you safe. To make you happy. And I totally fucked that up. I’m the fuckup here, not you.” For long seconds, it’s as if the words don’t compute. As if they’re hanging there in the room between us, unable to be absorbed by my brain. When I can finally think again—hell, when I can finally breathe again—I demand, “What did you just say?” “I said I fucked up with you, just like I fucked up with Chloe. With her, I failed to keep her safe, and then I failed again when I got so caught up in my research that I didn’t even know what my parents had done to her. And with you…with you, I did the total opposite. I was so

busy trying to keep you from getting hurt that I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you.” “That’s not the part I was asking about, although thank you for saying all that. I was talking about the other part. When you said…” My voice breaks as hope swells inside of me. For the first time, he loses his fierceness. “When I said that I love you? Because I do. I love you so much. I’m not sure how or when it happened, considering you’ve treated me like a plague victim ever since you met me. But somewhere in all this, I fell head over heels in love with you. And I’m so sorry you think I don’t respect you, because nothing could be further from the truth. You’re funny and you’re smart and you’re gutsy—” “Gutsy? I’ve spent the last few days hiding out in a house that doesn’t belong to me, trying to pretend my life hasn’t fallen down around my ears. I don’t think there’s anything particularly gutsy about that.” “Well, you’re wrong. Because I think it’s very brave of you to try to stand on your own even with all the bullshit being thrown your way. How you were so determined to solve your problems on your own—” “But I didn’t solve them on my own. You and Ethan and Chloe solved them.” “We gave you a helping hand, because we care about you. But I have no doubt that if you hadn’t had us, you would have done just fine. You’re a smart woman, Tori, and I believe you can do anything you set your mind to. But just because you can do it alone doesn’t mean you should have to.” “I’m not Chloe—” “Well, thank God for that,” he says, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me against his chest. I’m not sure I’m ready to go there yet, but I don’t want to fight him, either. So I let him pull me close, let him wrap his arms around me. And then I just breathe him, relishing his warmth and his strength and the dark orange-and-bergamot smell of him. “Considering some of the things I want to do to you are illegal in at least half a dozen states, probably more.” I laugh. I can’t help it. “Only half a dozen?” He shrugs. “Laws are finally getting more liberal.” “Yeah, well, that’s not what I meant and you know it. Saving me won’t help you atone for what happened with Chloe.” “Believe me, I know that. And if I didn’t, you’d remind me often enough. For someone who can’t stand it when other people help her out, you’re sure as hell protective of my baby sister.” “She’s my best friend.” “And you’re the woman I love. I admit I was an idiot. I admit I should have talked to you more. I promise, in the future, that I’ll communicate so much you’ll beg me to shut up just so you can have a little peace. But please, Tori. Don’t shut me out because I was an asshole. Don’t walk away from me, not now that I’m finally figuring out what I did wrong.” “As if it didn’t break my heart to walk away from you the first time. I don’t think I could do it again, even if I wanted to. I love you, Miles Girard.” For the first time since I woke up to find him at the end of my bed, a smile breaks across his face. “Yeah?” he asks, pulling me even closer so he can press kisses up and down my neck.

“You love me?” “What’s not to love? I mean, besides your domineering streak? And the fact that you always think you’re right? And how you tend toward regular asshattery? Oh, and—” He shuts me up with a kiss. It’s hard and hot and everything I want right now. For long seconds, his lips move over mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth to tangle with my own. But I have more to say and no matter how much I’d like to spend the rest of the night kissing him, I need to say it now, before I lose my nerve. So I reluctantly pull my mouth from his, then step back until he’s no longer holding me. I can’t think when he’s pressed against me like that. “I’m a mess,” I tell him, my voice shaking a little at the admission. “You aren’t—” “I am. I’ve never held a job, I don’t have any money or clothes or even a place to live. I drink too much and I have a very bad habit of leaping before I look.” “I love that habit of yours.” “Well, of course you do, right now. It got you laid and will probably get you laid again before the night is over.” I give him a wink to let him know that I’m more than okay with that possibility. “But I want you to know that I’m working on all of that. I’ve got a job, one that I think I can be really good at. I’m working on making better decisions—” “As long as one of those decisions is being with me, then I’m happy with whatever else you decide.” “It is. If you’ll have me.” “If I’ll have you? I just drove through the night because I don’t want to live without you. When are you going to understand that?” Considering he’s the first one besides Chloe who has ever wanted me, it’s a hard thing for me to wrap my head around. But I’m willing to try, because I don’t want to live without him, either. “As long as you know that I’m not always going to be this disaster. You don’t have to worry that you’ll have to fix me. I’m going to fix myself.” “Do I look worried to you?” Miles asks as he once again pulls me against his hard chest. “Besides, you’re not the only one in this relationship who needs fixing.” “Well, that’s true.” He just laughs. This time when he lowers his mouth to mine, I don’t try to fight him. Instead I give myself up—to the moment, to him, and to the knowledge that just because we’re flawed, just because we’re broken, doesn’t mean we can’t be perfect together. And that is all that matters.

Epilogue “You sure you want to do this? We can still make a run for it.” I look up into Ethan’s wicked blue eyes and laugh, because we both know he’s kidding. Just like we both know that I’m as gone over Miles as he is over Chloe. “I wouldn’t get very far in these shoes.” I pull back the skirt of my dress to show off my white beaded Manolos with their six-inch heels. They were a gift from Miles, an answer to my concern about how awkward our height difference would look when he bent to kiss me in front of a huge room full of people. “Good point,” Ethan agrees with a grin. “So I guess we’d better do this thing then, huh?” “I guess so. It’s what people came to see, after all.” He holds out his arm and I take it, letting him lead me to the big double doors at the front of the vestibule. Once we’re there, I get my first glimpse of Miles. He’s standing at the front of the crowd in a gorgeous black tuxedo that makes him look more like a model than an engineer, his eyes dancing and a huge smile on his face. Butterflies are rioting in my stomach, but he looks as calm and as steady as he always does. Of course. Miles Girard may be a lot of things—brilliant, absent-minded, even a bit of an asshole when he’s working—but when it comes to me, he’s also steady as a rock. It’s something he’s proven over and over again as I’ve put my life back together these last eighteen months and something I know he’ll continue to prove for the rest of our lives. “Feeling lucky?” Ethan asks as music swells through the church. “Always.” His eyes are on Chloe as he answers, “Yeah, I know what you mean.” My best friend—and matron of honor—is also at the front of the church. She’s on the opposite side of the altar from Miles, though, in a deep purple gown that does gorgeous things for her complexion. She’s clutching Violet’s little hand as my adorable flower girl continues to throw rose petals by the fistful onto whatever surface she can reach. Chloe had wanted to have the nanny take Violet after her walk down the aisle, but I’d insisted she stand up at the altar with the rest of us. This wedding is a family affair and Ethan, Chloe, and Violet are as much my family as Miles is going to be. The thought fills me with a happiness I never thought I’d feel. The same happiness that permeates my whole life these days. The day Alex leaked that sex tape was the luckiest day of my life—I just didn’t know it at the time. “Okay,” Ethan murmurs, giving my hand an encouraging squeeze. “Here we go.” I nod. Here we go. I ignore the butterflies as I take my first step toward the rest of my life. We’re four steps down the aisle when it happens. Miles’s eyes lock with mine, his gaze so

filled with tenderness and love and certainty that my nerves dissipate like so much smoke. I forget about the crowd, forget about the butterflies, forget about everything but the fact that the man I love is waiting for me at the front of the church. I nearly float down the aisle on Ethan’s arm. When I get close, Violet breaks away from her mother and comes racing toward Ethan and me. Chloe gasps and tries to catch her, but I just laugh. Then stoop to pick up the little girl who holds as much of my heart as her mother and father do. “You look pretty,” she whispers to me in her slightly garbled toddler speak. “So do you, sunshine,” I answer back, giving her a smacking kiss on first one cheek and then the other. “And you taste good, too!” “Like cupcakes,” she says solemnly. “Exactly like cupcakes,” I agree. Ethan’s laughing now and so is Miles, who is close enough to hear the whole conversation. Then Ethan reaches over and swings Violet from my arms into his as we take the last couple of steps down the aisle. “Who gives this woman away?” the priest asks. “Nobody!” Violet answers. “We keep her.” My heart swells as everyone behind us laughs. Violet’s eyes go wide at the sound, and then she’s burying her face in her father’s neck. “We’re definitely keeping her,” Ethan agrees as he drops a kiss on my cheek before walking over to stand next to Chloe, who looks half amused and half mortified by the whole scene. “We definitely are,” Miles agrees, reaching out to take my hand in his. It’s not the traditional start to a wedding, but then, when has anything I’ve been involved with been traditional? Besides, who cares about tradition when my heart is swelling with love for all the amazing people in my life? I’m so happy, so excited, so grateful to be right here, right now, that the rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. I know I answer the I do question correctly, know that Chloe hands me Miles’s ring and I slip it onto his finger at the appropriate time. But all the rest of it is a blur, right up until the priest pronounces us husband and wife. As he announces that Miles can kiss the bride, I push up onto my tiptoes and tilt my head back as I wait for my husband’s lips to meet mine. But Miles just grabs me and pulls me close, his hands sliding down to cup my butt as he lifts me several inches off the ground. I’m pressed against him now, from chest to thigh, and I stare at him wide-eyed even as my arms wind around his neck reflexively. “What are you doing?” I whisper. “Solving that height difference problem you were so worried about,” he says with a wink. I’m about to tell him that this isn’t quite what I meant, but then his mouth is on mine and I forget everything but him, everything but the fact that after twenty-four lonely years, I’ve finally found the perfect place where I belong.

For my mom

Acknowledgments This book was a long time coming and I want to thank my fans for their patience as I struggled through a very difficult period in my own life as I wrote it. I need to thank my editor, Sue Grimshaw, and the wonderful Gina Wachtel who have been so kind and patient and lovely to me. I appreciate you both more than I will ever be able to tell you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your support and everything you do for me. I also have to thank my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim. I know I’ve put you through the wringer over the last eighteen months and I am so grateful that you are not just my agent, but one of my closest friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you for everything. And finally, I have to thank my mother and my three boys, who have stood by me through everything. I love you all so very much.

BY TRACY WOLFF Ethan Frost Novels Ruined Addicted Exposed Flawed

Hotwired Accelerate

Other Books Full Exposure Tie Me Down Play Me (serialization) Lovegame Come Undone (coming soon)

Extreme Risk Series Shredded Shattered Slashed

PHOTO: © KEVIN GOURLEY

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author TRACY WOLFF lives in Texas and teaches writing at her local community college. She is married and the mother of three young sons. tracywolffbooks.com Facebook.com/​TracyWolffAuthor @TracyWolff

Read on for an excerpt from

Lovegame by Tracy Wolff

Available from Loveswept

Prologue Bedroom eyes. Fabulous ass. Mysterious smile. Great rack. Epically fabulous ass. Legs that go on for miles. Bee-stung lips. Fuck-me hair. Fuck-me tits. Just fuck me, baby. Just fuck me. Best ass on the planet. Best body on the planet. Most beautiful woman in the world. A perfect ten…maybe an eleven. Maybe a fifteen… Fantasy woman. I mean, who wouldn’t want to tap that? Who wouldn’t want to tap that. Who wouldn’t want to tap that… These are only a few of the things that run through my head as Veronica Romero climbs out of the black stretch limo that just pulled up in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in LA. Everything I’ve ever read about her or heard about her or, yes, even thought about her floods my brain as she waves to the crowd before starting her long trek down the red carpet. In my (very) meager defense, I was a red-blooded American graduate student when topless photos of her on a yacht in the South of France leaked and nearly imploded the Internet. The epic horniness of the twenty-four-year-old male is a cliché for a reason. I like to think that if the same thing happened now, I wouldn’t look, considering it was a total invasion of her privacy. But that’s probably a lie. After all, I’ve spent too much of the last year as close to obsessed with her as I can get and still stay on the right side of the law. Then again, watching her now in her natural habitat, dressed in a white gown that is anything but innocent and diamonds that rest in just the right spot to draw attention to her perfect breasts, who could blame me? Certainly not the guy behind me, who keeps telling his friend how much he wants to ram his cock down her throat. Or the guy to my left who really, really wants to fuck her “perfect peach of an ass.”

Not her. Just her throat. Just her ass. No, they wouldn’t blame me, and it’s no use blaming them, not when all they’re doing is giving voice to the things that are written about her pretty much every day, pretty much everywhere. The tabloids. Wikipedia, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr. The hundred and one unauthorized biographies that have come out about her through the years… No, no one can blame them for the filthy things they’re saying. Or for all the dirty, disgusting, depraved things they’re thinking. But I do it anyway. Fuck, yeah, I do. I blame them and myself and every other person on the planet who sees only what they want to see when they look at her. The goddess. The whore. The “perfect ass.” The fact that after all these years it’s all she lets them see says as much about them as it does about her. Her walk down the red carpet is painstakingly slow, her heels high, and the demand for attention nearly crushing with its expectations. I move along the rope line with her, shadowing her from the crowd. When she pauses, I pause. When she walks, I walk. When the fans call her name, I watch her eyes, her smile. The set of her shoulders. Everyone has tells, little breaches in their own personal defenses that give away more than they want to share. Everyone has secrets. I’ve spent the last year learning hers. A reporter stops her—one of many—and asks a question that makes her laugh. That makes her pat his shoulder and then slide her hand down his arm in a slow, lingering caress. His eyes glaze over and she blows him a little kiss before going on her way. Idly, I wonder what he said to get himself into that much trouble… A group of girls chant Veronica’s name from the crowd, and she holds a hand out as she moves toward them. She signs their autograph books, smiles for their selfies, takes their hands and their hugs and their words. She takes all their expectations, gathers them like a bouquet—or an army—and gives out pieces of herself in exchange. She moves on before they’re ready to let her go, but there’s always another reporter to talk to. Another picture to pose for. Another autograph to sign or fan to greet. So many pieces to give out that I wonder how she has any left. If she has any left. And still I keep pace with her. Still I want her attention—and the piece of her that comes with it. My own little piece of her to add to everything else. It will never happen, I tell myself as she gets closer and closer to the building and to the freedom from prying eyes. She doesn’t know to look for me, doesn’t have a clue that I’m right here, watching her every move. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m not disappointed. That I didn’t come here—to the craziness of this movie release—because I want anything from her. Because I don’t. I really don’t. At least not until she turns unexpectedly, her eyes skimming the crowd until her gaze

slides over my face. Locks on. In that instant, all my best intentions disappear. Everything does but her and me and the millions of battered, broken moments that stretch between us. And when she blows me a kiss—all red lips and wide eyes and smoldering sex appeal—I know I’ve fucked up beyond all repair.

Chapter 1 It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon in LA—just one more perfect day if you don’t count the heavy blanket of smog hanging over the city like acid-tinged perfume. In the distance the Hollywood sign that is ubiquitous in this small section of Southern California is nearly obscured by the cloying, smothering stuff, but no one on the patio where I sit, waiting, even seems to notice, any more than they notice the goddess—no, strike that—the legend—no, not that either—the siren—yes, that works—any more than they notice the famed siren who weaves her way between the cramped and crowded tables. The lunch rush is over, but the small sidewalk café several blocks off the main see-and-beseen drag that makes up so much of Los Angeles’s entertainment-based culture continues to do a brisk business as Veronica Romero slides into the seat across from mine. She’s all bright eyes and smiles, all shiny blond hair and tight jeans and colorful gemstones glittering on every finger. Her blouse is white—her signature color—and oversized. Her shoes are high-heeled, and the telltale soles of Christian Louboutin are the same shade of crimson as her lips. And yet there’s a casualness about her, an openness, that I don’t think anyone expects when they think of Hollywood’s most powerful—and highest-paid—actress. As she introduces herself, I even catch a glimpse of the elusive dimple that many speak of but few ever get the chance to see. It’s charming, and so is she. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she tells me in the throaty rasp that has sent shivers down the spine of many a red-blooded male through the years, myself included. “You’re not.” A quick glance at my watch speaks to the veracity of my answer. “I’m always early.” “I like that in a man.” It’s a canned response, one I can’t help thinking is beneath her. At least until I see the dimple flash again and realize she’s poking fun—at herself as much as at me and the artificiality of this situation. “So, how do you like LA?” she asks after ordering a sparkling water from the hovering waiter. The patrons might not have noticed she’s here yet, but the waitstaff certainly has and they circle like buzzards around a freshly killed carcass. “It’s…” I pause, try to think of a description that isn’t a lie but that also won’t offend this Beverly-Hills-born-and-bred icon. She just laughs, though. “Yeah. That’s what I figured. Thanks for doing this”—she gestures between the two of us—“out here. I just couldn’t fit in a trip to New York this week.” “I’m pretty sure it’s my job to come to you. You’re the star, after all.” “And you’re the Pulitzer Prize–winning New York Times bestseller who’s slumming by doing this piece.”

I crook a brow. “Writing the cover article for Vanity Fair is never slumming. Doesn’t matter who you are.” “Funny. That’s exactly how it feels to be on this side of the story, too.” She grins at me—and it’s not the exotic—sexy—man-slaying—grin that graces so many movie screens. It’s softer, more human. The goddess with feet of clay. “What does it feel like?” I ask after the waiter has delivered her water and taken our order —a grilled salmon salad for her and a burger for me. “To be on that side of the story?” She reaches up, toys with one perfect, golden lock of hair, and for a moment—just a moment—a shadow falls over her face. It’s gone almost before I can register it and then she’s tossing her hair, stretching languorously, yawning delicately, one pale, fine-boned hand pressed to her mouth. “Are we there already?” “Where is ‘there’ exactly?” “The boring interview questions.” “And here I was trying so hard to be interesting…” “Oh, you don’t have to try.” Her smile is impish now, inviting me to share the joke. “I’ve spent the last few days trying to cull down the million or so questions I want to ask you.” Now both my brows are up. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how these interviews are supposed to work.” This one in particular, considering I have a limited amount of time with her and so many, many things to figure out. Only a few of which are also part of Vanity Fair’s agenda. “Interview-shminterview. Let’s just have a conversation. You ask me a question and I’ll answer it. Then I’ll ask you one and you answer it.” “Oh, so that’s how a conversation works.” “Yes, well, one never can be too careful with writers. You people are…” “Crazy?” I offer. “I was going to say eccentric.” She tries out an innocent look. It might work, too, if she didn’t have a body made for long, sweaty, sex-filled nights and a mouth made to—She tries out an innocent look. “But crazy works, too.” It really does. But then, there are all kinds of crazy in the world. “I prefer honesty to diplomacy.” “Well, that’s certainly unique.” She makes a face at me—eyes crossed, tongue out, nose all scrunched up. She looks ridiculous and still far too gorgeous. “And total bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. In this town, nobody prefers honesty.” “Yes, but I’m not from this town.” “That,” she says as she squeezes an extra lime into her sparkling water, “is a very good point. And now that it’s out there, I really will insist on asking you questions. And you answering them.” She pokes a finger at my chest for emphasis. “Honestly. Since it’s your thing.” “Quid pro quo?” I suggest. She sighs. “I suppose. If you insist upon thinking of it that way.” “Is there another way to think of it?”

“As fun.” She lifts her water to her lips, takes one long, thirsty sip. I very deliberately don’t watch the way her throat works as she swallows. “You do know what fun is, don’t you?” Fuck. I expected a lot of things from this interview. I never expected to like her. “I believe I’m familiar with the concept, yes.” “I hoped you would be. I know there probably isn’t much fun in true crime, but you can improvise a little, right?” “Is that what you do with your scripts? Improvise?” She gave me the opening and I can’t resist sliding in with the first of my questions. “I’ve heard working with you always involves the unexpected.” “No answers to your questions until you promise that you’ll answer some of mine.” Her smile is bright white and beaming. This may be my first celebrity interview of this ilk, but I know when I’m being taken for a ride. I’m pretty sure this wide-eyed, friendly approach works on most of the Hollywood journalists she runs into, but I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life interviewing people whose lives—not just their livelihoods—depend on their ability to lie. Murderers, policemen, federal agents, witnesses, family members of the victims, not-so-innocent bystanders. I’ve interviewed them all, and those varied experiences let me see, all too clearly, the calculation lurking in the depths of those world-famous violet eyes. Recognizing it doesn’t keep me from taking the plunge, however. Some things are inevitable, after all. And calculation isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes it’s prudent. Sometimes it’s fun. And sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps you alive. I wonder which—if any—it is for her. Or if it’s all of the above. Veronica Romero is a lot of things. An ingénue isn’t one of them, no matter how many she played early in her career. She’s patiently waiting for my response, though, so I nod. “I’ll be happy to answer whatever questions you have. As long as you extend me the same courtesy.” “Of course. That is what we’re here for, isn’t it?” She glances down at her nails, which are surprisingly short and painted a purple so deep and dark that it’s almost black. The way she doesn’t look me in the eye is how I know she’s telling the truth—and feeling vulnerable— defenseless—exposed about doing so. “Life is full of surprises. I feel like art should be, as well. I don’t improvise just to improvise while on script, but there’s an honesty in the unexpected, isn’t there? In the responses that have nothing to do with preparation and everything to do with…” She pauses, looks uncertain for the first time. “Being thrown off your game,” I fill in. “And scrambling for purchase.” “Yes. Exactly.” She smiles approvingly. “Do you like it?” I ask. “Being off your game? Not knowing what’s coming next?” “Are you kidding? I hate it.” “And yet you force yourself and your co-workers into it several times a film.” “I do, yes.”

“Some would say that’s foolish. Arrogant. Courting disaster, even.” The dimple flashes again and she laughs a little. “Some have said that.” “And still you do it.” “Still I do it. True art doesn’t come from complacency. You of all people know that.” “So you consider yourself a ‘true’ artist?” I ask. Something flickers across her face and for the first time I wish that I was videotaping this interview instead of just audio-recording it. I would love to be able to come back to this moment later and analyze each of her facial expressions. “And if I say I do?” Her chin is up, her voice pure bravado. “I’d agree with you. I think doing that—dropping the mask to get the rawest, most real moments—is very brave.” “Brave?” She says it like she’s never heard the term applied to herself before. “And here I just thought I was masochistic.” The words are loaded, the look she gives me even more so. I feel myself respond despite all the lectures I gave myself to the contrary before she got here. But she’s got a good laugh and an even better outlook on her life. Plus that word, masochistic, calls up all kinds of images of her that are better left unimagined. Still, now that it’s out there, I can’t just leave it alone. The descriptor is way too powerful for that. “Is that what acting is?” I ask after a moment. “Masochism?” “If you do it right.” She takes another sip of her water, her eyes locked on mine as her tongue darts out and licks a stray drop of moisture off the perfect bow of her upper lip. “And do you? Do it right?” “I think that’s for you to say, not me, isn’t it?” That’s when I forget how to breathe. For one second, two. She’s talking about being at the mercy of the audience—a stern taskmaster, no doubt—but at this moment, that doesn’t seem to matter. Not when it feels very much like she is the one in control. Of her career, her destiny, and this interview. But there’s a gleam of triumph in her eyes that says she knows it, and that jump-starts my brain. This interview is a two-day marathon, and I’m not prepared to go down this early or this easily. “I’m more than happy to be the one who says it,” I answer with complete sincerity. “The emotion you brought to the Belladonna was breathtaking, and somehow totally authentic despite the subject matter.” “It was a brilliant role. Thank you for writing it.” “All I did was write the book. Derek James wrote the screenplay. And you brought her to life.” She shakes her head at me, tsk-tsks a little. “False modesty is so unbecoming. It’s one of the first lessons they teach you in Hollywood. Is it not the same in New York?” “False modesty? Yes. But a writer had better be modest if he wants to be any good. Especially a nonfiction writer.” “Why nonfiction specifically?”

“I think you know the answer to that question better than anyone. Because it’s never about me. It’s always about them. Isn’t it the same for you?” “I’m not known for my modesty,” she says with a laugh. “Just ask my ex-lovers.” “I don’t need to ask anyone. I’ve seen you act.” “What does that mean?” For the first time, she looks wary. “It means you become every character you play. From the ingénue to the queen to the—” “Sociopath?” “I was going to say savior, but yes. There are times in the footage I’ve seen that I can’t distinguish you from her. And I spent hours, days, interviewing her.” “That’s quite a compliment.” And yet her voice says it’s anything but. “It was meant to be,” I try to soothe. “What’s it like, being so talented that you can be anyone you choose?” “I think that’s a question I should be asking you. You’ve written books on two serial killers, one mass murderer, and two of the most notorious unsolved murder cases of the last century. To write the way you do, you have to get inside the murderer and his victims. The same goes with the profiling you did early on in your career. What does that feel like?” Like I’m balancing on the edge of an abyss, waiting to fall in. Like I’m sinking in quicksand with no hope of ever being pulled out. Like I’m drowning. “Disturbing. Fascinating. Sometimes sad.” She tilts her head in acknowledgment. “Exactly.” I hope not. For her sake, I really hope not. Before I can say anything else, our lunch is delivered. She smiles at the waiter as he slides her salad in front of her, and he gets so flustered that I nearly end up wearing my hamburger and fries. She pretends not to notice. Once our food is delivered, our water refilled, and extra napkins placed in a position of honor on the table, there’s no other reason for the waiter to hang around, much to his dismay and my amusement. I give her a couple of minutes to eat undisturbed before diving back in. “So what’s that like?” “What?” “Men falling all over you everywhere you go.” She could pretend she doesn’t know what I’m talking about—just like she pretended not to notice how flustered our waiter was. But she doesn’t. Instead she turns the tables. “What do you think it’s like?” “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.” She gives me a slow, thorough once-over. “I’m pretty sure women must fall all over you—” “When are you going to stop deflecting and actually answer what I ask you?” She freezes. “Excuse me?” “I’m here to interview you and the last few questions I’ve asked, you’ve thrown back in my lap. I already know what I think—I’d like your thoughts or this article is going to end up being

an autobiography.” “That’s not a bad idea. I’d read your autobiography in a heartbeat.” “Yeah, well, you’d be the only one.” I take a bite of my burger, give her a minute to figure out that she’s not going to be able to charm her way out of this one. Then I ask again, “So, what is it like?” Her shoulders tense, and suddenly it’s like a switch flips inside her. Gone is the friendliness of the last fifteen minutes and in its place…in its place is something else entirely. “Being attractive?” I shoot her a look that tells her to knock off the bullshit. “Being Maxim’s sexiest woman alive seven of the last ten years. Topping Esquire magazine’s sexiest list. Making People’s Most Beautiful list every year for the last decade. Being number one on IMDB’s top one hundred sexiest actresses of all time.” I pause, take a very deliberate sip of my water. “Should I keep going?” “No. I think I get it.” Her voice is about ten degrees cooler than it was, and as she purses her lips, narrows her eyes, I’m reminded of a children’s fairy tale. The better to see—hear—eat —you with, my darling. “It feels exactly like you’d expect it to feel.” The whole thing is very definitely a warning to lay off this line of questioning, but all it does is intrigue me. And solidify my belief that Veronica Romero would play the hell out of the big, bad wolf. Too bad I’m not cut out for the role of Little Red. “Gratifying?” I ask. “Claustrophobic? Unsafe?” This time when she laughs, it sounds nothing like tinkling bells and everything like highend sex. I try not to respond, but it’s pretty hard not to notice the way the sound goes straight to my cock like it was designed specifically to get me hard. “Nothing about this business is safe,” she tells me. “I thought you’d be the last person I’d have to explain that to.” “All that money, all those bodyguards, and you still don’t feel secure?” It’s a direct salvo, one that hits the mark judging from the way her shoulders tense and the dimple disappears completely. For a moment I mourn its loss, but then I’m too caught up in her transformation to think about anything else. “Silly Ian,” she all but purrs as she lightly traces one dark-purple fingernail across the back of my hand. She’s dripping sensuality now, wearing her sex appeal like Perrault’s wolf wears its teeth and claws. “In this town, it’s not bodyguards that keep you safe.” Her fingertip is gliding over the inside of my wrist now, stroking back and forth in a rhythm that takes my dick from semi-aroused to fully hard in seconds. Then again, maybe that’s the way she’s looking at me, eyes hooded, lips wet and parted, cheeks just a little bit flushed. “So, what does?” I have to clear my throat twice before I can get the question out. It’s her turn to lift a brow. “I would think that was obvious.” Then she’s sucking her lower lip between her teeth, biting down oh-so-gently. Her breath hitches just a little and—fuck—so does mine, though I know exactly what she’s doing. Turns out forewarned doesn’t always mean forearmed. “I keep myself safe.” “Touché.” I make a concerted effort to keep my voice—and my hand—steady, even as desire

pure, unadulterated lust sweeps through me. I ignore it, concentrating instead on the list of questions that I have memorized. “Before we were sidetracked, we were talking about your tendency toward improvisation—” “But you already got your question,” she tells me, cutting me off. “Several questions, in fact. Now it’s my turn.” I could push, considering she’s given me a non-answer to pretty much everything I’ve asked her so far. But she’s not the only one who knows how to play games at this table. “Ask away,” I answer, smiling broadly. “I’m an open book.” “Why do people always say that like it’s a good thing?” she asks, and if possible her voice is even huskier—even sexier—than it was just a few minutes ago. “An open book only shows you two random pages in the middle of the action. How is that supposed to tell you everything you want to know?” “I guess that depends on the pages, doesn’t it?” “Perhaps it does at that.” She looks me over, her eyes lingering on my mouth, my chest, my hands. “What two pages are you going to use to portray me?” “Whichever two you show me.” She smiles at that, and this time it is the man-slayer she’s so famous for. Her hand is at her throat, her fingers deliberately toying with the amethyst pendant that rests just between her breasts. “That is exactly what I hoped you’d say.” I try to ignore the sudden sensation of bite marks on my ass, but it’s not easy. Especially when it hits me that I’ve just lost the first battle of whatever game we’re playing.

Love stories you’ll never forget By authors you’ll always remember eOriginal Romance from Random House randomhousebooks.com

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