Love Is Beautiful (Love Is #2) - Abby Brooks

LOVE IS BEAUTIFUL MAX & CHELSEA

ABBY BROOKS

LITTLE BIRD PUBLISHING, LLC

CONTENTS Copyright Dedication Connect with Abby Brooks Also by Abby Brooks Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Also by Abby Brooks

Copyright © 2016 by Abby Brooks All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For Bill. My everything.

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ALSO BY ABBY BROOKS The Moore Brothers Series Blown Away (Ian and Juliet) Carried Away (James and Ellie) Swept Away (Harry and Willow) Break Away (Lilah and Cole)

Love Is… Love Is Crazy (Dakota & Dominic) Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max)

1

I NEVER SPEED. LIKE NEVER, EVER. I AM SUCH A SERIAL RULE FOLLOWER THAT THE IDEA OF BREAKING EVEN a simple law like the speed limit makes my eye start to twitch. So, the fact that right now I'm flying down the highway going just a little too fast… Okay. A lot too fast. And the fact that I’m swerving in and out of traffic like I think I’m a professional race car driver or something … well … let’s just say I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel. Clutching it so hard I might pull it right off. People honk at me as I change lanes like I own the highway and normally I would be totally offended, but this morning I just hold up my hand in apology and grimace each time they do. I know I’m being a complete asshole. But I'm late for work. And just like I never speed, I’m never late for work. Like, never ever. And of all the days for me to be late, it had to be this one. Today is too busy for me to be dealing with any of this. While I live in a small town out in the middle of nowhere, I work for a large sports medicine and orthopedic center in Cincinnati as a physical therapist. Well, kind of the physical therapist. Well, wait. That came out wrong. I’m not the only one working there. God, no. There are tons of us. But I am the one who gets all the big names. You know, people like injured athletes from the Bengals and the Reds and the dancers from the Cincinnati Ballet. I’m also the one who gets the most requests from new patients and I have a waiting list a mile long. My sisters say that I excel at excelling and while I always laugh and try to brush

it off, deep down, I love that they feel that way about me. They think it just comes easily to me, being as successful as I am. They have no idea how hard I work for what I have. But that’s okay. Well, let be honest. It’s okay most days, anyway. Some days I’d like a little recognition for the extra effort I put in. But, for the most part, knowing they think so highly of me makes all the long nights kept awake worrying about the millions of things I have on my to do list a little more tolerable. Anyway, last night I was up for hours worrying about today because it’s a busy one, that’s for sure. By the time I fell asleep, I would have been better off just staying awake until my alarm went off. Maybe then I would have realized that my phone wasn’t on the charger and had died at some point during the night. Maybe then I wouldn’t be late for work. Maybe then I wouldn’t be speeding. But I am late. And I am speeding. And at this point, the only thing left for me to do is admit that the morning is shot and focus on making the best of the rest of today. My first client is one of those big name clients of mine. Hudson Knox, an up and coming pro-football player, recruited by the Bengals only to rupture his Achilles tendon early in the pre-season. I know I can get him rehabbed and back on the field better than ever. I’ve made it my mission to make sure this injury isn’t a career ender. Hence the late nights, researching the latest and greatest information on the most successful Achilles tendon rehabilitations. My second client? A newbie. Just some guy with a knee injury—a meniscal tear that shouldn’t be too hard to get patched up. And after him? A stream of long term clients that I want to get back on their feet and back into life. I get so connected to my patients. I feel their successes as if they were my own. And the setbacks? Well they lead to more sleepless nights as I stare bleary eyed at my tablet well past my bed time, researching new treatments for them. My exit is just a few miles up the road and I’ve done such a great job of being an asshole driver that I’m not quite as late as I thought I was going to be. I turn on my turn signal and make one last crazy maneuver, jerking across two lanes of traffic at a speed that has my chest getting tight. A glance in the rearview shows the guy behind me giving me the bird. I hold up a hand in apology and prepare to merge into the right lane to exit the highway when I see something else in my rearview. Bright lights swirling. And there’s the whirr of a police siren. A cop car, right behind me. Shit. My heart sinks and my stomach goes bitter. I pull off to the side of the road and kill the engine. So much for making up for lost time. Hudson will never let me live this down. That man is a peacock, too proud for his own good. Somehow, he’ll take me being late as a personal offense. I know I’m supposed to be doing something while I wait for the cop to arrive at my window. Get my license and registration. Proof of insurance. All that stuff. That’s protocol, right?

Considering that I’m all about protocol, it’s a little strange that I am very much not doing any of the things I’m supposed to be doing. Instead, I sit with my fingers drumming the steering wheel, tears building in my eyes. I just don’t have time for this. My day is packed too full as it is. I’m tired. I’m overwhelmed. And I really, really don’t want a traffic ticket. But if wishes were fishes I’d be rich, I guess. With a deep, calming breath, I pull out the required paperwork and sit quietly with them in my lap, waiting for the trooper to arrive at my window. I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more. What in the world is he doing? Is this normal? This is the first ticket I’ve gotten since I was a teenager with a lead foot so I have no clue what to expect. I wait so long I get over being nervous and actually start to get frustrated. There’s a big part of me that wants to roll down my window and wave this guy over, but I know better. Or at least I think I know better because the longer I wait, the more tempted I am to do just that. Finally, after what feels like an eternity in which I watch the clock tick past my start time with Hudson, the door to the squad car swings open. My eyes widen in shock because the guy getting out is huge. Broad shoulders and powerful arms. Thighs that rival those of some of my biggest football playing patients. He strides towards me, his hat pulled low, the brim covering most of his face. I see a strong jaw and a lush mouth pulled into a taut line. I don’t know what it is about that uniform on that body. That belt. The gun at his help. Maybe it’s the stress of the morning, but I can’t stop staring at him through the mirror. The moment he’s close enough to the car, I turn towards the window and practically spin completely around in my seat to get a better view of him. Maybe this will make being late all worth it. Maybe striking up a conversation with Officer McHotty will wipe away the stress of the morning and I can show up for my first appointment late but happy. Or … maybe not. Now that he’s close to me, I can see the scowl he had hiding under the brim of his hat. The deep crease hides between his eyebrows, so deep it looks like a permanent feature. His eyes are hard like steel. Or maybe bullets. I don’t know what color bullets are. Surely not this deep, dark blue. But his eyes don’t make me think about water and sky. Not of robins eggs or babies. His eyes make me think of weapons. I’m pretty sure bullet blue isn’t a thing, but for me, it will be from this point forward. He leans down, obliterating the crease on his forehead by lifting his eyebrows. He looks expectant. Like I’m missing something. But I’m lost in the geometry of his features. Such a strong nose. Those dangerous eyes framed by dark lashes. High, sharp cheekbones. Rugged jaw with the hint of a dark beard speckling his thick neck and Adam’s apple. This isn’t a man. This is a wall. A barrier. A hulking expression of anger and

weapons that has this surge of emotion I don’t understand making its way through my body. You would think that a big man like this—all harsh and authoritative— would make me feel afraid. But that’s not it. I don’t have a name for what I’m feeling, but I think I like it. He sighs. Shakes his head and taps on the window with one knuckle and I suddenly realize that I’ve just been staring at him through the glass. That when I decided not to stick my hand out and wave him up to the car that I just sat here and ogled him through the rearview. And then he appeared and instead of behaving like a normal person, I just went ahead and ogled him face to face. Oh. God. This morning can go straight to hell. I shake my head and blink my eyes, make an apologetic face, and roll down the window. “I’m so sorry—” The scowl deepens. “License and registration, please.” His brusque response shakes me. “I’m really sorry, officer,” I say as I hand him the papers I have in my hand. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” He hits me full in the face with those eyes and my heart stops. I can’t breathe under the power. The weight. The threat. I’ve never seen eyes used like a weapon before. I swallow. Nod. Try to get a hold of myself. “I was speeding.” He just grunts and somehow, his eyes get even colder. I mean, I actually shiver. Add a curl of his lip and a dash of condescension and I don’t quite know what to make of this encounter. “I’m running really late to work.” I can’t stand all the judgement in his eyes. I am a good, law-abiding citizen. He has no right to treat me like a common criminal. “Just because you have a reason doesn’t mean you get a pass.” My jaw drops. I can feel it. I mean, he’s right. But, I just … I never … I’m Chelsea London, for God’s sake. I don’t get in trouble. I go out of my way to be the best at being good. And now, the one time I speed on the one day I’m late to work, I get pulled over by Captain Jerk Face and he’s going to get all condescending on me? I just can’t … I mean … Ugh! He scribbles something in his notebook. “I clocked you going eighty-two. The posted limit is sixty-five. Late to work or not, this is not going to go well for you.” I know I should be quiet. Just accept the ticket gracefully and move on because this guy isn’t worth my time. Plus, he’s right. I broke the law, I got caught. I deserve a ticket. It’s a one plus one equals two situation. But, I’m not feeling very gracious this morning. “Really?” I ask in a very un-Chelsea-like manner. “I mean, really? You’re giving me a ticket?” The cop lifts one eyebrow and shoots me in the heart with his eyes again. “Yes,

Ms. London. I am giving you a ticket.” A weary teacher instructing an unruly kindergartner. I sigh. One short puff of air that has more frustration in it than this situation warrants. It’s official. This day blows. I’m all for making the best of everything but as of this exact moment I have officially run out of shits to give. The officer finishes writing me the ticket and passes it to me through the window. “Have a better day, Ms. London,” he says before he saunters back to his squad car. I resist the urge to say exactly what’s on my mind and stare at the citation. One hundred and eighty-five dollars. Great. This day just keeps getting better. The rest of the drive into work is uneventful and when I finally race through the doors into the large open area where we all work on our patients, I take a moment to collect myself. The morning was bad, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the day has to keep on being bad. After a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth (probably a bad idea since no matter how hard we try to get rid of the sour sweat smell, this pace just keeps on smelling like a thousand-year-old gym), I scan the place, searching for Hudson Knox, my football patient with the ruptured Achilles. “Hudson’s over on the treadmill,” Mina Turret, another PT says, pointing to the long row of exercise machines. “Although I’m not sure how you can miss him. He’s huge.” Mina’s new and not all that reliable yet. She hasn’t had the privilege of working with the professional athletes and still gets star-struck whenever they’re in here. “He is big,” I say. “But he’s got an ego to match. It’s no bueno.” “If you say so.” Mina’s tone says that she really doesn’t believe it’s anything but bueno. I spend the short trip over to Hudson giving myself a mental pep talk. So what if the morning was shitty? I am in control of my thoughts and feelings and I choose to make a better day for myself. Plastering a huge smile on my face, I study Hudson’s gait. He’s still walking a little flat-footed on that injured ankle. “You still aren’t leading with the heel,” I say as I come up beside him. Hudson looks down at his foot and then over at me, lifting an eyebrow just the way that awful cop did this morning. I am getting so tired of that look. “Maybe I’d rehab better if, you know, my therapist was actually here to help me.” He smiles, clearly trying to joke with me but I prickle anyway. “One time, Knox,” I say, holding up a finger. “I’ve been late one time.” I adjust the speed on the treadmill, pushing him a little faster. “I don’t think you can blame that limp on my bad morning.” He hits me with an incredulous look. “I haven’t limped in a week.” “You keep saying that and I’ll keep telling you that you need to lead with your heel more.” I smile up at his handsome face. He has the entire female staff here at Cincinnati Orthopedics all aflutter with his wide grin and boyish charm. I don’t know what it is, he just doesn’t do it for me. I like the guy. He would make a great

friend. I’m just not at all interested in anything more. I guess I’m more about guns and creased eyebrows than cheering fans and dimples, I think and get distracted by remembering the way the cop’s gun hung at his hip this morning as he sidled up to my car. What the hell? I’m most certainly not ‘about’ Officer Jerk Face. Not at all. I don’t know if I’ve ever instantly disliked someone the way I instantly disliked him. Besides, I know what I like and it’s not grumpy cops or cocky athletes. I want a man in a business suit with a 401k and a five-year plan. I want safety and security and a kiss on the cheek every morning when he leaves for work. I want predictability. My sisters say it’s boring, but I’ll take that over stress and worry and all the things that come hand in hand with a man who lives outside the confines of perfectly normal, thank you very much. Hudson finishes up his treadmill time and I lead him through the rest of his exercises, keeping a close eye on the way he moves. He’s really coming along quite nicely; we just have that slight limp left to get rid of before I’m ready to call him cured. A quick check of the time while I’ve got Hudson up on the massage table working on the scar tissue around his ankle shows that I’m already five minutes late for my next appointment. For the briefest of moments I think about rushing through the massage, especially given how well he’s healing. But as much Hudson tires to hide how much he worries about his progress with all kinds of bravado and brave words, I know he’s really stressing about getting himself put back together in time for the season to really get started. And since I’ve promised him he’ll be ready, I refuse to skimp on him now. I call Mina over. “Hey,” I say and wait for her to drag her eyes off Hudson. “Would you please get my next patient started for me? I won’t be too much longer with my favorite Bengal, here.” I give his foot a pat and assume that the blubbery affirmative sound coming from Mina—who still hasn’t taken her eyes off Hudson—means that she’ll help me out. “So.” Hudson props himself up on his elbows and stares down the table at me where I’m still working on his ankle. “Do you realize that you’re the only woman here who doesn’t give me the goo-goo eyes whenever they get near me?” “The goo-goo eyes?” “Yeah, you know.” He jerks his head towards Mina as she heads off to get my next patient ready. “The look that means I could have them with just one little crook of my finger. Probably right over there in the bathroom if I wanted to.” “Hudson Knox.” I ty to make it clear how much I utterly disapprove of that statement. “You better not.” He shrugs. “I’ll do what I like, thank you very much. Especially, if the woman who has captured my interest is even slightly interested in return.” Alarm bells are going off like crazy. I give his ankle all my attention, barely lifting my gaze to meet his only to drop it down again. “And just who has captured your interest?” I murmur the question, more out of a need to be polite rather than

any kind of need to know the answer. Please don’t let it be me. Please don’t let it be me. “You.” Damn it. “Hudson. I…” How do I tell him that I’m just not interested in what he has to offer without making our visits awkward from this point forward? “Don’t tell me no, Chelsea.” “You’re my patient.” “That’s right. And I have to repay you for all your brilliance. I’ll be back to full speed in no time and that’s all because of you, my friend.” He flashes that boyish grin at me and damn if I don’t feel part of my resolve melting away. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything fun. And an even longer time since I did anything fun with a good-looking man. “You’re so not my type,” I say. “And you’re not mine.” He shrugs as I frown. “But we can at least go out and have a good time together.” “Relationships aren’t my thing.” “I’m not proposing, London. Just go out with me and have some fun.” I stop working on his ankle and look up at him, considering. A night out sounds good. Really good. Dancing, drinking, conversation… Sensing victory, Hudson smiles. “You seriously look like you need to unwind. And I am the master of unwinding.” I take a deep breath and prepare myself to say no. “You know what?” I say instead. “Sure. I’ll go out with you.” Hudson beams and I can’t help but smile back. We exchange numbers and I give him my address while he promises to pick me up Friday night at eight before he hops off the table, drops one eyelid in a ridiculous wink and heads back to the locker room. “You’re still not leading with that heel,” I call after him. He turns around, smiles at me and flares his hands and damn if I don’t feel just a little excited about seeing him on Friday. After all, he is handsome. And, since he’s brand new to the team, he’s not famous or anything, but he will be. I can feel it. He’s got that kind of drive. How many chances will I have to go out with a guy who’s on the fast track to fame? So, he’s not my dream guy? A girl can have a little fun, right? “Chels?” Mina sidles up beside me, sounding worried. I turn to her, a huge smile on my face. “What’s up? My new patient ready?” “That’s the thing,” she says. “He didn’t want me. He said he wasn’t going to be passed around like leftovers. He’s right over there waiting for you and he doesn’t seem pleased. Like, at all.” She widens her eyes and points to a table behind her where I catch a glimpse of a large man with dark hair and massive arms folded over an even bigger chest. He’s staring after Hudson, so I can’t quite see his face. “What was his name again?”

“Max. Max Santoro.” “Okay, Mina. Thanks for trying. I guess it’s time to turn on all the charm and make him feel like a superstar instead of leftovers.” “Good luck with that. This one is a real beast.” She rolls her eyes and stares after me as I head over to greet Mr. Santoro. He turns as I approach and I stop in my tracks, eyes wide, eyebrows raised. The man perched on the edge of one of my massage table glares at me with his bullet blue eyes and I take a deep, gym-scented breath. Standing right there, looking just as big and scary (and sexy!) in a black t-shirt and low-slung sweatpants as he did with a gun on his hip and the brim of his hat hiding those weapons for eyes is the cop from this morning. And his mood doesn’t seem even a little bit improved.

2

THE LAST PLACE I WANT TO BE RIGHT NOW IS THIS GIANT ANT HILL OF A ROOM FILLED WITH GYM EQUIPMENT and strange machines that look more like torture devices than anything remotely therapeutic. If I had any choice in the matter, any at all, I would be out on patrol, giving my knee the time it needs to heal while I sit in my squad car doing my damn job. Some ice at night, some ibuprofen during the day, and bam. Good to go. But no. I spend one day limping through the office and wouldn’t you know it, I have orders to get my ass to physical therapy or I’ll be riding a desk until Bossman thinks I’m all better. To make matters worse, not only is my therapist late, but she’s also the nincompoop I pulled over for driving like an idiot this morning. The one who was blatantly speeding and swerving recklessly through traffic and didn’t even act surprised or sorry when I pulled her over. She’s probably one of those women who think that just because she’s blonde and beautiful, the world owes her everything. That she gets a pass with a bat of an eyelash and a cute little smile. I get the feeling she’s spoiled rotten. Daddy’s Little Girl and Mommy’s Perfect Angel and the pampered life that comes along with dumb ass nicknames like that. I bet she’s never had to work for anything in her whole life. I glare at her as she walks my way, chin up, eyes bright, hips swaying. “Well, hello again, Mr. Santoro.” She extends a hand and flashes a smile that doesn’t mix well with the tension in her eyes. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” “Feeling’s not exactly mutual.” I don’t do fake. You get what you get with me and, judging by the surprised O of her mouth, this little therapist wasn’t prepared for that.

“Okay, then,” she says with that silly smile still plastered on her face. “We’ll skip the pleasantries and get right to the point. I’m Chelsea London, your physical therapist, and you can trust that I’ll get you back to normal in no time.” “I’m fine. There’s no normal to get back to. I’m already there.” She doesn’t respond—which I actually appreciate—and sends me through a series of exercises that test the range of motion of my knee. I can tell by the tension in her jaw and the slight flare in her nostrils that I’m getting under her skin. And that’s more than fine with me. I’ll just consider it payback for the way she got under mine this morning. “How did you injure yourself?” she asks, thumbing through a thick stack of papers in a manila folder. “I’m not injured.” Chelsea is crouching at my feet to get a better look at my knee and she sighs, looking up at me. “Okay. How did you hurt yourself?” “I’m not hurt.” She stands and purses her lips. Hands on her hips. Eyebrows lifted. She looks so frustrated I can’t help but smile. “Why are you here, Mr. Santoro?” “Because my boss told me he’d pull me off the streets if I didn’t come.” “And why did he send you?” “Hell if I know.” London glares at me. “Maybe I should call him, then. Let him know that you seem to think you’re fine and are being less than cooperative.” There’s an edge to her voice that takes me off guard. She sounds less like the spoiled brat I pegged her for and more like an honest to goodness professional. She’s not whining or petulant. Rather, she’s detached, clinical, and in control. In a rare moment of weakness, I concede. “Basketball.” Her brows meet. “You hurt yourself playing basketball?” I nod and bite the inside of my cheek. I’m really not hurt, but I don’t correct her again. Just twisted my knee a little funny when I was playing against Charlie a couple weeks ago. I explain what happened and she asks me a few more questions and then puts me through a series of exercises. Even though the stupid joint aches and sends these jolts of pain through my leg, I refuse to flinch. I’m only as hurt as I let myself be and I’ll say it as many times as I need to. I am not hurt. Chelsea continues to move with clinical efficiency, a tightly wound ball of energy buzzing around me. She sees everything and says very little. I can tell she notices the lightning strikes of pain but she doesn’t make a big deal about it. It almost seems like she’s decided to stop interacting with me completely and has decided to make this appointment solely about my knee. All of this is fine with me but it does make me wonder if maybe I misjudged her. Not that it matters. I’ll let her do her thing long enough for the Bossman to get off my back and then I’ll be out of here. The hour passes slowly, although the massage at the end isn’t half bad. Her hands are strong and she knows exactly where to concentrate her attention. Again,

I work hard not to flinch, but she finds some spots in my thigh that are downright excruciating. Before I know it, I’m heading out to my car, not sure if I might actually be looking forward to our appointment next week or if I’m still dreading it like the plague. Oddly enough, I found her quiet efficiency very calming. And lord knows I need a little extra calm in my life. It’s one of those beautiful fall days where the sunlight seems extra golden against the blue sky and warms you against the chill in the air. The shadows are just the right length and the red and orange leaves dance in the wind. I love the beginning of October in Ohio. It makes perfect days for meeting Charlie in the park. Normally, we’d play some basketball, because in all honesty, the kid is a little obsessed. But even I know my knee needs some rest, so today I’m going to bring my dog Reagan, a German Shepherd rescue. Reagan is smart, too smart for her own good really, and has enough energy to keep the boy entertained. They can play fetch while I sit on the bench and then I’ll take them for ice cream before his mom comes to pick him up. When I first joined the Big Brother program, I was nervous that I wouldn’t have anything of value to impart to these kids. After all, I’m carrying more than my fair share of scars. I couldn’t help but worry that I wasn’t the kind of role model these boys would need. It didn’t take long to learn that these kids just need some one on one time with someone who cares. That I didn’t need to worry about imparting some great dose of wisdom on them. I just needed to be there with an encouraging word and a friendly smile. And, as it turns out, I learned that I actually do have some advice for these kids. In the end, I don’t know whose life is more changed. Theirs or mine. The drive home is peaceful, another rare thing. I head inside to get Reagan and the moment I pull the leash off the little hook by the door, she comes running, her nails clicking and clacking on the hardwood floor of my kitchen. “Hey, my friend.” I kneel down and press my forehead to hers. Her tongue is lolling out the side of her mouth and she’s panting her doggie breath into my face, but none of that bothers me. I take a moment to appreciate the closeness and then clip the leash to her collar before leading her outside and up into the backseat of my car. I roll down her window just enough for her to stick her head outside and turn on the radio as we make the short drive to the park. I can’t stand silence. It makes me anxious. Itchy. The thoughts in my head get loud and angry and I don’t need any more of that in my life than there already is. The music helps keep them at bay. Charlie is already waiting for me, swinging his skinny legs on a bench all by himself, his worn shoes skimming just above the concrete. Give him another month and he’ll be tall enough for his feet to touch the ground. The boy grows like a weed. “Hey, Charlie,” I say as I drop onto the bench beside him. “Where’s your mom?” “She had to go. But it’s okay. I sat right here just like she said and didn’t talk to no one.” Charlie eyes Reagan warily. “That’s a big dog.” “Reagan?” I say, rubbing her between her ears so he can see just how friendly

she is. “Yeah, she is pretty big. But she’s sweet. I thought you might like to play fetch with her today.” “She bite?” “Nah.” I slide off the bench and take her big head in my hands, rough her up a little and then hug her tight. “Reagan’s a good girl. I rescued her from the shelter a couple years ago. Can you believe no one wanted her?” Charlie’s eyes soften. “So she’s like me, then.” His words are a punch to the gut. “If you mean that she’s the kind of friend I like hanging out with and she makes me laugh until it hurts, then sure. She’s exactly like you.” I have to be a little more hands on with the whole fetch idea than I intended. It’s easy to forget how intimidating Reagan looks, especially to a little boy who has a fair share of uncertainty in his life. My knee is not at all happy with me. Whatever that physical therapist did to me today has taken its toll. Wouldn’t you know that the thing that’s supposed to make me feel better actually made things worse. Isn’t that the way of it? By the end of our visit, Charlie is over his fear of Reagan and giggles like the child he is when he feeds her the ice cream I got for her. He doesn’t laugh often; he giggles even less often. Today, for whatever reason, the sound pierces through the armor around my heart and plants the boy right there. Not many people get in that far, but now that he’s made it, he’s safer than he’s ever been in all his life. I protect the people I love, no matter the cost.

3

DESPITE MY INITIAL MISGIVINGS ABOUT GOING OUT WITH HUDSON, I’M ACTUALLY EXCITED. WE’RE GOING to Aura, a club in downtown Cincy that’s known for its long lines and swanky clientele. This, coupled with the fact that I haven’t done something outside of my routine in a long, long time has given me just the excuse I need to go all out on the getting ready portion of my day. Normally, I straighten the heck out of my hair, leaving it shiny and sleek. Today I went for a little volume, blowing it out and teasing it up. I’m sure it’s still tame by most standards, but for me, I’m feeling a little dangerous. Add the short little body-hugging blue dress, the high rise heels, and the smoky eye makeup and I barely recognize the woman in the mirror. I twist to get a better view of my backside and can’t help but smile. I look good. A little slutty, sure, but good nonetheless. You know who wouldn’t believe that I’m going out like this? My sisters. I snap a picture and send it to them, grinning while I wait for the responses. I don’t wait long and the shock and awe coming from Maya and Dakota does not disappoint. I spend the rest of the time giggling as they blow up my phone with questions about where I’m going and with whom and why didn’t they know sooner. I expect all the details, preferably with pics, the moment you’re alone. That’s Dakota, my youngest sister. I send her a smiley face in response as my doorbell rings. The phone buzzes in my hand as I race downstairs, but Dakota will just have to wait. I’ve got better things to do right now, you know, like open the door for my mildly famous, hot as

hell, built like Hercules date. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I take a beat. Smooth my dress. Fluff my hair. Put on a smile and calm the butterflies in my stomach. And then I swing open the door and totally lose my composure. Hudson is dressed to the nines. Gorgeous pants that fit him more than perfectly. An expensive white button down, untucked, the cuffs rolled up to show his strong forearms and one damn fine watch. The top few buttons undone and showing off just a hint of what has to be a brick wall of a chest. My mouth is open and I close it quickly. “Damn, London,” says the Grecian statue on my front porch. “You look almost edible.” I’m sure another woman would have the perfect response to that statement but I’m busy blushing from head to toe as I imagine being eaten by this man. I quiver a little. Needless to say, it’s been awhile since anyone’s been … err … down there. “Ditto,” I say and cringe at my total lack of game and hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way. As in, I look edible and he looks edible and we will be enjoying each other’s edibility before the end of the evening. Hudson’s eyes light up and I know in a heartbeat that he totally took my response the wrong way. “Alright then. It’s gonna be that kind of night,” he says with a look that is a little more creepy rapist than Greek god. I take the time to get myself under control while I lock up and follow him to his car. It is most definitely not going to be that kind of night. I’m here for the company, the conversation, the drinks, and the dancing. There will be no eating of anyone for any reason. The sooner Hudson understands that, the better. I do my best to keep the conversation light during the trip downtown and then again as he leads me right into Aura—bypassing all the people stuck in line, whispering to each other about us—but Hudson is not having it. He keeps leading the conversation right back to inappropriate. When we run into one of his friends, another football player with one of those douchebag athlete names I can’t remember right now, things just get worse by the minute. There’s too much drinking, too much innuendo, too much of Hudson’s hands on my body. June, the douchebag’s date just drinks it all in and it doesn’t take long for me to realize she’s a vapid moron, taken in by the muscles, the fame, and the dollar signs. And good lord the dollar signs. Hudson and Douchebag throw money around like it’s no big thing, ordering alcohol by the bottle, pushing tips into the waitress’s bra as she leans over to gather up empty glasses. June just giggles her stupid little head off, but I’m really starting to wish I had stayed home. If I knew I was going to waste looking this hot on a totally immature experience like this, I would have declined. “Come on, Chelsea,” slurs Hudson. “Lighten up. Smile a little. I mean, that pout is sexy as hell. What I wouldn’t do to that mouth, am I right?” He turns to Douchebag and actually high fives the guy. “But you’re sitting in the hottest club, with the hottest guys, drinking the hottest drinks, looking mighty fine yourself.

Relax. Have some fun.” I smile while June giggles and wonder how long I have to stay in order to not jeopardize our relationship at work. This was such a mistake. What kind of idiot dates her own patient? Especially when she knew from the get go that he wasn’t her type… This kind of idiot, I think with a sigh. “Dance with me?” I ask Hudson, trying not to show my irritation. June actually bounces in her seat and claps her hands. “Oooh. Yes. Let’s dance, Sloan.” She bites her lip and bats her eyelashes. Sloan, that’s the douchebag’s name. Sloan Anderson. “I’m a fighter, not a dancer, baby girl.” Sloan crosses his massive arms over his chest and leans back while June melts into a puddle beside me. I turn to Hudson and raise my eyebrows. “What about you? Fighter? Dancer? Little of both?” If I could just get him away from Douchebag and Vapid Moron, maybe we could start having some fun. A grin slides across his face and for some reason it makes me recoil. “Me?” he asks with a little twist of his head. “I’m all about the ladies.” He stands and offers me his hand and I get the feeling that I’m supposed to cover my mouth and titter, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I knew Hudson was a player, I just didn’t realize the ramifications of spending an evening with this kind of guy. It’s lame. He’s lame. I regret everything. We work our way through the crowded club and I catch more than one person recognize Hudson. I also catch more than one person size me up, try to figure out who I am and how I warrant such prestigious company. Part of me wants to throw up my hands and let everyone know the experience isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but I think there are plenty of people here who would beg to differ. They see the hot guy, the dimpled smile, the expensive clothes and total disregard of the cost of anything, and that all just seems like the best life has to offer. Me? I see tired pickup lines and tedious affectations. I see shallow people being impressed by shallow things. This just isn’t me. But I’m here, so I’ll make the best of it and for me, that means dancing. Hudson is a little too drunk to call what he’s doing dancing. For a guy who makes a living with his body, he’s being completely uncoordinated, jerking his hips and hands in some weird spastic seizure that I’m pretty sure he thinks is sexy. And, true to form, no matter how many times I push him away, he comes right on back, invading my personal space like he has already decided he owns me. He pulls on my hips, runs his hands up my back, even goes so far as to grab me by the back of my neck and lean down until our foreheads are almost touching. “You’re so fucking hot,” he slurs, his tequila tainted breath slapping me in the face. “You’re gonna be famous after tonight. You looking like that, with me looking like this.” He steps back and flares his hands down his body, eyeing me like he

thinks he’s setting me on fire. “Your face is gonna be plastered on all the tabloids.” Sure. Because the tabloids care enough about an injured rookie in a club in downtown Cincinnati to make him front page news. “You think?” I ask. “Uh-huh.” Hudson nods and steps back into my space grinding his hips into me until I back up. “Fast track to fame, London. I’m on it.” I’ve pretty much hit my limit of sleazy asshole for the evening. I pick his hand off my shoulder and drop it before holding out my palm in a gesture that clearly means stop. I take a deep breath and shake my head, swallow hard and wait for his eyes to focus on me. “Fast track to fame?” I ask and raise my brows. “Not if you don’t start leading more with that heel.” And with that, I do my best about-face and make a beeline for the bathroom. My heart is racing and I can’t quite catch my breath. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m never rude. Like, never ever. And that was pretty much the rudest thing I’ve ever said to anyone. Ever. But I tried getting my point across delicately and he was way too drunk for delicate. So much for not affecting our work relationship. I am so dumb. What was I thinking? I push through the bathroom door, intent on getting to the sink and splashing some cool water on my face before I figure out how the hell I’m going to get myself home. As the door swings shut behind me, I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. There’s a man. A big man. And a little woman. Struggling. His hand is on her mouth. The other has her dress hiked up over her hips, fighting its way between her legs. Her eyes are wide, her mascara joining with her tears and running down her face. She sees me, and her eyes go even wider, the whites showing in fear and desperation. If you believe the movies, things slow down in a situation like this. That’s not at all what happens for me. There’s no slow motion sequence where I get to see everything and makes sense of it all. Instead, I get flashes of information. Everything going too quick for me to understand it all at once. First, I recognize the woman as June. The man turns and I recognize Sloan. Worse, I recognize the slow smile of a predator as he realizes he knows who I am, too. There’s a scuffle. June screams and he slaps her. Hard. Her head ricochets into the wall and her eyes go blank while somehow, some way, Sloan gets his hands on me. I struggle. His hand clamps on my throat and I rake my fingernails down his face. “Dirty bitch,” he hisses as blood raises to the surface of the scratches glaring red and angry on his skin. He hits me. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, sending starbursts of color through my vision. My body betrays me, going limp, and all I can think is that I’ve never been hit before and that there’s a first time for everything. Sloan’s hands are all over me. Pawing. Grabbing. I struggle but he’s just so big. He drags me over to the still recovering June and hauls her to her feet. I scream for help while he’s distracted and earn myself another explosion of pain. Somewhere, far away, I hear my name. Someone calling for me. I call out as Sloan fiddles with his belt, the clank of the buckle coming free echoes through the

bathroom and is the most ominous sound in the entire world. No. I take that back. June’s words to me are the most ominous sound in the entire world. “Stop struggling,” she says. “It’ll hurt less.” There’s my name again. Hudson’s voice. Concerned. Questioning. “Chelsea?” I struggle to make a sound, squealing against the hand pressed to my mouth and somehow, somehow, I manage to bring a knee up into Sloan’s balls. I slip as I do, skittering in my heels, but by some miracle, I manage enough contact to stagger him. He grunts and folds in on himself, letting me go. “Hudson!” I scream “Help!” The rest is just a blur of confusion. The bathroom is suddenly too crowded. There’s the low growl of men’s voices, threatening and heavy. I slump, my vision swirling with tears. June’s face, pale and bruised, an ever reddening reminder of Sloan’s hand standing out hard and angry across her mouth. Her eyes scare me, wide and glazed, rimmed in running black. I curl into a ball on the floor while Hudson deals with Sloan. I know pain like I’ve never known it before. My face screams at me. A dozen little scrapes on my arms and hands burn like fire. And my shoulder, it hurts too. But you know what? Pain or not, I am not the kind of woman that curls up and dies when things get hard and I’ll be damned if people find me bruised and sobbing on the bathroom floor in some stupid night club. I am not that girl. I swallow and push into a sitting position, wincing as I wipe my tears. “Are you okay?” I ask June. She nods, blinking rapidly. “He didn’t do anything to me.” I can’t stop staring at the red mark on her mouth, another on her throat, bruises forming on her neck and face. Remnants of Sloan’s hands on her body. “Yes. He did,” I respond. “He most definitely did.” I stand, both afraid to see myself in the mirror and desperate to assess the damage. My lip is bleeding and swollen. My right cheekbone is already bruising. My hair is a disaster, my eyes rimmed in black just like June’s. My dress is torn and I don’t even know how or when it happened. A crowd has gathered outside the door, people ogling and staring and I can’t help but resent the fact that no one has come in to check on us yet. The sheer number of people who have their phones out, texting or tweeting or whatever the fuck they think is more important than calling the police makes me angry. And then Hudson pushes his way through the crowd, apology and fear twisting his handsome face into one of the more gruesome parts of the evening. A face like that wasn’t designed for such tragedy. It was meant to smile and be admired, not bear the weight of something like this. “Fuck. I can’t even ask if you guys are okay because look at you. You’re not okay.” He’s beside us, his touch gentle, his eyes concerned. I flinch from him anyway. “Come on,” he says, wrapping us up like two injured birds. “Let’s get you guys to the hospital.” I leave with him, resenting how much I need his strong arm

around my shoulders.

4

OF COURSE THE ASSHOLE HAD TO RUN. OF COURSE, HE COULDN’T JUST PULL OVER AND TAKE THE SPEEDING ticket like any normal person. No. He had to be a jerkoff with a dirty conscious who panicked and bolted before I even got out of my car. So, of course, I had to take off after him. And now, wouldn’t you know, I hurt. My knee is on fire. Throbbing and laughing and pointing out just how very weak and vulnerable I actually am. I caught the bastard. Got him in spite of my knee. In fact, I even made sure to jam it in his back as I took him down, just to prove a point. Then I cuffed him, dragged him back to the car, and drove him into the station. It’s taking more out of me than I want to admit to manage walking without a limp while I’m here because I’ll be damned if anyone sees me and tells Bossman. I will not ride a desk. I sure as hell didn’t join the force for the paperwork. I manage to maintain an even gait all the way to my car and let a long breath out through my mouth as I lift my leg inside and shut the door behind me. Rain patters on my windshield while I take a moment to let the pain dissipate. First just a few drops, and then a whole mess of them come gushing down, detonating on the glass as I twist the keys in the ignition. The thump of the windshield wipers keeps me company while I wait for my Bluetooth to connect to my phone so I can turn on some music. The last thing I need right now is silence. The ride home is an exercise in frustration. A little rain on the roads is more than most people can handle and all four lanes on the highway are going about ten miles per hour under the speed limit. I get the need to feel safe, I really do. But how about you go ahead and feel safe over in the right lane so I can go the speed limit in

one of the other three lanes? My knee throbs and I hate to admit it, but I’m actually looking forward to physical therapy tomorrow. I was sore the first day after my first appointment last week, but I’ve been faithful with the exercises I was given to do at home. Diligently following all the directions that little blonde nincompoop gave me. Over the weekend I actually started to feel like I was making progress. The pain was receding. I was moving with more freedom. Wouldn’t you know that right now I hurt worse than I did the day I twisted the damn thing playing basketball with Charlie? Maybe the nincompoop will get me back on track with her freakishly strong hands when I go see her tomorrow. I pull into my garage, the roar of the rain hiding the familiar squeak of the garage door rolling up on its hinges. Reagan’s losing her mind just inside the house, a disaster of pent up energy. Poor thing is in desperate need of a walk but with the rain and the knee, she’s just going to have to wait. I grab a beer and head right through my silent house to sit on my covered back patio, bringing Reagan with me so she can at least enjoy a change of scenery. I have to chase her out in the yard so she’ll pee. “You’re such a girl sometimes,” I say as I twist off the cap to my beer and take a seat. “Too worried about getting your poor feet wet.” Reagan does her business, cocking her head like she’s listening to me before she runs back and curls up at my feet. Her nostrils flare and her chest heaves as she scents the air. Even with the rain pattering all around me, it’s too quiet. I pull out my phone and load up some tunes just in time to hear the sliding glass door on the other side of my privacy fence slide open. “You sure?” asks a small voice, almost totally overpowered by the rain. “I’ll get really wet.” “Totally sure,” replies an adult voice, a mother to a child. “I used to play in the rain all the time when I was a kid.” And just like that all the air is sucked from my lungs. As the neighbor kid shrieks with laughter, his mother’s voice a low hum of joy twining with his, a memory transports me to one of the few good moments I had with my own mom. The images are old and tainted by age, idealized over the years, I’m sure. I hear my mom’s voice, the voice of an angel, warm and lyric and soft. The sound of comfort and safety. “Look, Max! A rainbow!” I’m five again. Maybe four. And the sun shines through a rainstorm. Everything is golden and I laugh and laugh, arms out to the side, twirling in a circle while the rain drops onto my upturned face. I stop and stare in the direction my mother points. “It’s so pretty!” She crouches down and wraps an arm around me while we watch the colors arch across the sky. “It’s just for us, Max. A perfect rainbow for a perfect day.” The happy sounds of the neighbors twine themselves with the sound of my mother’s voice in my memory and I can’t stand it. The days she sounded like that were few and far between. I don’t want to taint it with anything.

“Happy birthday to me,” I mutter and throw back the rest of my beer before I stand and head back inside. Reagan stops just outside the door, reluctant to go back in after just breaking free of the place, but she’s a good dog. “Go on,” I say and she does. Today is not the day I was actually born. I don’t celebrate that day. Birthdays are meant to celebrate the day a person came into existence and I didn’t really exist until I was accepted into the police academy. All the stuff that came before that is just what keeps me awake at night. Besides, if we get really deep and really think hard about the way things unfolded, the day I was born set things in motion that led up to the first great tragedy of my life. Why in God’s name would I celebrate that? But the academy saved me. Gave me purpose. A reason to exist. A way to make sure there’s at least someone out there making sure the bad guys don’t get to do bad things to good people and get away with it. I limp upstairs to take a shower, haunted by memories of my mother. Her skin, soft like silk. The way she always smelled like a cupcake. Her eyes, blue like mine, staring empty and lifeless at me where I hid under the kitchen table, blood pooling under her cheek, matting her dark hair… The shower isn’t cutting it. Rage boils in my veins. Like Reagan, I feel trapped in this house, the walls and the silence closing in on me. Fuck it. I can’t be here, memories churning like knives in my stomach. I’m seeing the physical therapist tomorrow, she can fix whatever damage I do. I pull on a pair of shorts and a shirt, lace up my running shoes, and clip Reagan’s collar to her leash. She’s going to like being out in the rain about as much as my knee is going to like going for a run, but neither of them get a say in the matter. If I stay here, the demons in my head are going to get me.

5

I DIDN’T GO TO WORK ON MONDAY. THE WEEKEND WAS ALL ABOUT ME GETTING MY EMOTIONAL SHIT IN order and hiding my bruises from the world. By the time Monday morning rolled around and the bruise on my cheek was still vivid and my lip was still swollen, I just couldn’t bring myself to face all the judgement and sympathy from my colleagues. I called in and I never do that. Like, never ever. Believe me, I’m totally aware of how much I’ve been saying that lately. Is this some kind of not-quite-mid-life crisis? A just-past-quarter-life crisis? An I’m-turning-thirty-next-month crisis? Or has it just been a really bad week and I’m over thinking everything? Because that’s something I never do. Ha. Even I can’t bring myself to believe that. I’m going to work today. I don’t think I could handle another day alone in my house with nothing but the bitch in my head to keep me company. Sitting still has never been one of my strong points. If I’m not actively working towards something, I start to go a little stir crazy, a little stagnant. I need a project. A goal. A reason to believe I’m worthwhile. Spending a few days alone in my quiet house did nothing to make me feel like there’s a purpose to my existence. It just made me feel, what? Not worthless, although that’s part of it. Not invisible, because I know people care about me. But, what? Inconsequential. That’s what. And as much as I don’t want to deal with the judgement and sympathy of my co-workers, I really don’t want to feel inconsequential. That’s a dangerous way for me to feel. I tried texting with my sisters to keep me company, but Maya had a crisis at work

—and as a pediatric surgeon, her crises are pretty damn all-encompassing—and Dakota was somewhere halfway across the world and was in and out of cell reception. They both know what happened to me and are both absolutely mortified. We have plans to get together over the weekend when Dakota’s in town so we can talk about it in true London sister fashion. By then I should actually be ready to talk about it. Truth is, I’m ashamed and don’t know why. I’m so embarrassed, like my bruised cheekbone is some kind of scarlet letter, marking me as faulty or broken. Like I am somehow to blame for what Sloan did to me at Aura. Intellectually, I know I’m not to blame, but for some reason that hasn’t stopped the torrents of terrible thoughts from circling around in my brain like vultures over carrion. So, today I go to work sporting a bruised body and battered ego. I also get to face Hudson, my first appointment of the day. Somehow, that just triples the embarrassment. He was a spectator of the lowest moment of my life and now I have to face him as a professional. I can’t hide from him. I can’t ignore him. I have to smile at him and touch him and talk to him when all I want to do is push him away. Which is silly, I know. But I’m not in a place where knowing something seems to do me any good at all. Yesterday’s rain brought the first real chill of fall with it. I’m almost too thankful to bury myself in my favorite chunky sweater. Like hiding my body under a shapeless piece of clothing will make it all better. I keep reminding myself that Sloane’s bad behavior had nothing to do with my dress and everything to do with his own broken mind, but it’s not helping. Because, for one, how lame am I? Who calls assaulting two women in a bathroom ‘bad behavior’? I pull into my parking space outside of Cincinnati Orthopedics. Bruised face and battered ego or not, today is not about me. Today is about getting my patients put back together again. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, check my face in the mirror and head inside, steeling myself against the inevitable hubbub that my appearance will cause. Mina’s the first person to see me. Shock drops her jaw before she manages to school her face into something more professional. I was honest when I called in yesterday and told my boss about what happened. Mina was the one who took over my clients so she knew what to expect from me when I walked in today. Her initial reaction makes me all the more conscious of how I must look because even being prepared, my face still shocked her. “Hey Bruiser,” she says, somehow sensing my need to make light of the situation. I have to give credit where credit’s due because I appreciate the hell out of the smile on her face and joke in her voice. “You should see the other guy,” I reply. She gives me the run down on my patients from yesterday as if I didn’t have a huge glowing beacon of embarrassment on my face and it’s so nice to just forget about what happened and feel like myself again. If only the rest of the day would go so well. “So, honestly,” Mina says after she finishes telling me about how yesterday

went. “If you need to go home before the end of your day, my afternoon is light. I’d be more than willing to take over for you again. I had a lot of fun yesterday, working with all the big names.” “I appreciate that, Mina. I really do. But I just have to make it through Hudson’s appointment and then Max Grumpy-butt Santoro and then it’s a slew of dancers from the Cincinnati Ballet. Hudson’s appointment will only be as awkward as I make it and I’m mature enough to make it very easy. Mr. Santoro will be hard but that’s just because he’s kind of a jerk. But between you and me, I really like the appointments with the dancers and I really could use a huge dose of normal.” Mina puts a consoling hand on my arm and I resist the urge to shrug it off. She’s only trying to be sweet, but it feels a little too much somehow. I smile and show too much teeth and Mina smiles and it doesn’t reach her eyes and it sure says a whole lot that I can’t wait to find Hudson waiting for me so I can go ahead and put an end to this uncomfortable encounter. Well, that is, until I see Hudson staring at me from across the room. His arms are crossed over his chest, and not in that proud, badass kind of way that a lot of men adopt when they’re trying to look tough. This is a little more sunken. A little more reserved. There’s nothing proud about his posture. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth and there’s a storm cloud of worry and regret and embarrassment weighing down his pretty face. He hasn’t gotten any better at supporting that kind of emotion and for all the strength in his body, he looks almost crumpled under the burden of carrying it. I must be a coward because the moment I see him my heart speeds up and my breath catches and I just want to turn and run away. This isn’t even the guy that hurt me. And it’s not like the guy that hurt me did actually did anything to me… Wait, what? Who is this woman in my head that sounds eerily close to poor June? Sloan sure as shit did something to me. He hit me. He hurt me. He doesn’t get a pass because he didn’t get a chance to rape me. And Hudson doesn’t get to carry the burden of his friend’s bad decisions either. I refuse to let him feel so bad when all he did was drink too much and strut around like the player I knew he was. What happened to me is not his fault and I won’t let him make it his fault. I take, like, my fifteenth deep breath of the morning and head his way. “Hey,” I say, conjuring up a smile as I get close to him. “Holy shit.” His jaw drops in an approximation of Mina’s. “Chelsea, I am so sorry—” I hold up my hand and cut him off. “Nope. I don’t accept it.” His face crumbles and I hurry on. “You didn’t hit me, Hudson. This isn’t because of anything you did.” I wave a finger over my still tender cheek. “I’m the one who took you to Aura.” “I went with you willingly. By that logic, I’m also to blame.” Darkness settles in his eyes. “It’s not your fault that Sloan is an asshole.” “Nor is it yours.”

And just like that, the weight slides off his face. His unfolds his arms. Straightens his back. “No, I guess it isn’t, is it?” The sparkle is back in his eyes, the light back in his voice. He’s so much more comfortable being happy than he is being tense, it doesn’t take him much to get back there. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m sorry it happened to you, though.” “How’s June?” I ask, leading him back towards the treadmills. “She’s okay, I guess. I see her a lot because she’s one of those girls who just wants a football player, doesn’t matter which one. I don’t think this was her first rodeo, if you know what I mean.” He grimaces. “Is she pressing charges?” He stops in his tracks. “Are you?” He grabs me by the arm. “Because I guarantee she won’t.” I’m busy trying to decide if he wants me to press charges or if he wants me to protect his teammate. I’m also busy trying to cover up the fact that it wasn’t the very first thing I did. Because let’s be real here, it should have been the very first thing I did. “Probably,” I say and watch his face carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. “Good.” Hudson nods like things are all settled and starts walking again. “I’ll be a witness if you want. Too many guys think that just because they’re professional athletes they’re above the law. I like Sloan, but I don’t want him thinking he can just get away with that kind of stuff. I’ve got my own career to think about. Can’t be all wrapped up in that shit. Not after starting my first season with an injury.” He gestures down to his ankle. “Speaking of, are you ever going to start leading with that heel?” We stop in front of one of the treadmills. “Today. I will fix that shit today if it’ll get you off my back.” “Sure. I’ve heard that before.” “Is that a challenge?” Hudson smiles and hops up on the machine, walking with a very exaggerated leading heel. “Because I never back away from a challenge.” We joke a little bit more and I’m glad to put all the heavy stuff behind us. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I was kind of hoping that June would be the one to press charges because she was the one Sloan initially assaulted. But now that I know she isn’t going to press charges, now that I know it’s all going to fall to me, well, there’s this tight little ball of resignation in my belly. If what Hudson says is true, if this isn’t the first time Sloan’s done something like this, then I’d be socially remiss not to report him. I’d be partially responsible for each woman he hurts from this point forward. And with that kind of logic, I have to report him. I can’t just sit here and let him get away with what he did because it’ll be easier or less embarrassing or whatever. My heart sinks as I think about the ramifications of admitting assault by a professional athlete. The media. The coverage. The last thing I want is my name dragged through something like that. I push it all out of my mind for right now. I’m at work and I’m here for my

patients, not for myself. Hudson really is doing his best to lead with his heel and I examine his gait for any other oddities for a few minutes. I don’t really see anything to speak of. He’s just a few appointments away from not needing me anymore and that’s one hell of a good feeling. It’s not easy to recover from a ruptured Achilles. It takes a good surgeon, a good patient, a good PT, and just the right amount of luck. Luckily for Hudson, he had a healthy dose of all four.

6

DAMN IT. I WAS SO EXCITED TO GET TO PHYSICAL THERAPY AND GET TO WORK ON MY ACHING KNEE THAT I’M here early and have nothing to do but sit in this uncomfortable plastic chair and wait my turn. My run yesterday was everything I needed and everything I didn’t all wrapped up into one. Today, my knee hurts enough that even I am willing to admit that it’s injured. That it needs attention before I can do my job properly. After a solid six miles of running in the rain, I finally outran the memories, so the pain today is worth it. By the time I finished my second shower of the day, I fell into bed and didn’t move until well past sunrise. The waiting room at Cincinnati Orthopedics is incorporated into their workout area. It’s just one big, open room with lots of machines designed to help put people back together again which, while a little unnerving when you’re getting worked on, makes it perfect for people watching when you’re not. It’s a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine, studying people when I’m out in a public place. I like to try and figure out as much as I can about them by studying their mannerisms and behavior. It started as something I did subconsciously while I was in the foster system. A survival mechanism. It’s so much easier to avoid a problem if you’ve already pegged someone as a potential threat. But as I aged out of the system and realized that I’d been doing it and how it had helped me come through some super shitty experiences with only the smallest amount of scarring, I cultivated the habit. Now, I read people quickly. Get a feel for who they are and what they’re thinking. It’s helped me nail more than just a few criminals with nothing more than a traffic violation and a gut feeling. It doesn’t take too long for my focus to settle on my physical therapist. Her

blonde hair is down today, hanging just to her shoulders, and continually hiding her face from view. After a few minutes, I start to think she’s doing it on purpose. A few minutes after that, I know she’s doing it on purpose. My alarm bells are going off like crazy. I know that posture all too well. Arms wrapped around herself. Shoulders slumped. Chest hollowed out. She’s scared and trying to pretend she’s not. And her eyes only complete the picture. She won’t keep them in one place. Her focus darts around like she’s trying to take in everything all at once. I know what that look means, and, even if she is a nincompoop, I can’t stand seeing anyone look like that. But then she turns towards me, showing me her whole face for the first time and my heart jumps into my throat. A massive bruise stretches across her cheekbone. There’s a gash on her bottom lip and a wariness showing in her eyes that she doesn’t seem comfortable with at all. I stand. I can’t help it. Seeing her pretty face all banged up like that taps into years of my own personal baggage. I even take a few steps towards her before I fully realize I’m moving and force myself to stop. Hurt or not, in need or not, this woman is a stranger, one that I wasn’t exactly nice to when we first met. The last thing she needs is me going all over-protective on her ass. Hell, I’m a big man and wear a scowl like a badge of honor. I’m scary in my own right. Any number of things could have caused those bruises. A car wreck. A fall. An accident at the gym. But my instincts say it’s a man who did that to her. The last thing she needs is me coming at her, regardless of my intention. She catches my eye and twists her face into one of wry amusement, shrugs her shoulders and her hand moves to cover her face—probably subconsciously. I purse my lips and nod, just once. An affirmation of the bruise, of her embarrassment. A promise not to come stomping over there and interrupt while she’s working with her patient. I sit on the very edge of my seat and drum my fingers on my injured knee. The cop in me is sizing her up. Sizing up the guy with her. Sizing up everyone in this room. Looking for answers before I even know what questions I’m asking. All the while I’m fighting the urge to come to her rescue. To find out what happened and take all my years of pent up rage out on whoever did that to her. Because nincompoop or not, I’m certain this woman is a good person, doing her best to make it in the world. I have a million explanations for what happened to her swirling around in her head, each one worse than the one that came before it, all of them spawned by the incredible amount of shit I’ve seen in the world. People are capable of some pretty fucked up things. It only takes a few sideways glances from some of the people surrounding me to make me realize that I look just like the kind of person capable of those fucked up things. Back straight, jaw set, perched on the edge of my chair while I stare down the pretty physical therapist with the bruised face. My dark features are imposing as it is, I know that and use it to my advantage every chance I get. But now? While I’m being this intense? I’m sure I’m downright scary.

I force myself to sit back in my chair and take a few breaths. Force my attention away from the blonde with the bruised face. Ignore the surge of memories threatening to break through the barrier I reconstructed during my run last night. This woman is a stranger, I tell myself over and over. She hasn’t asked for your help. Hell, she might not even need my help. Not everyone who is the victim of a crime is an actual victim. She might have everything taken care of. And I might be jumping to conclusions about how she got those bruises. Although, watching her, I doubt I am. Like I said, I know how to read people. And I know that look on her face all too well. All too well, indeed.

7

“GOOD MORNING, MR. SANTORO.” THE GUY HAS BEEN STARING AT ME SINCE HE GOT HERE. THOSE DEEP lines etched into the space between his eyebrows. I wanted to crumple under the weight of it, but I didn’t, even if I did find it a little rude. This guy is a cop after all. It’s not like he hasn’t seen his fair share of bruised faces in his time. “Morning.” He smiles at me, polite and reserved. I’m surprised. I expected a barrage of questions after the last fifteen minutes of intense scrutiny. “That limp seems more pronounced today than it was when you left last week.” If he’s going to pull of professional then damn it, I will, too. “Observant,” he says in that tight-lipped growl of his. My sarcasm meter is going off like crazy, but his eyes are too soft for sarcasm. “I may have pushed myself too hard yesterday.” “And just what exactly do you consider pushing yourself too hard?” “I went for a couple runs.” There is so much more to this guy than he lets on. I can see it running right underneath his tight-lipped surface. He’s practically vibrating with energy and I know there’s so much he’s not saying. I can see it in those bullet blue eyes. “A couple runs.” I twist my lips into what I hope is a wry expression of disbelief. “Can you be a little more detailed?” Rather than lead him over to the bikes like I had originally intended, I have him hop up on one of the examination tables so I can get a better look at his knee. “No need to get all judgmental on me, Ms. London. The first run wasn’t exactly my choice.” I let out a surprised little laugh. I can’t believe the audacity of this guy! “No

judgement. Just stuff I need to know.” I roll up his pant leg, wishing he had worn shorts because unveiling his leg like this feels oddly intimate. “I pulled a guy over for speeding yesterday and the bastard bolted. I chased him.” He flinches as I probe his swollen knee with my fingers. “Couldn’t you have called for backup or something?” Something about knowing he had to chase down a bad guy yesterday makes me see him in a different light. He’s not just a cop sitting in his car, waiting for poor women who are late to work to zoom by so he can make his quota for the month. This is a man who chases down criminals on a Monday afternoon. “I could. But the guy would have gotten away. That’s not exactly doing my job, now is it?” He looks down at me, his eyes intense. “I guess not.” His knee looks bad enough that I’m not putting him on the bike. I don’t even think I want him doing any exercise at all. I’ll hook him up to the TENS unit and then do some deep tissue massage before I ice him down and send him home. “And the other run? Was that job related, too?” “No. But it was just as necessary.” The look on his face tells me not to push so I don’t. “Well, you’ve pushed us backwards a bit here. I don’t want you putting any more strain on the knee today so we’re going to skip all the work on your part and go straight to the work on my part.” I get him stretched out and comfortable while I attach the self-adhesive pads to key points around the joint. I keep having to fiddle with his pants and am growing ever more uncomfortable with it and I don’t know why. It’s not like I haven’t had to deal with a patient’s inappropriate clothing choices before. “So the bruises…” he says as I turn on the TENS unit. “Feel like talking about it?” I tense. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate, Mr. Santoro.” “Probably not, but I can’t help it. You’ve got my cop senses going crazy.” “Cop senses, huh?” I can’t look him in the eye and wish I could think of some cute way to tell him I’m okay. Make some sarcastic remark that gets him to drop the subject and let me do my job without getting way too personal with the jerk who gave me a big ass speeding ticket last week. “It’s a real thing,” he says without even a hint of humor. “And they’re telling me that you could use a little help right about now.” “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.” There’s a little part of me that wants to ask him how to go about filing the assault charges. Wants to ask what problems I might run into, accusing a rich athlete with access to powerful lawyers of attempted rape and blaming my bruises on him. What if June doesn’t corroborate the story? What if Hudson chickens out and won’t be my witness? What if the whole world thinks I’m a slut or that I somehow earned what happened to me? But Friday night taught me all I needed to know about mixing business with my personal life. If I need answers to those questions, I’ll wait to ask the officer I file my report with.

Once I’ve got the TENS unit set up properly, I leave him stretched out on the table and busy myself with some paperwork while the machine does his job. The whole time, I find that I can’t keep my eyes off the guy. He’s handsome, in a beastly kind of way. And even though he pegged his concern for me on being a cop, the look in his eyes said it came from some deeper, more personal part of him. Would it really be unprofessional of me to ask this guy what to expect when I go to press charges? I head his way as the TENS unit finishes its program and unhook the electrodes from around his knee. “How’s that feeling?” I ask, avoiding his eyes. “That thing is bizarre.” I giggle a little as he stares at his knee. “It is, isn’t it?” “It feels a little better now, but I might hate that thing.” He gestures to the machine as I put it away. “Oh yeah?” I frown, wondering if I had the settings up too high. “It didn’t hurt, did it?” The TENS unit sends little electrical impulses across the surface of the skin and along nerve endings. It should tingle and it definitely causes the muscles in the area to alternately clench and relax as the machine does its job, but not enough to hurt. Mr. Santoro shakes his head dismissively. “Nah. Not even a little. It tensed my muscles for me. I’m not sure I like how that felt.” Ahhh. A control freak. Of course. “It can be unnerving to feel your body moving without you telling it to. But, how does it feel now? Better right?” He straightens his knee, and I stare at the highly defined quadriceps poking out of the edge of his pants. I said it last week, but I mean it even more today. This guy has a body that could rival Hudson’s and that’s saying a lot. “Yeah. I guess it does.” He smiles at me and, silly me, I like it. “So what now, doc? Now that I’m all better, are you gonna let me loose on the machines?” He gestures towards the exercise equipment behind us. “First of all, I’m not a doctor. And second of all, you’re not all better. And third of all, I don’t want you doing anything active for at least a week.” His eyebrows raise. “I can’t promise that.” “Walking is fine, but pain is your body’s stop sign. If what you’re doing hurts, you need to stop. At least until we’ve got you further along in the healing process.” He glowers at me, all the friendliness from earlier draining from his face. And I use that term broadly. I’m not sure ‘friendly’ could ever be used to describe Max Santoro. “Fine.” I nod my head as if that settled everything. “Good.” And then, in a very unChelsea-like, spur of the moment way, I speak without thinking. “I was assaulted Friday night.” Well. So much for professionalism. I can just hear my job going down the toilet. “What happened?” I explain, giving him the highlights and avoid naming names, ever so aware that I’m in a huge room surrounded by my colleagues and their patients. “And I guess I

really don’t know what to do next.” “Have you filed a report?” I shake my head. His frown deepens. “Did you go to the hospital?” “Yeah. A friend took me.” I’m not sure I’d go so far as to call Hudson a friend, but I’m not ready to name him. “Well at least there’s that.” Max studies my face. Catches my gaze and raises his eyebrows and shows me his palm. A warning. And then, ever so gently, he captures my chin between his thumb and forefinger and turns my face to get a better look at my cheek. “Anything else hurt?” His voice is low. Gentle. There’s something heartbreaking about the disquiet in his tone. “My shoulder was sore for a few days, but it’s better now. The other girl got a lot more of his … err … attention.” I shrug and meet his eyes. Time stops. This guy is looking straight into me and I feel bared to him. Like he can read my mind and see my soul. It’s overwhelming. I look away. “Has she pressed charges?” I shake my head, pulling my chin from his grasp. How can I miss the contact and be grateful to break it at the same time? “I don’t think she will. My friend knows her. Said he didn’t think this was her first rodeo.” Max frowns again, drawing his eyebrows together. “When are you done here?” “I work until four.” “Come down to the station afterwards. I’ll meet you there and you can file your report with me.” I want to tell him no. Or, at least, I feel like I should say no because I don’t know how that would affect our business relationship. But I don’t. I fight back tears of relief, inwardly yelling at myself for being so weak, and agree to meet him at four thirty.

8

I NEVER THOUGHT I’D SET FOOT IN A POLICE STATION BEFORE. I’M A GOOD GIRL AND GOOD GIRLS DON’T END up in police stations. I feel like everyone’s staring at me as I step out of my car. It’s cold, colder even than when I left for work this evening and I pull my sweater up around my chin, thankful for a reason to hide my face. Because good girls don’t end up with big ass bruises on their faces, either. I am so effing tired of having thoughts like that in my head. I didn’t do anything wrong! I walked in on a bad man doing bad things and tried to stop him. That’s not bad; it’s good. So, maybe good girls do come to police stations when they’re trying to stop the bad guys. Or something like that. I’m not sure I believe that yet, but if I say it enough, maybe I will eventually. Officer Santoro is waiting for me just inside the front door and I take a moment to give a little whispered thank you to God for that. I might have just turned around and walked away if I had to sit down and wait for him to show up. He escorts me back to his desk and it feels really good to have him beside me, deflecting all the curious glances that keep coming my way. His size alone is comforting, but when he slides that imperious glare down over that strong face, well, only an idiot would consider challenging him, that much I know for sure. The process is straightforward and clinical and I do my best to relate the experience as if I was a detached outsider rather than the victim of a brutal attack. I go into detail and name names. Officer Santoro digests the information without judgement, only slightly raising an eye when I name Sloan Anderson as my attacker. Before long, all the details are taken care of and all I have to do is wait. He

hands me a copy of the report and escorts me to the door. “You didn’t come in just for me?” I ask as he ushers me outside. “Sure did.” “Well, thank you. I really appreciate it.” And that’s the truth. I feel better for having done the right thing. “I bet you’re anxious to get back to your family.” Night fell while I was in the station, courtesy of the shorter fall days and the line of storms moving in through the area. “I’m not a family man.” His response is short and clipped and I feel like there’s so much more to this story than just a simple statement of fact. I swallow and stare out at the darkened parking lot, pools of light settling at the feet of the lampposts. “Well, then, I bet you’re just anxious to get home.” I shrug and smile, overwhelmed by the suddenly awkward encounter. I can’t keep up with this guy’s mood swings. He shrugs, a fluid movement of his massive shoulders and again, I feel like there’s more to the story here. “My dog needs me to come home and let her out.” What am I supposed to say? He keeps on not heading towards his car and I keep on feeling compelled to stand here with him, but he’s not exactly easy to talk to. “I like dogs.” Wow. Did I really just stoop so low as to say I like dogs? I clear my throat and shake my head. “Well, Mister… I mean, Officer Santoro. Thank you for your help.” I become the first of us to move by taking a few steps out towards the parking lot. “Max,” he says and I stop in my tracks. I look over my shoulder and raise my eyebrows. “You can call me Max.” I smile. “Well then, you can call me Chelsea.” There’s something so raw and open in the smile he gives me in return. Something powerful that reaches down into my heart and opens it right up. This man is so closed he might as well be surrounded in barbed wire and in that one instant, that one smile, it was as if I got to see that part of him he’s guarding. It was just a glimpse, a tiny moment of sunshine peeking through the clouds. But it made me want to see it again. No, not just see it again. I want to cause it again. Something tells me Max Santoro needs a few more reasons to smile. “SO HOW BIG WAS HE?” Dakota is lounging in my favorite chair, sitting sideways in it so her legs are flung over the armrest. She’s got a margarita in her hand and a sparkle in her eye. It’s so damn good to see her. “Who? The cop?” She giggles and shakes her head. “No, you goober. The football player.” She exchanges a look with Maya while I blush furiously. Of course she meant Sloan. Why would I think she meant Max?

“He’s big.” I say and take a drink to cover up the fact that I’m still thinking about Max Santoro. “He’s a friggen linebacker for heaven’s sake. Think like, six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds.” “You got hit in the face by a linebacker?” Maya sounds incredulous and more than a little drunk. “Your face doesn’t really look all that bad, considering.” “Uhh? Thanks?” I arch an eyebrow. “You know what I mean. The pictures you sent were terrifying, but you’ve really healed up since then.” She’s right. The bruises have faded. The fear response has, too. I feel less and less like a victim and more and more like someone who managed to do something pretty amazing. “I just like giving you a hard time,” I say to Maya and raise my glass. Dakota rolls her eyes. “Ain’t that the truth?” She finishes her margarita and stares at the empty glass. “You guys ready for another?” I’m really not. The closer I get to thirty, the harder it is to recover the next day. But, this is a special occasion after all. Who knows when the three of us will be able to hang out like this again, what with Dakota traveling as much as she does now. I tell her I’m game for another, as does Maya, and Dakota hops up to do her bartender thing in the kitchen. “So, be honest,” she says as she pulls bottles out of the cabinet and sets them on the little island that separates my kitchen from my living room. “How badass do you feel?” Maya grins at me. “Yeah, for real. I mean, we all know you’ve got a ferocious streak, but did you ever think you’d be the one to walk in on a sexual assault, take a hit from a professional linebacker, and finish the story by kicking the guy in the balls?” “Honestly? If someone had told younger me that story was in my future, I would have laughed and called them crazy. But that’s exactly what I did. And then, to make it even better, I didn’t just hide under a rock and let fear freeze me. I went ahead and pressed charges. I took action. I am not a victim and that is such an empowering thing to know about myself. When the shit hits the fan, I’m the girl who’s going to kick it in the balls.” Dakota returns with margaritas and hands one first to Maya and then to me. “That has to feel good.” “You bet it does.” We chat for a while and Dakota fills us in on her new life with her new husband. In the past several weeks, they’ve been in three different countries, twice without anything but a tent to sleep in. She’s never been happier but I think that kind of uncertainty would upset me. I’m not sure I could handle the instability of it all, but one thing I’ve learned is that Dakota and I are cut from very different cloth. “So, tell me about the guy. Is he hot?” Dakota’s looking at me and it takes me a second to comprehend what she’s asking me. Surely she doesn’t care about Sloan’s looks? “The guy,” she says, waving her hand and looking for the right words. “The

patient.” “Ohhh…” I smile. “Yeah, he’s pretty hot. Tall and dark with these amazing blue eyes and I swear he’s bigger than the football players. And he walks around with such an intense look on his face.” I close my eyes and envision Max Santoro’s somehow super sexy scowl. “I don’t usually go for the grumpy guys, but what can I say? I guess I’m branching out!” Dakota looks confused. “I thought he was a football player.” She turns to Maya. “She said he was a football player, right?” Maya nods. “Yeah. I thought so.” “No, sillies,” I say and pick at the salt on the rim of my margarita. “He’s a cop. The guy who took me to the club is a football player.” Maya and Dakota burst into laughter. “What?” I ask. “I don’t get it.” “She wasn’t asking about the cop.” Maya smiles at me, still laughing. “She was asking about the guy who took you to Aura in the first place.” “But,” says Dakota, swinging her legs back over the armrest of her chair. “Why don’t you go on about this cop because he very clearly is the one who has your attention instead of, you know, the professional athlete with the rockin’ bod on his way to fame and fortune.” “I don’t want to talk about the cop.” And I really don’t. I mean, clearly there’s some part of me that does, but I don’t really have anything to say about him. “He gave me a speeding ticket and I thought he was a jerk. But then there’s this softness to him … this … I don’t know. Softness isn’t the right word, that’s for sure. That’s definitely the wrong way to describe him. And he’s more closed down than anyone I’ve ever met. But when he saw my bruises, the only thing on his mind was how he could help me. And then he smiled and it was so beautiful I just wanted to keep on making him smile.” And now, thinking about Max’s smile, I’m smiling. “For someone who doesn’t want to talk about him, you sure have a lot to say on the topic.” Maya’s still laughing. “Yeah, well, he’s an enigma. I find him fascinating.” Maya and Dakota lose it again and I stare at them in shock. “Oh man,” Dakota says. “She’s really got it bad, doesn’t she?” “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this way.” Maya leans forward and touches my knee. “Have you considered asking him out?” “No. I’m not even a little interested in a date with Max Santoro.” But even as I say it, I realize that’s not exactly true. In fact, I realize that’s not true at all. The more I think about it, the more I realize that if Max Santoro asked me out on a date, I would say yes without hesitation. Why? I can’t exactly say. There’s just something about him, something that calls out to me, begging me to see him. Begging me to know him. And there’s that smile, the one that made me want to bring him so many more after that initial one.

I slide forward so that I’m perched on the edge of my sofa. “Holy shit.” I swallow and look from Maya to Chelsea and back to Maya again. “I have a crush on the cop.”

9

THIS HAS BEEN ONE HELL OF A BORING COUPLE DAYS. I TOOK CHELSEA’S ADVICE AND HAVE STAYED OFF MY feet. Lots of TV. Lots of reading. Lots of … not much. And not much is just not a good thing for me. Today, I meet Charlie at the park. As much as I typically look forward to spending time with the kid, I’m really looking forward to it today. I need the distraction. This will probably be the last time we can count on an outdoor activity because of the weather. I’ll need to start coming up with some indoor activities for us. I slip on my jacket, stuff Reagan’s ball into the pocket, clip her leash to her collar, and lead her out to the car. The wind is brutal. Slices right through my jacket as I let her in the backseat. I duck my chin into my collar and hop into the driver’s seat, grateful to shut the door against the wind. The gray skies don’t look like rain, just that awful slate-colored, sunless misery that’s all too common in Ohio in the winter. I swear, I was meant to live somewhere tropical. This place is fine, I guess. Better than New York at least. But it’s definitely not ideal. I check the weather before I pull out of the driveway, just in case I need to put Reagan back in the house and find something other than the park for today. No rain. Just gray skies and a lot of wind. We should be good, especially if Charlie is running around with Reagan. He’ll be nice and warm. It’ll be my ass that we’ll have to worry about while I sit on the bench and shiver. I stop on the way to the park and grab a cup of coffee for me and a hot cocoa for him. I never knew a kid who didn’t like hot cocoa. Of course, Charlie’s waiting for me. I recognize his bright blonde hair from the parking lot. His mom is supposed to hand him off to me, but after our first

meeting, I haven’t seen her. Not once. Charlie always seems okay. He typically just waits for me on the bench, his wary eyes taking in everything all around him. I just don’t like the idea of a ten-year-old sitting alone very long. Not this close to downtown. “Hey man,” I say as I sit down beside him. Goosebumps raise down his thin arms as the wind bites into his exposed skin. “Where’s your jacket?” He shivers and draws his knees up to him. “I grow too fast.” “Don’t have one that fits?” Or, you know, a long-sleeved shirt? I do my best not to judge because some people really do struggle to make ends meet. But Charlie’s mom has my cell phone number. All she needed to do is text me and ask if we could meet somewhere else. I hand him the hot cocoa and he holds the warm cup in close to his body. In that moment, he looks so small that my heart breaks. “Nah.” Another shiver. “See you brought the dog along.” “Sure did. I still can’t run.” I pat my knee. “Made my physical therapist mad at me last week by playing too hard.” “Physical therapist? What’s that?” I think for a minute, trying to find the right way to describe the job to a kid. “She’s kind of like a doctor, but she knows how to make injuries get better faster.” Charlies nods. “You could have just said doctor, you know.” “I could. But she’s not really a doctor.” “She pretty?” Charlie looks up at me, the wind lifting his hair from his forehead. “Very,” I say without thinking. He grins and damn, if it isn’t marvelous. “You got her ball?” He gestures towards Reagan with his chin. The second she hears that word, she tilts her head and perks her ears. “Hey!” Charlies grins again. “She knows what I said!” “Of course she does.” I dig in my pocket for her favorite toy. “She’s no dummy.” “Nope. You can tell just looking at her. She’s like me. Too smart for her own good.” I take Charlie’s hot cocoa from him and hand over the ball. It kills me to see his thin arms exposed, his pale skin looking slightly blue. “Hey. Tell you what. You take my jacket for a bit. You’ve been out here longer than me.” The kid doesn’t hesitate. “You sure? It’s gonna be so big.” “Just like you, huh?” I take the thing off and hand it over. It’s huge on him, of course. As big as he might be in the future, he’s just a scrawny kid now and I actually am big. We roll up the sleeves as best we can and I send him out to play. He’s good with the dog. Fast, too. Gives her a run for her money if they’re both going for the ball at the same time. I watch them play and it makes me smile to see him fighting with my jacket. Well, until I start worrying about how long it might be until he gets a jacket that fits. Then I stop smiling altogether and my teeth start grinding together. I understand not being able to make ends meet. I really do. I understand that sometimes, people have to decide to do without. But how long will Charlie have to go without a jacket? The decision’s made before I even realize I’m making it. I call him back over and

he sprints towards me, both boy and dog grinning widely. “Wanna go get a jacket?” “Really? Like right now?” “Yup. This very instant.” His enthusiasm warms me. Charlie looks at me, eyes wide and glimmering with excitement. “You mean a new jacket? Like it’s mine and no one else’s?” “Yours and no one else’s.” Talk about an icepick to the heart. It kills me to think about the life this kid is living. We pile into my car and head to the mall. I might go a little overboard, letting him pick out a jacket, and a coat, and a few long-sleeved shirts. I keep my eye on the time so we can be back at the park in time to meet Charlie’s mom who is—of course—late. We munch on some soft pretzels while we wait, Charlie swinging his legs happily while he throws bites to Reagan. “So are you gonna ask that doctor out on a date or something?” Charlie asks around a bite of pretzel. “Doctor? Oh you mean the physical therapist?” “Yeah. The pretty one that’s fixing your knee.” I shake my head and laugh. “Nah.” “Oh.” Charlie nods knowingly. “I get it. She’s pretty but she’s not nice.” “Actually, she seems very nice. And she’s brave. Her friend was getting picked on by some guy a lot bigger than her and she stepped in and helped.” Charlie shrugs. “Just not into her?” “How old are you? Ten or twenty-three?” “Ten, silly.” Charlie tosses Reagan another bite. I wish he’d eat more. He looks about ten pounds underweight. When his mom finally shows up—chatting away with someone on her iPhone, digging through a Coach purse with her manicured hands—she’s almost half an hour late. She gestures at Charlie, barely sparing him a glance, and my gut churns. I get having to do without, but I don’t get buying luxury items while your child doesn’t have a properly fitting jacket. Charlie hops off the bench and waves. “Hold on,” I say and wait for his mom to notice that he’s not at her side. “Charlie,” she snaps, her overly made up eyes glinting angrily. “I ain’t got time to wait on your slow ass.” And that’s about all the patience I have left. I stand, putting myself between Charlie and his mom. She finally sees me, all six foot three inches of me, and she licks her lips while her eyes travel greedily across my body. “Call ya back,” she says into the phone and ends the call, her long fingernail clicking on the screen. “What’s up?” “I bought Charlie a few things.” I wrap an arm around the boy when I realize he’s hiding behind me, peeking out at his mom like he’s afraid she’ll bite. “I only meant to get him a jacket, since it was so cold today. But I ended up grabbing him a new coat and some shirts. He was just so thankful, it made me want to do more for him.” The woman eyes me, sizes me up, then unleashes a wide, red-lipped smile. “That’s very kind of you. It’s hard to keep him in clothes, he grows so fast. And

what with me only able to find part time work, money just gets so tight.” She gives me a shrug and a look that says what can you do. I can think of a few things she could do without, that’s for sure. What kills me the most? The way she barely looks at her son. The way the light died in his eyes the moment he saw her. The way he’s clutching his bag of new clothes like he’s afraid she might just snatch it away. I had my fair share of shitty foster moms, but my real mom was an angel. At least I always had that to fall back on. From the looks of it, poor Charlie doesn’t even have that. “Thanks again for taking him off my hands.” His mother looks me over again, trying to play it all cool and sultry but there is no way in hell I’m buying what she’s selling. “I had a good time today, Charlie,” I say to the kid, careful to meet his eyes and let him see that I mean it. “Me too, Max. See you next week?” “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Charlie’s mom takes off without another word, without even looking to make sure he’s following her. I watch them go with bitterness rising in my chest. I’m not a family man. I won’t do it. After all I went through, I’m afraid I won’t be capable of much more than Charlie’s mom. But damn. My heart is breaking for the boy. In this one instant, I want to swoop him up and tell him it’ll all be okay. That he’s wanted and appreciated and worth so much more than used clothes and caustic words. I watch them as they walk into the parking lot, towards a beat up Trans Am that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned or cared for in the last ten years. Charlie turns and waves at me, smiling big. Then his mom barks something at him and he loses the smile. His face goes cold and he climbs into the backseat without another glance my way. Maybe I should see about seeing the kid more than once a week. Reagan whines at my side, sensing my mood. “It’s okay, girl.” I rub that spot between her ears she loves so much. “Just feeling protective, that’s all. You know how I get about strays.” I watch the Trans Am pull away and see Charlie’s face pressed to the glass. I stand and wave so that the last thing he sees before he goes back to whatever he’s got waiting for him at home is that someone cares.

10

EVER SINCE I REALIZED THAT I HAVE A CRUSH ON MAX SANTORO, I’VE BEEN SIMULTANEOUSLY LOOKING forward to and absolutely dreading our next appointment. I’m so keyed up about it that I can barely my eyes off the clock, counting the minutes until he shows up. Hudson has most definitely noticed. “You haven’t even commented on how well I’m leading with my heel,” he says. It’s the end of our appointment and he’s up on the massage table while I work on the tissue around his Achilles. “And I was so sure you’d be impressed with the progress I’ve made.” “Or you could just take my silence as a compliment in and of itself.” I find a knot in his calf and dig in with my thumbs. “Tender here?” His eyes roll back and he nods vigorously. “I’d prefer a more direct approach to the compliments, thank you very much,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’m not much on only receiving criticism.” “Why am I not surprised?” I roll my eyes and check the clock again. Ten minutes. Max isn’t here yet and he seems like one of those early types. What if he doesn’t come? “You have an appointment or something? You’re awfully distracted.” “Nope. Just keeping an eye on the time so I’m not late for my next patient.” “You mean the scowling man who looks like he should be on the team but isn’t?” “That’s the one.” Hudson flashes me one of his patented dimpled smiles. “You dog. Are you angling to get another one of your patients to ask you out? What? You have a thing

for big, strong, broken men?” I push extra hard on that knot in his calf and he drops his head back and grunts. “Actually, I’m more of a business man with his shit together kind of gal, thank you very much.” “If you say so. But first me, the poor injured football player. Now this guy, the poor injured … what’s he do?” “He’s a cop.” “Ohhh. A control freak. Look at you.” Hudson wrinkles his nose and I can’t help but smile. He really is adorable. “First of all. I didn’t ask you out. You asked me out. And I think we can both agree that, Sloan incident aside, the evening wasn’t exactly going the way either of us hoped. Second of all, I don’t have a thing for Max.” But I do! I really, really do! “I just want to take the time to give him the proper care he deserves. You’re almost totally rehabilitated. He’s not.” “Aha! So I am leading more with my heel! I knew it.” Hudson smiles and drops the subject. I get him finished up and scan the area for Max, wondering just when exactly my interest in him went from casual to ‘but I do! I really, really do!’ Hudson strides towards the locker rooms—his gait really is much improved—and passes Max on the way out. He spins, drops me a wink and gives me the thumbs up. So of course, I’m blushing and totally flustered as Max arrives in front of me. “Good morning, Mr. Santoro,” I manage, a little overly bright. “Thought I told you to call me Max.” If I’m overly bright, he’s gone the other way, his voice gruff, his eyes clouded. “You sure did. Just didn’t want to presume.” Or show you that I’ve apparently developed one hell of a crush on you by being too eager to use your first name. “So, let’s try this again,” I say. “Good morning, Max. How are you?” He looks me in the eyes and smiles. “Better now. How are you, Chelsea?” My toes curl hearing him say my name, that’s how I am. “Better now,” I say and blush again. I clear my throat. What am I? Sixteen again? “How’s the knee?” “Better.” He laughs. That’s a sound I could get used to. It calls to some basic part of me and makes me feel like I’ve come home. It’s like I recognize something in this guy. Something that I don’t see in other people. “Oh yeah? ‘Better’ as in you don’t want to admit you’re still hurting and nothing’s changed or better as in you followed my instructions and it’s actually improved.” “The second one.” Thankfully, he’s wearing shorts today, so there will be none of that awkward giggliness when I have to roll up his pants leg like last week. I have him hop up on of the massage tables and take a peek. “You’re right, this does look much better.” I prod around the joint, looking for any pain points. Not that he would admit to one if I found it, but I like to think I’m good enough at my job that I could feel the problem even if he didn’t say anything. “So, you approve? I did good by sitting around on my butt all week?”

“You sure did. Best butt-sitting results I’ve seen from anyone.” I ask him to hop down and lead him over to a row of stationary bikes. “Great,” he says when we come to a stop. “More butt-sitting.” I laugh and roll my eyes. “Baby steps. Gotta crawl before you can walk and all that.” “Not me. I come at everything full tilt. Let me on the treadmill, woman.” “Wait, which one of us has the bum knee? And which of us has the doctorate?” I smile as he shakes his head. “Oh yeah. That’s right. I’m the one with the doctorate. And I say up on the bike, gimpy.” “Gimpy?” Max looks appalled. “Yep. Gimpy.” I had hoped to make him laugh but that doesn’t seem to be doing it. Not a fan of silly nicknames. Noted. “You’re not going to make a habit of calling me that, are you?” “Nope, just trying it on. Now, Max…” I emphasize his name and make a delightful little impish face. Or, at least what I hope is a delightful little impish face. “Would you please hop up on the bike so we can get started?” He complies without complaint or any recognition of how cute I tried to be. Come on, Chelsea, dial it back a notch, I think to myself as I set the program on the bike and step back to watch his knee work. Most physical therapists rely on patient testimony and touch to understand the injury. I see it somehow. Always have. It’s part of what makes me so good at my job. At first, I thought everyone was like me. It took me a long time to realize that a lot of therapists are operating blind. I try to capitalize on my gift as much as I can, but that means I’m way more hands on with my patients then a lot of my colleagues. For instance, any other therapist in the place would leave Max alone to do his thing while they worked on a second patient or started on paperwork. I never double book myself because there’s no way I can give one person the kind of specialized attention I’m capable of if I’m trying to multi-task. It took me awhile to prove to Cincinnati Orthopedics that this was best, though. There were more than a few years of me running myself ragged trying to balance multiple patients at once before they saw that I actually am quite good at what I do. His knee looks better than it did last week, that’s for sure, but even as tough as he is, he’s still dealing with a hefty dose of pain. I can see that without question. I watch for any more abnormalities, arms folded across my chest, leaning in to get a better look, totally oblivious to the fact that he’s watching me. “Find anything of interest down there?” he asks. “You’re still hurting,” I say, still staring at his knee. “And it aches up into the iliotibial band, doesn’t it?” I step in close to him and run my hand up the side of his thigh. “Here.” I look up and realize just how close we are. I get a whiff of his cologne, rich and spicy. Watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Yes. It does.” I pull my hand away from him and step back. Whatever that was, as professional as I meant it to be, it was anything but appropriate. “Okay then,” I say, nodding

quickly. “How about you finish that bike ride and I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.” I don’t wait for his response. I just do a quick about face and make my way towards the restrooms where I stare at myself in the mirror, willing the strong and in control version of me to make an appearance. I’M at home making dinner, singing along very loudly to Pandora, enjoying the pop and sizzle of homemade fajitas on the stove, when I get a text from Maya. Turn on the TV. Channel 7. Without asking why, I turn on the television in the living room as another text comes in. I think they’re talking about you. Onscreen, June is tearfully talking about that night in Aura. Whoever styled her is a genius. She doesn’t look at all like the vapid moron I remember from that night. She looks humble. Modest, even. The bruise on her neck is still visible, as is the one around her mouth. The fact that I healed so quickly makes me wonder if Sloan even managed to hit me with all he’s worth. I shiver, remembering the explosion of pain that night. If that was only a taste of what he’s capable of, I don’t want to think of what June went through before I showed up. “I was done for,” she says onscreen, her voice wavering tearfully. “I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t shown up.” June shakes her head. “I take that back. I know exactly what would happen if she hadn’t shown up.” Tears overtake her and she stares at her hands while she regains her composure. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to file charges until I found out she had. I owe so much to this woman and I don’t even remember her name.” I take a seat on the edge of my couch, transfixed by the TV. How did she find out I pressed charges? The only way she could have found out is if someone told her. And if someone told her, they would surely be able to tell her who I was. I mean, they only people who even know I went to the police are Hudson, my sisters, and Max. It had to be Hudson. I can’t imagine it was anyone else. But why is she making such a big stink of it on TV? What’s she getting at here? “The long and short of it is,” June continues. “Whoever she is, she’s a hero. She saved me from a bad man.” Her voice breaks. “And when that bad man came after her, hitting her in the face and pushing her down, she didn’t just take it. She fought back. I owe everything to her.” June’s looking in the camera, her wide, blue eyes sparkling with tears. Her blonde hair falling softly to her shoulders. She looks incredibly beautiful, incredibly wounded, and absolutely genuine. My phone buzzes in my hand. Maya calling.

“Was that her? Was she talking about you?” I race into the kitchen and pull my fajitas off the stove before they burn. “That was her.” “Did you know? Did they call you or anything?” “I’m as surprised as you are. I have no idea who told her I went to the cops. It had to be Hudson.” “But why would he do that?” I lean against the counter and hold the phone with my shoulder. “I don’t know! I even saw him today. You’d think if knew, he would have said something. Plus, he knows my name so it’s not like I’d be this big mystery to her. It’s all very strange.” “She called you a hero.” I smile as I pull a plate out of the cupboard. “I know. That feels pretty damn cool, let me tell you.” “I bet it does.” “I didn’t really do anything, though. I just walked into the bathroom. I don’t deserve to be called a hero.” “You fought back. You pressed charges. Seems like those are things you did.” I finish plating up my dinner and carry things to the table. “Yeah, but hero is a pretty strong word though.” “Well, you’re a pretty strong woman.”

11

FIVE WEEKS OF PHYSICAL THERAPY AND I AM ALMOST A NEW MAN. I EVEN FEEL BETTER THAN I DID BEFORE the accident. Chelsea is an absolute gift. She has worked diligently on me, and I’m not talking about just on my knee. She found all these other little weaknesses in my body that helped contribute to the initial injury in the first place. I’ve followed every single direction she gave me. Done every single ‘homework exercise’ she prescribed. She’s a miracle worker, that’s what she is. I am not at all ready for our visits to be over. But I’ve got more than one reason to feel that way. Not only is she some sort of angel with healing powers, she’s smart. Funny. Able to charm me out of a bad mood. I leave my hour with her feeling better than I have all week. I crave her. How crazy does that sound? This morning I woke up with this worried little knot in my stomach, not knowing what I was going to do now that I won’t have an excuse to see her each week. But right now? In the last minutes of our last physical therapy appointment? I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to ask this woman on a date. There’s been plenty of flirty eye-contact. Plenty of that delicious energy between us. Plenty of her strong hands working on my thigh. And that’s been the most delicious torture, having her hands on me, thinking about having them on other parts of my body. Wanting to reciprocate… Damn. I need to divert my attention because right now, she’s got her hand awfully far up my thigh and I’m liking it more than just a little too much. Her hands still for a moment and then she works her way back down to safer

territory, closer to my knee. “What’re you thinking about?” she asks. I have two options here. I could give her a non-answer and buy myself some time until the end of our appointment where I can just retreat to the locker room if she shoots me down. Or, I can just go balls to the wall and ask her out right now. Be honest about what I’m thinking. Pressing up on my elbows, I watch worry form in her eyes. “Woah,” she says. “Is it that bad?” Well now I’m confused. “What do you mean?” “The look on your face is intense. It just … I don’t know. Is everything okay?” She takes her hands off my knee and moves in towards me, closer to my face. I both miss the contact of her skin against mine and love the fact that she’s close enough that I catch a whiff of her perfume. Or maybe it’s just her skin that smells that sweet. “Things are more than okay,” I say. “I’ve really enjoyed these last couple weeks.” “And that has you looking so intense?” She smiles and that’s the last little ingredient I need to push me over the edge. I want to see that smile more often. Claim it as mine. “Would you want to grab some dinner sometime? Maybe Friday?” Her smile fades and I panic. It’s been a long time since I asked a woman out because I actually wanted her company. If she says no, it might just devastate me. But then her hand goes to her hair and her smile returns and I know I’m in the clear. “I don’t date patients.” “Bullshit.” I know very well she dated that football player. That’s how she ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time and getting hurt. “Okay, so I dated a patient once, and look what that got me.” “A chance to be called a local hero?” Chelsea grins and a blush works its way up her cheeks. “You saw that, did you?” “I think just about everyone in the area saw it. The news ran the story enough.” I saw the first news story a couple days after she came down to the station. The one where the other woman—the one Sloan Anderson initially attacked—gave Chelsea all the credit for coming forward and for giving her the courage to speak up. There were several other stories after that. An interview with Chelsea alone, another with the two women together, and then a bunch of official releases from Sloan Anderson and his lawyers that basically said nothing and verged on calling the women liars. “I almost didn’t do the interviews.” She bites her bottom lip. “Honestly, I really didn’t want to. I did it because I felt like it was the right thing to do.” “How so?” I’m not sure how we got from me asking her out on a date to us sitting here in the middle of Cincinnati Orthopedics talking about the ethics of TV interviews, but here we are. I’m not typically known for my patience. “Well,” she says, furrowing her brow. “For one, I felt like it was my duty to show women that it’s okay to speak up. You know, so many are carrying around hurt and

guilt from an attack like that and never feel comfortable saying anything at all. I thought that if they saw me being strong up there with June, it might help them find their own kind of strength.” She swallows. “Plus, I didn’t want that jerk to feel like he had gotten away with anything.” There’s a fire in her eyes that makes me respect her. I nod. “Sounds like good reasons.” “I guess so. A lot of people seem to think I did it for the publicity. Which couldn’t be farther from the truth. I’m not the kind of person who likes the spotlight.” “I get that.” I nod, just kind of bounce my head and lift my eyebrows. She doesn’t respond and the silence starts feeling awkward. I did just ask her out and she did just turn me. So now what? Do I shake her hand, hop of the table, and bid her goodbye? That sure sounds like the safe thing to do. But since when do I ever do the safe thing? When it comes to women. That’s when. When it comes to things like ‘relationships’ and ‘family’ and anything that could end up with things like ‘attachments’. Or dead eyes staring at you while you hide under the table. Too young to understand why the blood won’t stop. And there you go. All the reason in the world why I won’t be pushing Chelsea London to go out to dinner with me. With that bit of history hanging out in my genes, I just can’t risk it. I can’t risk love and all the things that come with it. Disappointment swirls in my stomach and resentment for a man who died decades ago seethes in my chest. “Well,” I say as I hop off the massage table, trying desperately to keep my face light despite the darkness gathering in my heart. “You’re a miracle worker, you know? Never felt this good.” I look down at my knee because it’s easier than looking at her. And that’s that. I turn my back and head towards the locker room. “Hey,” Chelsea calls after me. “I didn’t peg you for a quitter.” I turn, the rage-burned memories almost too thick to see through. “You’re right about that. I’m not a quitter.” “You gave up awfully easy just now.” Her face is pursed in confusion. Her voice shakes. “Saw the writing on the wall.” I shrug. Even though I know I should turn and go and put Chelsea London out of my mind, I don’t. I stand there, waiting. “You always this sure you’re right, even when you’re wrong?” I glare at her; I can’t help it. I know what she’s about to say and as much as I want her to say it, I feel like I should turn and walk away before she does. Chelsea London is about to accept my invitation to dinner and I’m pretty damn sure I should just go ahead and rescind the offer. “You saying I’m wrong?” I ask. She steps towards me and nods, her blue eyes wide and locked on mine. “Very.” Walk away, asshole, I tell myself.

But, probably because I’m an asshole, I don’t. “Will you go to dinner with me on Friday?” And damn it, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I smile like an idiot.

12

SO HERE’S THE THING. I HAVE NEVER IN ALL MY LIFE BEEN MORE EXCITED ABOUT A DATE THAN I AM ABOUT this one with Max. And that’s confusing as all hell because for one thing, the last time I went out with a man I met at work, well, it didn’t turn out very well, now did it? But the other thing? I swear, after he asked me out, he regretted it. But in very typical Chelsea fashion, I wasn’t in the mood to be ‘not wanted.’ And I had already made up my mind to say yes because there’s something between us. Something good. He’s nothing like the kind of guy I thought I wanted, and that scares me a little. It really does. Especially with those dark moods that come over him. The ones that have his jaw pulsing and his nostrils flaring. What goes on in his head that gets him so worked up? And should I be afraid of him because of it? My intellect says yes and my instinct says no and somewhere in between my heart is beating in its silly little excited way. I never listen to my instinct. I always override my heart with my head, so the fact that I’m going out with Max has me a little off-kilter. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. But I do know this. If I stop thinking and start feeling, I’m really, really, really looking forward to tonight. Max is picking me up at six and he told me to wear a dress. Actually, his exact words were: Something sophisticated. With heels. Well, let me tell you what. If it’s sophisticated he wants, then he has found the right woman because I know how to pull off sophisticated. I put on a little black dress that hugs my body and highlights my shoulders and neckline. Put on a pair of killer heels. And I mean killer with a capital K. Max is tall enough that I don’t have

to worry about how tall they make me, so the sky’s the limit, baby! I curl my hair, skipping the volume I went for at Aura with Hudson and go straight for something soft and feminine. As far as makeup goes, I apply black liquid eyeliner and a bright red lip and I’m not going to lie, I feel pretty damn beautiful. And then immediately wonder if I went overboard. I mean, Max is a cop. And I’ve never seen him in anything other than the workout pants and a t-shirt he wears to physical therapy, and the uniform he wore the morning he pulled me over. What if his idea of sophisticated and my idea of sophisticated are two entirely different things? And in that moment of absolute horror, my doorbell rings. I check the time on my phone. He’s early. Of course he’s early. One more panicked look in the mirror and I race downstairs and fling open the door without even taking a moment to slow down and take a breath. Which is probably fine because what I find standing on my doorstep takes my breath away completely. Any breath I had taken would have been completely pointless. Max stands there, his broad shoulders filling the space, his blue eyes glittering in the setting sun. He wears a suit like he was made for it. Or rather, it looks like it was made for him. “Hi,” I finally manage. “Wow. Look at you.” “Can’t,” he says with a wry twist of his lips. His perfectly full and totally kissable lips. “I’m too busy looking at you.” I giggle. An honest to goodness giggle. “You look very nice.” “That’s it? I put all this effort into cleaning up for you and all you have for me is very nice?” Another giggle and a heavy blush and, damn it, I don’t have anything witty to say in response. Max offers me his elbow—which just about does me in, I do love a gentleman—and leads me to his car after I lock up the house. “You have a nice place,” he says as he holds open the passenger door for me. “Very you.” He closes the door and crosses in front of the car to the driver’s side, leaving me to wonder what about my house he finds so much like me. I’m busy with work, which doesn’t leave me a lot of time for landscaping. So, while my flower beds are neat, they’re sparse. Just a few perennials that I can set and forget. The house itself is small, but I’ve done my best to keep it welcoming by keeping the porch swept and the windows clean. Max laughs as he fastens his seatbelt and brings the engine to life. “What’s got you thinking so hard?” “What do you mean?” “You’re staring at your house like you think you might find the secret to life etched in that pretty white trim.” “That’s not far from the truth, actually.” I shrug and glance at him and almost forget to breathe again. He’s such a stunning man in that suit. How did he know that I had such a thing for men in suits? “I was trying to figure out just what exactly

about my house is very me.” Max grins at me and puts the car in reverse. The engine sounds throaty and aggressive when he hits the gas and I realize that I was so flabbergasted as he led me out of the house that I have no idea what kind of car I got into. It does have leather seats and too many bells and whistles to be practical on a cop’s salary. Oh no… Please don’t tell me he’s irresponsible with his money. Or, let’s try this again. Since this is only our first date, maybe I should stop worrying about whether or not he’s good with his money. That is absolutely none of my business and a little crazy to worry about the implications on our financial future when I don’t even know what kind of kisser he is. “So tell me,” he says as he flicks on the turn signal. “What does the beautiful Chelsea London like to do for fun?” “For fun?” I pause and frown. “Well, work keeps me pretty busy. I don’t know that I do a lot of anything just because it’s fun.” Max looks surprised. “Surely you can’t be that busy.” “You’d be surprised. I put a lot of extra time into learning about the specific injuries of each patient. I typically get home from work, cook some dinner, do some research into the latest and greatest in the physical therapy world and then head to bed. Rinse and repeat until the weekend.” “What about the weekend?” I think hard, looking really seriously into my life, trying to find the bits and pieces of me that are interesting. “I clean up the house. Work in the flower beds…” I scrunch up my nose, looking for something, anything that sounded remotely like fun. “Last weekend I painted the trim.” Wow. I sound like an absolute loser. What happened to the me that used to do things? When did I become such a homebody? “What about you?” I ask, eager to get the conversation pointed away from me. “What do you do for fun?” Max smiles. “I’m not a complicated man. I live a pretty simple life. I like to take my dog out to the park and throw the ball for her. Listen to some music in the evenings. Work out. But the real high point of my week is hanging out with Charlie.” I wrack my brain, trying to figure out if he ever mentioned a Charlie before. Oh no. Please don’t tell me Charlie is short for Charlotte. Please don’t let me be one of many women. Please let this be a serious date and not fling. I inwardly roll my eyes. There I go again, worrying about future-stuff and the serious factor of this evening and we haven’t even gotten out of my neighborhood yet. What in the world is that all about? “Charlie?” I ask, hoping I sound at least hallway nonchalant. This look of absolute adoration flickers across Max’s face, erasing the deep crevice he normally holds between his eyebrows “Yeah.” He glances at me and some of the stress comes peeking back into his eyes. “You know the Big Brother Big

Sister program?” I nod, dumbfounded. “Are you a Big Brother?” He doesn’t seem like the type to have the patience for kids. “Sure am. Charlie’s my Little. Absolutely adorable.” “How old is he?” “Ten. All knees and elbows. A passion for sports that I’m not sure he’s going to be able to back up.” There’s that look again. I absolutely love it. “Oh yeah?” I ask, crinkling my brow. “Why not? Not built for it?” Max laughs and shakes his head. “If he grows into that body, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with, but as of right now, he’s a little lacking in the muscle department.” Max goes on to talk about Charlie and I just love how much enthusiasm he has for the kid. “For a guy who made it pretty clear a couple weeks ago that he didn’t do the family thing, you seem incredibly attached to this little boy.” “I am. Attached. And I don’t.” Max waves his hands and glances at me. “The family thing.” And that, my friends, is that. If there was ever a clearer sign that a topic was officially not up for discussion, then I don’t know what it would be. “You have a dog?” I ask, attempting a conversational hard right turn into safer territory. “Yep. Reagan. Got her from the pound the day before she was scheduled to be euthanized. Pretty much the only reason I got her. She was a disaster, all fearful and mistrusting. It’s been a lot of work to get her to where she is, but she’s a good girl now. Enough that I’ve trusted her in the park with Charlie while I wasn’t allowed the use of my knee.” “You were allowed the use of your knee.” I stare at him while he laughs at me. “Oh, no. You made it very clear who held all the power in that relationship. What was it that happened during our very first appointment? You threatened to call my boss and tell him I wasn’t cooperating?” “Well, you weren’t! What was I supposed to do?” I’m somewhere between shocked and flabbergasted. He laughs at me. “I was being kind of a jerk, wasn’t I.” “From the moment you pulled me over.” “Well you have to realize how it looked to me. Another pretty girl, trying to smile her way out of a ticket she knew she deserved.” “I just didn’t want to be late to work. I had a busy day, new patient and all that.” “I get that now. But then?” He lifts his eyebrows and laughs. “Not so much.” I hate the way my mind is reeling from the compliment. Pretty girl. Hate the way I need to hear it again, the way I’m clinging to those words like they are an anchor. “You thought I was pretty?” “From the moment I saw you. Prettiest damn woman I’ve ever seen.” I look down at my hands, the look in his eyes too intense to manage. “Now you’re just flattering me. No one likes to be flattered.”

“What about honesty? I think most people can appreciate honesty.” Max flicks on the turn signal and turns into a parking lot I don’t recognize. “You’re absolutely stunning, Chelsea.” As much as I’d like to think I can handle myself gracefully, there’s nothing graceful about the tongue-tied woman staring at her hands in the passenger seat of a parked car, too frozen to even undo her seatbelt, let alone come up with something appropriate to say. Max pivots in his seat, puts his finger under my chin and lifts my face until I’m losing myself in his eyes. “Something tells me you haven’t heard that enough,” he says. I blink furiously. Pull it together, London! And yet I continue to be speechless. Way to take awkward to a new level. “We’re going to have to work on that, then.” Max brushes a stray hair from my face, that crease between his eyebrows deepening. There’s more tenderness in that one movement than I’ve ever experienced in all my life and for some reason, tears sting my eyes. When Max looks down to undo his seatbelt, I immediately fumble with my own, glad for the distraction. What the hell is up with me? Tears? For real? We climb out of his car and Max offers me his elbow again. “Where are we?” I don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t it. The building in front of us is simple and unassuming, yet somehow—maybe it’s the man at the ornate front door in the tux—I get the feeling that there is so much more here than meets the eye. “This, my lovely lady, is Han’ei, the best place to get sushi in at least three states. It’s not just about the food, it’s the entire experience.” He leans down to whisper in my ear. “And don’t worry, if you don’t like sushi, there are plenty of delicious items on the menu.” I barely hear what he’s saying because all I can think about is how close he is to me and how it does funny things to my heart rate. His proximity is tangling with my confusion over all the ways this evening is turning out to be exactly not what I expected. Max Santoro, the hard-nosed police officer driving the leatherinteriored, bells-and-whistled car that has to be way above his paygrade. The guy who doesn’t do family but whose greatest joy is the time he spends with an underprivileged kid and the dog he rescued from the pound and rebuilt from the ground up. The guy who was so condescending as he asked for my license and registration the first day we met calling me beautiful, touching me tenderly as he tells me he doesn’t think I’ve heard that enough. And now, the guy who professes to be a simple man but takes me out for sushi in some swanky club on our first date. Him in a suit and me in a dress and my arm in his like this is just the most natural thing in all the world. What’s funny, is that it actually feels that way. Natural. Even as my head is spinning with all the different angles this man is throwing my way. As uncomfortable as I think I should be, I’m not at all. All I know is that I don’t know enough about the enigmatic Max Santoro and what I’ve learned in one short car ride is enough to sell me on learning the rest.

13

MAX IS RIGHT. HAN’EI IS ALL ABOUT THE EXPERIENCE. THE DÉCOR IS UNDERSTATED YET DECADENT. THE music is soothing yet invigorating. The atmosphere is one of posh civility and is very private and almost introspective. I’m trying not to stare wide-eyed and openmouthed at everything, but I very much feel out of my league. “Do you like sushi?” Max asks as he pulls out my chair for me at a table nestled into a private little corner. Our hostess nods politely and disappears, promising us our waitresses prompt arrival. “Will you think less of me if I admit I’ve never tried it?” Max shakes his head. “Not even a little bit.” “I’ve never tried it.” A look of disgust curls his lip down in a decidedly condescending frown. “I thought you were better than that,” he says with a curt shake of his head. He crosses his arms across his chest and looks away, refusing to make eye contact. “Hey.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “That’s not funny.” “I thought it was.” He gives me an adorable little quirk of his lips. “And judging by the smile on your face, you did too.” There’s this moment of silence where he just stares into my eyes. I wish we had wine or something to distract me because I feel naked under his gaze and I’d love something to do with my hands. “I like seeing you smile,” he says finally. “Well that’s funny, because I like seeing you smile, too.” Oh my God. Kill me now. I am the most awkward person of all time. Ever. “Are you adventurous? I could order for you if you’d like to give sushi a try. If not…” He gestures to the menu. “There are plenty of delicious choices here.”

Let’s see. Am I adventurous? Up until now, the qualities listed highest on my Ideal Man list included a steady job and a growing 401k. When asked what I do for fun, I talk about work and painting the trim on my house. And I say things like I never speed and I’m never late for work. Like, never ever. Adventurous? I’m going to have to go with hell no. I pick up my menu and frown down at the long list of unfamiliar names and exorbitant prices. Max chuckles. “I’m going to take that as an indicator that you’re not feeling like stepping outside your comfort zone.” Somehow, his words sound like a challenge. I might not be adventuresome, but I am competitive as all hell. “Nope, just getting the lay of the land before I make my final decision. It’s best to be informed, you know.” I close the menu and place it on the table in front of me “I see.” Max steeples his fingers and touches them to his chin. In this moment, he seems way more financial mogul than rugged cop. The juxtaposition sets me on fire. “And where did you land, after your little informational excursion?” I giggle and decide to drop a great big honesty bomb on the table. “This isn’t at all how I envisioned this evening.” All traces of joviality drain from Max’s face. His eyes go hard and that little muscle in his jaw pulses, just once. A warning. “Yeah?” One word, strangled by stress. Shit. That reaction right there is much more like how I envisioned the evening, but I hate the fact that I pulled it out of him when he was in such a lighthearted mood. Something tells me he doesn’t do lighthearted very often. “I’m enjoying myself. Like, a lot. I just … wasn’t expecting all this.” I wave my hand around the restaurant and glance down at my sexy little black dress. Max smiles and looks relieved while I practically melt with relief. “What were you expecting?” he asks. “Well, honestly? Something a little more affordable on a public servant’s salary.” I hold up my hands as his eyes go wide. “Not that I’m judging. Not even a little. It’s just…” “You thought maybe we’d be more sports bar and beer and less suits and sushi?” “Exactly.” Plus, I kind of expected Max to be more broody and grumpy and way less approachable and fun. But there’s no way I’m saying that out loud because I’m really enjoying this side of him and I refuse to chase it away. Max opens his mouth like he’s going to say something just as the waitress arrives with a polite bow of her head and a soft-spoken request for our drink orders. I haven’t even looked at the wine list, although I’m typically pretty easy going and just go with a low to mid-priced red of some sort. “What do you think? Adventure?” Max quirks his head to the side in question and, after a brief pause to consider, I finally take the plunge and agree. He orders something in Japanese and our waitress smiles and disappears. “You speak Japanese?” I’m utterly flabbergasted.

Max laughs, a warm sound. “No. Not at all.” “That totally sounded like Japanese to me.” “I ordered our drinks. A ‘chu-hi’ for you. It’s very delicious, fruit juice mixed with a Japanese alcohol called shochu. And for me? Just plain old shocu, served straight, on the rocks.” I raise my eyebrows and make a face. “Is it strong?” “A little. Don’t you like things strong?” Max lets his eyes smolder into mine and suddenly I’m not so sure we’re talking about drinks anymore. “Oh, believe me.” I bite my lower lip. “Strong is good.” “What about bold? Do you like bold?” Electricity wings its way through my body. “I’ve not had a lot of experience with bold.” “That’s something else we’ll have to remedy, then.” Our waitress reappears with our drinks and Max orders for us, a long string of complicated names and combinations, while I take a sip of my chu-hi. He’s right. It’s delicious. Strong and bold and probably going to go straight to my head. “So, is it a turn off?” asks Max after our waitress heads back towards the kitchen. “The fancy atmosphere and the whole not getting what you expected thing?” “No. Not even a little. It makes me want to know more about you. The man who takes speeding tickets as seriously as murder charges…” “Hey, the law is the law.” “And who swears he’s not hurt when he’s walking around on a torn meniscus…” “Can’t be hurt and do my job. Life lives where you put your attention.” “Well,” I continue. That gruff guy turns out to work with children and adopt dogs on death row…” I hold up a finger. “And rehabilitate them, of course. And then shows up for a first date dressed like…” My gaze sweeps down his face and across his broad shoulders. “Well, like that.” “And these are all good things?” “Yes, silly. I can’t define you and it’s got me very intrigued.” Max drops his gaze to his drink, swirls a finger around the rim of his glass, and then takes a drink. “My parents had money. My grandmother had money. When they died, it went to me.” There’s something raw in his voice. A confession. A deep truth delving into darker secrets. I want to ask for more but I don’t want to chase him away. But in the meantime, what do I say? I take a drink to buy me some time to think. Do I comment on the money? If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times growing up. It’s rude to talk about money. Do I reply with a typical I’m so sorry about the passing of his family? A question? Oh God. What’s the right response here? I take another drink. “When did you lose your parents?” I ask, randomly deciding that is the safest question.

“When I was young. Six.” Max clears his throat. “Lived with my grandmother after that until she passed when I was ten. Ran out of family members and into the foster system I went.” So many explanations for so many things in that one short explanation. I have about a million questions. How did they die? What was it like in the system? It was bad. I’m sure it was bad. It’s always bad. Is that why he’s not big on family? I take another drink and the bold and the strong are doing a number on me but I’m not sure I care. “What about you?” Max asks. “Family?” Ghosts are dancing in his eyes, but he’s trying to hide behind a light smile and polite small talk. “Oh yeah. Two sisters who double as best friends. My parents were supportive and pushed me to succeed. Or, rather, are supportive and continue to push me to succeed. Both of them are doctors, a little disappointed that I slid off the London family path and fell into physical therapy, but since I’m so good at what I do, I think they forgive me.” We fall into comfortable conversations, avoiding landmines like family and focusing mostly on work. Max tells me a bunch of stories about things he’s seen pulling people over and before I know it, I’m laughing about the time he pulled a guy over and walked up to the window just in time to watch the guy come in a prostitute’s mouth. “You’re kidding,” I say, hand to mouth, suddenly very distracted by the thought of Max and blowjobs. “Not even a little.” He straightens the items on the table in front of him, a naughty gleam in his eyes. “What did you do?” “I wrote them a ticket for the reckless driving and the indecent exposure and then got the hell out of there.” We laugh together and our food arrives, a decorative array of items I don’t recognize and rituals I don’t know. Max explains everything to me, shows me the right way to handle the sauces and the oftentimes unwieldy rolls. Most everything turns out delicious, although I am not that big a fan of anything with tuna in it. It’s just too fishy and I’m not comfortable with the texture in the least. But we eat and we drink and we talk and we laugh and before I know it, hours have passed and it’s time to go home. Max pays the bill and leaves hefty tip on the table. Our breath puffs in front of us as we step out into the cold November night. My heels click on the pavement and Max’s hand is at the small of my back, his eyes darting side to side, taking in all there is to see as he leads us back to his car. I snuggle in close to him, enjoying the way it feels to be tucked in close to his warmth. The sheer size of him making me feel safe. The ride home is over too fast. We talk some more, laughing and joking about everything and nothing and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve just let myself be free. I hold myself so close, push myself so hard, ask more and more and more out of my days. I barely have time to breath. I barely have time to smile.

Hell, I barely have a reason to smile. My life has become work and succeed and work some more to succeed some more and I think that has just hollowed me out. I am an empty shell on auto-pilot. When was the last time I did anything simply because I wanted to rather than because it was what I should do? When was the last time I did something spontaneous? Adventurous? I mean, if the most adventurous thing I can think about in the last couple months is letting Max order my drink and dinner for me then I think it might be time for me to loosen the hell up. When he pulls into my driveway, I’m immediately certain of what I want to say. Immediately certain that I am going to throw caution to the wind and invite this man into my house for a drink. Not only am I not ready for the evening to be over, but I’m also not even close to being ready to be alone again. No. that’s not quite right. What I’m not ready for is to be without Max. I don’t want to say goodnight to this man because I want to sit down so close to him on my couch. Touch him some more. Get to know him some more. The little tidbits I discovered about him tonight have only intensified my desire to know more about him. And if I’m being all kinds of honest, I want him to kiss me. I want my hands on his body and holy shit, do I ever want his hands on mine. “I’ll walk you to the door,” he says and kills the engine. I pull my keys out of my purse as we head up the walk. “I’m not really ready to say goodnight. Would you like to come in for something to drink?” “I’d love that. I really would. But the dog doesn’t do well if I leave her alone for extended periods of time.” He takes my hand. “But I had a really nice time tonight.” I tilt my face up to his. “Me, too.” There’s no way he knows how hard it was for me to invite him in. That I’ve never done anything like that before. That it took some huge dose of courage. That it was a testament to how much I enjoyed being with him. I step into his space. Tilt my face up to his. Let my lips part. His eyes go to my mouth, hungry and hooded. One hand on my hip, pulling me close. Another on my cheek. So tender. Chills and goosebumps. He presses his lips to mine and that is the end of me. I sigh, something unraveling deep inside me. Tension I didn’t know existed uncoiling into this molten pool of need and relief. As if, in this one kiss, this moment of connection, all the answers to questions I didn’t even know I was asking are answered. Well, all except one. Who is this man? That question just got bigger and more important than anything in my life. His kiss is tender yet bold, his hand snaking up into my hair and grabbing it in his fist. His other hand presses my hips into him, closing the gap between us while his lips caress mine, his tongue darting out to taste me. It’s a dichotomy of power and pleasure and I am totally undone. He pulls back. “Can I see you again?” “Only if you promise to keep kissing me like that.”

“Sold,” he whispers and his mouth is back on mine, more insistent this time, the space between our bodies non-existent. As I melt further into him, sliding my hands up his back, ever so aware of how amazingly broad it is, I feel him tense through the thick wool of his overcoat. He pulls back a fraction of an inch, his lips grazing mine as he speaks. “Don’t move yet, okay?” “Okay,” I whisper, our breath mingling. He pulls me in closer to him, crushing my body to his, and yet, his focus is very clearly not on me anymore. “There’s a car parked down the street. Saw it when I picked you up. Do you recognize it?” Max pulls back, smiling, his eyes like weapons boring into mine. He spins me a little so he can lean against my door, pulls me back into him and tilts my chin so he can kiss along my jawline and I can get a better look down the street. Goosebumps flare across my body. His lips are wonderful, kissing the sweetest spot, my favorite spot. The spot that makes my eyes roll back into my head with pleasure. And it’s been so long since anyone’s been there. But the goosebumps are intensified because there’s someone in that car. And yes, I’ve seen it before and no, I don’t recognize it and somehow it seems ever so ominous. Even more so when the headlights come on, and the engine roars to life, and the car speeds down the street, the guy behind the wheel staring us down the whole way. I’m shaking. Trembling like a leaf, almost sagging in Max’s arms. “What was that about?” “Could be nothing,” he says, smoothing my hair back away from my face. “You don’t look like you think it’s nothing.” Max swallows hard and takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “Cop senses.” His eyes are tight and watchful, taking in the area around my house. He lifts his jacket and I catch sight of a gun tucked into a holster in his waistband. My eyes go wide despite myself. Of course he’s armed. He’s a cop. That’s what they do, right? But wow. This whole evening, I was sitting across from a man with a gun and never knew it. “I’m going to go into the house with you and take a look around, just to be safe.” I let him in, turning on every light I can get my poor trembling hands on. He moves through the small house quickly and efficiently, making sure that I stay with him, but behind him. After he deems the interior safe, he goes around the outside, leaving me perched on the couch in a mess of emotions I can’t process. He comes back inside in a gust of chilled November air, his back so straight and his shoulders so square he looks almost impenetrable. “Everything looks okay out there, but I want you to keep an eye out. Don’t let anyone in. If something looks suspicious, I want you to call me first, then the police, okay?” I nod. “Do you think I should be scared?” Because I’m scared. Max’s reaction alone is enough to unnerve me, his cop sense going off, the realization that I’ve been seeing that car more and more lately, followed by its very abrupt departure

when the guy sitting in the cold car in the dark realized that we had noticed him. “Don’t be scared. Just be wary. Pay attention.” He sits beside me on the couch and takes my hands in his, his skin still chilled from the time he spent outside. I don’t want him to go, but I’m afraid to ask him to stay. He already turned me down once. He stays anyway. Takes off his coat and settles into the couch, pulling me into him. Close, so close and good, so good. We don’t say much. I’m too wound up and he’s gotten very quiet, but I appreciate the fact that he stays until I’m not trembling anymore. When he finally goes home, I lock the door and check all my windows before climbing into bed. Even with the covers pulled up close to me, I’m chilled, although I couldn’t tell you if that was because I’m actually cold or because of the way I keep remembering the way the guy behind the wheel of the car looked at me as he sped off down my street.

14

I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING IN A POOL OF WARM LIGHT, SLICED INTO THIN LINES BY MY BLINDS, AND streaming in through my window to land on my bed. Gone is all the worry and tension from the night before. In its place? The slightest hint of Max’s scent left on my skin. The memory of his warm lips on mine. The way he stayed to make sure that I was not only safe, but also sane. Sitting with me until he knew my fear had dissipated and I knew I was going to be okay before he left. It makes me warm from the inside out. I grab my phone off the bedside table to check the time and find the notification light blinking. A text from Max. Woke up thinking about you. Well damn if that doesn’t feel good. I sit up and stare down at those five simple words, smiling like I just won a million dollars while I tap out a response. Woke up thinking about you, too. It’s nine, which is late for me, and I’ve got a couple errands to run. I bound out of bed and wash my face, brush my teeth, and get dressed. My phone buzzes while I’m trying to decide if I’m comfortable going out with a baseball hat and ponytail so I don’t have to do my hair and makeup or if I should just suck it up and spend the time getting ready. I check the phone, putting off the decision.

Drove by your house this morning in the patrol car. Didn’t see anything strange. You text or call if you see anything. Okay? There’s this brief flash of disappointment. When he said he was thinking about me, I instantly assumed he was thinking about, you know, me. Our date. That he had fun. That he wanted to do it again sometime. Not that he was busy being a protective cop who was worried about a woman with a suspicious car outside her house. But then my phone buzzes and what he has to say obliterates all the disappointment. When can I see you again? Soon, please. Maybe that makes me sound desperate, but I’m really hoping it sounds more along the lines of honest. Promise? Tonight? My breath catches a little. Should I have been so forward? But the answer is easy. Hell yes, I should be forward. I need to go after what I want, and what I want is Max Santoro. Tonight sounds great. What sounds like fun? Ohhh … I can think of a lot of stuff that sounds fun, but none of it is exactly appropriate for a second date. Never mind the fact that I’ve been seeing the man once a week for the past month and a half, that was a purely professional relationship. My sister Dakota would probably be brave enough to just jump right in there and say what she’s thinking, but me? Nah. I’ll wait and let Max set the pace on that. I offer to cook him dinner and hold my breath until he responds, in case he finds that suggestion too forward. I don’t wait long. He accepts and adds the suggestion of finding a movie on Netflix and all I can think about is snuggling up next to him on the couch again. Despite the bright sun, it’s cold today. I pull on a jacket and peek through the blinds, looking for strange cars. When I don’t see anything or anyone unnusual out there, I let out a long breath I didn’t know I was holding. Purse in hand and baseball hat pulled low, I lock my door behind me and head on out into a brilliant morning, squinting against the sunlight. My errands today are very fun of the mill. An oil

change. A stop at the bank. Running into the grocery for the same week’s worth of healthy choices I buy each and every Saturday. On the spur of the moment, I stop at the mall and wonder through the stores, daydreaming about a new shirt and maybe even a new pair of shoes. Before I know it, I’ve got bags draped over my arms, a coffee in my hand, and a great big smile on my face. I didn’t just buy a new shirt. I got a whole new outfit from the ground up. From a black lacy bra and matching panties to a great pair of pants that look casual enough for a night at home but sexy enough to spur Max on for some more of the touchy feely stuff. Earrings. A bracelet. And even a great idea on how I want to wear my hair. On the way home, I turn the radio up and sing at the top of my lungs, dancing in my seat and not caring even a little bit about who might see. Let them stare. Let them see me happy. And if they laugh? Good. Maybe my happiness brought them a little happiness and isn’t that what life is all about? But when I get back home, my blood just runs cold because sitting in that same spot on the road down from my house is that exact same car. And there is a guy in the car. And he is watching my house. And even though he turns his head away from me when I drive past, I know he was waiting for me. I pass my house and turn the corner, even though I know he saw me. I go around the block and put the car in park, dialing Max’s number with shaking hands. “Well, hello sweet stuff,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Max,” I hiss, staring wildly into the rearview in case I see him come around the corner. “He’s here.” “Where are you?” I can hear the smile is gone and Max is deadly serious. “I was out running errands, he wasn’t there when I left, but when I came back, he was sitting in that same spot.” “But right now, Chelsea. Where are you right now?” He is strong and confident, breaking through my growing panic with the sheer amount of control in his voice. “I drove past my house and parked around the block. I’m in my car.” “Good. That was very good thinking.” “What do I do? What’s this all about?” I hate how afraid and uncertain I sound, but damn it. I’m afraid and uncertain right now. “First of all, start by calming down because I’ve got you and you’re going to be okay. I want you to go somewhere popular and waste about ten minutes. Go to a Starbucks or something and grab a coffee and wait for me to text you. When you get that text from me, I want you to go home. I’ll be waiting for you and we’ll make sure this guy gets the picture that you are not to be messed with.” There is so much power and strength in Max’s voice, so much certainty in his decisions, I start feeling better just knowing he has a plan for me. I glance at the empty coffee cup I’ve got sitting in the console next to me and shrug. Max’s idea is less about the coffee and more about the sheer amount of people I’ll be around me. Starbucks is never empty. With one last look in the rearview, I pull back out onto the road and navigate myself through my

neighborhood and back out to the main roads. I’m sipping on a tall caramel macchiato when the all clear text comes from Max. The drive home is somewhat more subdued than my first drive home. No music. Shaking hands and white knuckles. Ramrod straight back. The car is still sitting there, guy in the driver’s seat trying not to be seen. There’s something ridiculous in that. I mean, how conspicuous can you get? As I pull into my driveway, Max pulls up behind me, his car a sleek black barrier between me and the guy on the street that feels like a bastion of safety right about now. But then he steps out and my eyes bug out of my head. That is not Max Santoro, the man in the suit who takes women to fancy restaurants and orders exotic food. This is Max Santoro, the cop. He’s dressed in his uniform, the brim of his hat pulled down over those bullet blue eyes of his. His jaw is set. His hand is on the gun at his hip, flipping open the holster with his thumb. He nods to me. Once. A curt dip of his chin. Then he spins on his heel and marches straight towards the guy in the gray Celica. I watch, feeling less frightened now and more like I just happened to be the person who brought a gun to a knife fight. You thought I was a helpless victim? I think as Max arrives at the asshole’s door and raps on the window with a knuckle. You’re about to get just a little more than you bargained for. I can’t hear what Max says to the guy, but I can see that the guy in the car is about ready to poop his pants in fear. Somehow, and maybe this makes me a little bit of a bad person, I get a big warm fuzzy feeling watching the interaction. Max barks something at the guy, clipped tones, deep voice, and the driver nods frantically. Max steps back, hand still near his holster, and the guy starts his car and drives off, never even looking my way once. “I can’t guarantee that he won’t be back, but I think it might be awhile before you see him again.” Max is smiling, proud of himself, and oh so handsome in that uniform. All that blue fabric stretched across that proud chest. “My hero,” I say, trying to joke, but the relief I feel makes its way into my voice and shows just how much I mean it. “Who was he?” “Not really sure. He muttered some stuff about being totally within his legal rights. I reminded him that stalking and threatening is nowhere near his legal right and that I would be more than willing to take him down to the station and remind him exactly where he stands on the whole legal side of things.” I step closer, wanting him to wrap myself up in his arms and feel that much safer. “Thank you.” Max looks down at me, just a few millimeters of space separating our bodies. “Of course.” He pauses and clears his throat. “So I guess I should head home so I can get changed for this hot date I have this evening.” “You too?” I ask. “I just happen to have a hot date as well.” “Yeah?” Max smiles. “I bet my date is hotter than your date.” “No way. Mine is big and strong and wears a uniform that does crazy things to

my libido. And he’s got these eyes that I get lost in and he smells so good…” I trail off, mortified at myself. “You like the uniform, huh?” Max asks with a quirk of his lips. “Totally.” And now I’m blushing from head to toe. “I might be filing that information away for later.” Max takes off his hat and runs a hand over the top of his head. We stand there for a few moments, neither of us ready to say goodbye. “So,” I finally say. “I know this might be a little weird, but I was wondering if you might want to just stay? I mean, I’m nowhere near ready for our date.” I gesture at my outfit and hat. “But, I just…” Don’t want you to leave. Max grins at me. “I’d love that. Like, more than you know. But if I go home and let the dog out now, then I can stay later tonight.” His eyes smolder into mine, like a full on, hero on the cover of a romance novel smolder and I have never, ever, had anyone look at me like that in my whole life. It’s intoxicating. “I guess I can handle that.” Max grabs me by the waist, pulls me tight against his body. It’s so abrupt I squeak in surprise. He lowers his face to mine, kisses me sweetly on the lips. Runs his hands up my back and teases me with his tongue, darting it into my mouth to taste mine. I feel his belt digging into me, the radio on his shoulder, the badge on his chest… Add that to the strength in his arms and back. The power with which he just pulled me into him, claimed this kiss as his… I’m done for. If Max wanted to make sure that I thought of nothing but him for the next few hours, well, he couldn’t have done a better job of making it happen.

15

WHEN I WALKED UP TO THE WINDOW ON THAT TOYOTA CELICA, I WAS HALF EXPECTING TO SEE SLOAN Anderson sitting there, boiling in some testosterone-fueled rage over the fact that Chelsea outed him for the assault back in October. When I found a twerpy little pasty faced jerk in stained jeans and a Mountain Dew can littered car, it took me a second to readjust my plan of attack If it had been Sloan Anderson, I was ready to pull that man out of the driver’s seat and threaten him with every ounce of media attention I can muster. If that meant making a big loud deal on the street so that Chelsea’s neighbors came pouring out of their homes to see what was happening, then so be it. If that meant dragging his dumb ass down to the station on trumped up charges of some sort, then so be it. But the strange little guy who was most definitely not Sloan Anderson would have had a heart attack if I went all big bad cop on him. So I went for a different kind of threatening. I know how to put fear into someone. I know how to use my eyes, my size, the gun on my hip. I know how to look at a person and let them see that little bit of crazy in me that they really don’t want to rile up. Chelsea had sounded so scared on the phone. So small. So unsure of what to do. No one needs to feel like that. No one. The fact that she reached out to me in her time of need—a guy she’s only known casually for a few weeks, a guy she’s only been on one date with—that sent little ripples of anxiety through my heart for her. What that told me is that she doesn’t have anyone else she trusts to keep her safe. That even though she claims to have this great, supportive family, she didn’t trust them to be there for her when she felt threatened.

She turned to me, a near stranger. Part of me likes it. Not the part where she’s scared and alone. Not the part where her voice trembled explaining why she called me. But the part where she called me? That feels good. She knows I can protect her. She knows that when things get bad, I’m the one to call. What man wouldn’t like to know a woman has that kind of faith in him? And then there’s the fact that she didn’t want me to leave after it all went down. We stood there in the driveway, her in her baseball cap and dirty hair, me in my uniform, and she suggested I just keep on staying. Thing is, I really considered it. In the past, that level of clingy would have had me running for the hills. Not with Chelsea. She’s something special. My palms get a little sweaty when I think about how much I want to see her. She was my last thought before bed and my first thought of the morning and has infiltrated every other moment of my day since I woke. Considering how hard I’ve worked not to build any attachments in my life, this should worry me. But it doesn’t. Anyway, I don’t know if I could stay away from her if I wanted to. I’m drawn to this woman. She is unlike anything or anyone I’ve ever encountered in my whole damn life. When I’m with her, the memories don’t come whispering up from the dark part of my soul, threatening to overtake me. She calms me. Soothes me. I smile more around her and let me tell you, that certainly doesn’t suck, even if it does surprise me. Takes me off guard when I realize that I’m just grinning like an idiot or laughing at some silly little nothing she said and that I didn’t even have to consciously make it happen. And the other thing? The other little truth that I’d like to think I know as an honest to goodness truth? I am not my past. DNA or not. Faulty genetics or not, my grandmother made sure that I saw whatever wires got crossed in my dad and helped me cement the desire to keep on the straight and narrow. Even when I got placed in the worst of foster homes. Even when I ran away and found solace in the company of people who made it their mission to look as prickly on the outside as they felt on the inside, I still managed to keep my hands clean, to stay true to who I am deep down in my very core. A good person. Driven to operate within the boundaries of right. And when I was presented with opportunities to break the law? To make a good hefty sum of money by becoming a criminal? Well, I managed to side-step those, too. So maybe, even given my less than stellar pedigree, maybe I really am the good guy I want to be. That my grandma wanted me to be. That she spent every second of every day training me to be. My thoughts spin while I take Reagan on a nice long run. They tumble over themselves as I shower and shave. My past and my present, tangling together. My grandmother’s loving hands, wizened and wrinkled, clasped together as she pulls me up into her lap. Chelsea’s long fingers sliding up my arm, the last thing I see

before I touch my lips to hers. My mother, tight-lipped and arms crossed, chest sunken, shoulders hunched. Whispered conversation with my dad. Rage in her near-silent voice. My dad, strong arms and a quick smile. Gentle hands on her shoulders and reassuring words from his snake oil tongue. “I’ve got this, babe,” he says to her, his voice deep and warm, rumbling down to me through the years. I hear it now, distorted as it is and I hear it then, as I was, a little boy peering around the corner at a discussion I wasn’t meant to hear. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he says. “I’m getting out. For you. For Max. It’s over.” “It’ll never be over.” Tears clamp down on her throat like a vice, breaking her words. “Yes, it will. It is.” And he pulls her into his arms. Runs his hands up her back. Soothing. Reassuring. Two days later, they were dead. Turns out, they were both right. For them, it was over. For me, it will never be over.

16

I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I CARED WHAT I LOOKED LIKE NAKED. I MEAN, LIKE, REALLY CARED. Typically, I’ll shave up to my knees, throw on some mismatched underwear that might be a year or seven old and call it good to go. Today though, I’m in full on primp mode, shaving every inch of my legs, even paying extra attention to my bikini line. It’s been a long time since I’ve had eyes (or hands!) on my body. A long time since I really and truly felt pretty. I pull on the new black lace bra and panties and study myself in the mirror, turning this way and that to get the best view of myself. I cover my belly with my hands. Pinch the soft spots on my hips. Press up on the cups of my bra, lifting my breasts into a better position. Maybe the lingerie was a mistake. The little demonbitch in my head goes to work, counting up all my flaws and cackling shrilly when I try to bat her away. You’re not good enough, silly girl, she says. You’re too pale. Too soft. You’ve let yourself go. You’re too fat. You’re too old. You never were very pretty. You should be better than this. And the worst of them all: He’s not going to want you. No one does. You are not enough. I flip on my phone and pull up Pandora, drown out the voice with some loud

music, happy and upbeat. The only way I know how to quiet her is to overpower her. I’d love to find the magic button that just turns her off. Shuts her up. I’d love to look in the mirror and tell the demon-bitch that I am good enough and for her to disappear in a puff of smoke. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. But I think she’s just a permeant fixture in the Chelsea London psyche. And I can actually thank her for a lot of things. Her constant nagging has driven me to achieve more and more, reach for new heights, ask new things of myself, to never settle for where I am, to know that I am capable of more… It can’t be all bad, right? One last flutter of my hands over my belly. One last little lift of my breasts. One last turn of my body, a new angle to see it all. I sigh. No, it’s not all bad, but it sure could be better. I get dressed and do my hair and makeup. The new outfit is a complete success and, even though the demon-bitch is whispering about all the flaws I’m hiding under the cut of the sweater, I actually feel pretty. And that’s what I’ll focus on. A text interrupts my music, a picture from Dakota. Her cheek pressed to her husband’s, her smile rivalled by his. The sun setting over the desert stretched out behind them. Don’t know what’s better, finally seeing the Serengeti or finally getting to see it with Dominic, she says. Neither is better, both are good, I respond. I put the phone down, smiling. I’m beyond happy for her. She met Dominic and her whole life changed just like that. A snap of the fingers and everything she ever wanted in all her life came into existence. This perfect fairy tale of a love story. It was fast, so fast that I should be worried about her, but there’s this magic when they’re in the room together. There’s no denying that Dakota and Dominic are made to be together. Before seeing it, I was the first to laugh at people who talked about things like true love and soul mates. Relationships are hard and messy and a lot of work. They burn bright and fade as lust gives way to comfort and compromise. But I won’t be surprised if Dakota and Dominic avoid that. If they are one of those lucky few who love each other into old age, still holding hands as they hobble down the street. I wonder if I’ll ever have that. Actually, I wonder how many people in this world are lucky enough to actually find it. I grab my phone and head downstairs, thoughts of my sister morphing into thoughts of Max. Is he the guy that can give me that? There certainly wasn’t any palpable magic the day we met. I didn’t like him very much and I don’t think he liked me very much, but we didn’t exactly have the most auspicious of first meetings. But as the weeks passed, I found myself liking him more and more. And now? I’m holding my breath until he gets here. I’m up to my hands in ground beef, making meatballs for tonight’s dinner, when my phone buzzes again. Probably Dakota, who can wait, but I check anyway and my body zings with excitement when I see it’s Max.

Thinking of you. It flashes across my screen and I smile, happy to know that he’s thinking about me while I’m thinking about him. Another text comes in, but I can’t see it so I wash my hands before picking up my phone. That car come back? It wasn’t there when I came downstairs, but that was a good twenty minutes ago. I head over to the window and take a peek, breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see it. Nope. Think you scared him away. I wait for the next text to come in, hesitant to put my hands back in the meatballs in case he still wants to chat. But as one minute stretches into two, I start to feel a little silly standing there staring at my phone while dinner waits for me to finish it in the kitchen. Just as I slide my phone into my pocket, it buzzes again. Soooo … would it be a bad thing if I was early? My heart leaps. Not at all. Not even a little bit. I want him here, always. The thought takes me by surprise. But there it is, my attraction for him spelled out for me in no uncertain terms. Of course not, I respond. Still working on dinner, but you’re welcome anytime. I hit send, hesitate for only a second and then tap out another text. The earlier the better. Heart racing, I wait for a reply. Just stare at my phone like it’s the only thing that matters in this world. So, when there’s a knock on my door about twenty seconds later, I about jump out of my skin. Cautious, I peer through the slats in the blinds, trying to get a look at the front porch. This is the way of it now. Can’t just open the door because there are weird guys in cars out there. I can’t see the porch, but I can see the driveway and I bounce happily to recognize Max’s sleek black car. I bound to the door and throw it open. “That was fast,” I say, trying not to show just how excited I am to see him. “Couldn’t wait. Got ready, got in the car, was mostly here before I thought it might be a good idea to find out if you were ready for me.” Max gives me a sheepish grin, which transforms his rugged looks—almost harsh sometimes in the wrong light—into something sweet and boyish. I invite him in and take his coat. He leans down and pulls me in for a kiss the moment we’re close, arms around me, claiming me. I melt into his strength, sheltered by his size.

“Couldn’t wait for that either.” A tingle of warmth starts in my toes and zings up and through my body. “Well, no need to wait. You can have as many of those as you’d like.” “Good,” he says and kisses me again. He’s brought the smell of the cold in on his skin. I take a deep breath and another knot of tension inside me slips free. “You smell good,” I whisper. Max smiles. Runs a thumb across my cheek and taps the end of my nose. “So, what’s going on in the kitchen? You need any help in there?” “I was just getting started on the meatballs. You want something to drink? Keep me company while I cook?” Max lifts his eyebrows. “Meatballs? Damn, woman. You really want on my good side don’t you? “I take it you’re a fan?” I lead him back to the kitchen, absolutely beaming. Max studies his surroundings, his quick eyes taking in everything. I try to see my house as he does. It’s tidy with lots of neutral color. Pictures and paintings I found on sale at random places that I hung because I liked the look of them. Nothing personal anywhere. No pictures of me and my family. No awards from work. This could be anyone’s house. What’s it telling him about me? We’re standing in the kitchen, Max leaning on the wall, peering at the beginnings of the meatballs. “Oh, I’m a fan,” he says, his eyes boring into mine. “But let’s not get crazy here. A lot depends on the execution. There’s a lot that can go wrong between the meat and the balls.” He surveys the ingredients I have lined up next to the mixing bowl, lips pursed, eyebrows raised, while I try desperately not to think about his balls. “Well? Everything pass muster up to this point?” I roll up my sleeves and get ready to plunge my hands back into the mess. Max eyes me warily. “I’m withholding judgement until I’ve had a chance to taste them.” His tone is so serious it’s hard to know if he’s joking. I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s joking, because why wouldn’t he be? But he’s so deadpan, it’s hard to tell. We talk and laugh as I work on dinner. Max rolls up his own sleeves and joins in, teasing me the whole time about his superior meatball rolling skills. We talk about everything. Work. Movies. Music. High school. He was way more of a daredevil then I ever was and his experiences far outweigh mine. I never got too drunk at prom. Never skipped school. Never cheated on a test. Him? It sounds like he had a rebellious streak a mile wide tempered by an equally strong desire to be good. “My friends would all be skipping school, doing drugs, getting caught. I skipped a couple times, but only on days when I knew I didn’t have anything important going on. And I never did the drugs. And I always got myself back in class without being caught.” “I never did anything like that. I could just see the disapproval in my dad’s eyes. And the thought of something being on my record, my permanent record…” I roll my eyes. “Nope. Not for me. I just put my head down and worked hard on my

grades.” “Seems like that worked out pretty well for you.” Max leans onto the counter and stares deeply into my eyes. I’m lost in the blue upon blue upon blue that will forever mean safety to me from this point forward. His eyes aren’t weapons today. They are the calm after the storm. “The house, the job…” He gestures around my pristine kitchen. “Must feel pretty good.” “Kind of. I still feel like I could be more, you know?” Max frowns. “Actually, no. I don’t. It sounds like you work your ass off and it looks like you’ve got a lot to show for it. What more could you possibly want?” I could be thinner. Better. Richer. Harder working. I could be a surgeon instead of physical therapist. I could have more friends. I could have a pet. A garden in the back. I’m just not living up to my potential… I silence the demon-bitch with a shake of my head. “I don’t know. I think my family just had their sights set higher for me.” Max takes a moment to digest that, studying me so intently that I feel absolutely exposed, and not in the best way. “Anyone who is not satisfied with a beautiful woman who works miracles in her field, who pushes herself to learn the latest and greatest, a woman who has earned enough to buy herself a house, a woman who does it all with a smile on her face and a kind word for the people in her life … maybe that person needs to step back and take a good look at what’s in front of him.” I stare into Max’s eyes. His words sear down into my heart and touch some broken part inside me that hurts. “You’re good enough for me, Chelsea,” he says. “I think everything about you is amazing. Perfect. More people should be like you.” You’re good enough for me. You’re good enough for me. You’re good enough for me. Those words. They stretch and roll through me, unleashing a torrent of fear and hope and panic and a goddamn outright need to hear them again. We have accidentally stumbled into highly awkward, not appropriate for second date territory. I break eye contact with Max. “Thank you,” I mumble towards the counter and then hit him with a smile, searching for a lighter topic. “So, I never did get you a drink. What are you in the mood for?” He steps into my space, invading and protecting in the same instant. “You,” he says. “I’m in the mood for you.”

17

WE KISS. A FRANTIC THING, MY EMOTIONS BOILING INSIDE ME IN THIS BARELY CONTAINABLE COMBINATION of need and fear. Max’s words awoke something in me, something I don’t know how to keep quiet. He sees me. He wants me. I am enough for him. His hands travel my body, learning the topography of my skin, mapping it out, unable to settle in one place. Our breath is a symphony, twining together as our tongues dance between us. I press into him and he pulls me closer, the tiniest of spaces left between us too much to bare. I slide my hands up back, dig my nails into the fabric of his shirt, my fists tight little balls, clenched with need and some strange form of fury I’ve never experienced before. I want him naked in front of me and I want to be naked in front of him. I want it with a passion that devours all other things. It is need in its purest form. This man, this strange man with his perfect words has awakened a part of me that I don’t know yet. A part that wants to melt around him, conform to his hard edges, accept him inside me, hold him tight and never let him go. Desperate, my hands go to his belt, fumble with the thick leather in the lack of space between us. He growls, a low rumble that sends shivers up and down my spine and I whimper against his lips. I don’t know this sound. I don’t know this woman. So needy. So out of control. This is not tidy. This is not clean. This is everything I’m not. Devouring each other in the kitchen while the meatballs sizzle in the oven. Max slides his hands up under my sweater, his skin electrifying mine. He pulls it over my head and drops it on the floor. As much as I wanted this, to be bared to him, fear works its way into my belly. He’ll see me for what I am now. Flawed.

Imperfect. Not enough. I want to cover myself right up again so he’ll keep on wanting me. Instead, he steps back, his bullet blue eyes hooded and dangerous. “Fucking black lace,” he says, his voice molten. “You are absolutely perfect.” I rejoice as his hands go to my pants, unbuttoning them slowly, pulling down the zipper and sliding them down my hips. He kneels in front of me and I steady myself on his shoulders as I step out of the pants. They join the sweater in a pile on the floor, while his words flit through my head. Perfect. He said I was perfect. I tilt my head back as he traces his hands up my thighs, around my hips, and grabs my ass with both hands, squeezing tightly. My hair brushes my bare back and I gasp, goosebumps flaring across my pale skin. “I want you, Chelsea London.” Max kisses my stomach, pulls on my panties, licks the soft space near my hipbone. “All of you.” “I want you, too.” I can barely breathe. He looks up at me, captures my eyes with his own, and slowly drags his thumb over my clit. I gasp. Quiver. The thin lace of my new panties is too much of a barrier between us. I want … no, I need … his skin on mine. “Please, Max,” I moan. “Please what?” Another flick of his finger, a flicker of his tongue. A whisper of his breath. “I need you. Touch me.” “Oh, you needy little girl. You want my hands on you?” My eyes fly open and I look down at him, lips parted, half afraid of the edge in his voice, half ignited by it. I nod and he smiles up at me, dragging my panties down my hips. “Spread your legs,” he says, and I do. Chest rising and falling with my frantic breath. My body throbs. I am nothing but sensation and desire, so eager for his touch. I have never wanted anyone as much as I want him right now. Never understood what it meant to covet someone, to yearn for something with every ounce of my soul. I do now. Max runs his hands up my inner thighs and I quake with anticipation. And then, without warning, he stands, hands at his sides, and I am bereft. He pulls off his sweater, drops it in a forgotten heap and I am left to stare at this man who might as well be carved from stone. His pants hang low, exposing the deep V of his hips. His abs are harsh lines intersecting his ribs. His chest begs me to run my hands up it, to squeeze the strong flesh. Max comes in close to me, his body not quite touching mine. Heat between us. His lips graze my neck as his hands trace my stomach, my breasts, my shoulders. With one hand he unhooks my bra and it falls to the floor, another piece of unnecessary clothing. He trails a finger down from my throat to my breast, traces a circle around my nipple before he pinches and rolls one between his thumb and forefinger. I gasp and moan. No one has ever touched me like this before.

His hands are everywhere, tickling and teasing. His mouth, his breath, his teeth. I am undone and he hasn’t even taken his pants off yet. “I love this body,” he says. “I could play with it all night. Learn everything there is to learn about what you want and what you like.” He runs a finger up my slit. “So wet. You like this, don’t you? Being exposed to me.” I nod and he dips one finger inside me, just the lightest of touches that has my heart racing through my body. I make another sound I don’t recognize. “So needy,” he says and steps back, his hand on the belt I never managed to undo. “I like you this way. Bare to me. Eyes begging me to take you. To take you and have my dirty way with you and make you mine.” I flush, recognizing my exact desire in his words. “You’re driving me crazy,” I say with a smile. “How crazy?” he asks, as he pulls his belt from his pants. I eye it as it dangles from his hand, a surge of fear and uncertainty mixing with my lust and sending me spiraling off in a direction unknown to me. “How crazy do you want me to be?” I ask, the desire to know what’s in his head quickly becoming a need. “As crazy as I want.” He smiles. Takes my wrists in his hands and slowly wraps the belt around them until they’re bound in front of me. I stare down at the black leather while Max pulls a condom out of his pocket and then steps out of his pants and briefs. His cock springs free, large and straining towards me. My own need and desire reflected on his body. He clears a space on the counter and spins me around. “I thought I was going to be able to take my time with you, but you’ve got me too far gone.” I hear the tear of the condom and can’t help but turn my head to watch him slide it on. There’s something so intimate about seeing his hands on his dick like that. He steps close. Hands on my hips, bending me over the counter, legs spread, arms bound and reaching out over my head. He presses himself into me, sliding in, letting me take him slowly. Letting me get used to the way he fills me. Stretching me to my limits. He groans as he pushes his hips to mine, fully sheathed. He moves, building speed, and I am a raw nerve, nothing but sensation and all I know is Max. Max inside me. Max’s hands on my hips, my back. The sound of his skin slapping against mine. He grabs my waist and I arch my back, letting him in even more. I cry out as my orgasm overtakes me, appearing from nowhere and spiraling through my body, clenching my hands into fists, nails digging into the leather around my wrists. My knees buckle and I sag into the counter while Max chases his own climax, moving faster and with more force. He comes with a growl, pushing into me and rolling his hips while I quiver around him. Still inside me, he leans forward and kisses that spot between my shoulder

blades. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I meant to go slow…” “Don’t you dare apologize. That was everything.” Max sits up and pulls out of me before helping me to stand since my weak muscles and bound wrists made it more than a little awkward for me to move. “No, sweet girl. That was rushed and all about me. You’re just too much for me.” “If that was rushed, then … I don’t know …” I search for words, still not quite able to form coherent thoughts. Max pulls off the condom and I show him the trash can hiding under the sink. He washes his hands while I go clean up in the bathroom, clothes in hand, my legs complaining about the stairs the whole way, limp and spent.

18

THE TIMER ON THE MEATBALLS BEEPS WHILE CHELSEA IS UPSTAIRS GETTING CLEANED UP. I PULL OPEN A few drawers, looking for a potholder. Of course, I find a neat pile of them in a drawer right beside the stove. The perfect place. In perfect condition. Perfectly stacked. It’s hard for me to imagine the wild-eyed woman—wrists bound and panting with need—as the same woman who could be capable of this near obsessive and almost totally sterile level of organization. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget the look in her eyes when I told her she was enough for me. This flood of feeling that neither of us were prepared for. And her body, holy shit her body. So fucking beautiful. I certainly wasn’t prepared for her to react to my touch like that, like my fingers were lightning, creating earthquakes inside her. I pull the meatballs out of the oven as Chelsea comes around the corner, looking luscious with her just been fucked hair. “Thanks,” she says, struggling to meet my eyes. “Of course.” I pull her to me and lift her chin until she sees me. I can’t stand the thought of her pulling away, hiding from whatever it was that just happened between us, not after seeing her so open to me. “I would have searched for some plates, but I didn’t want to get too nosy.” Chelsea laughs, crinkling her nose a little in that way that means she’s nervous. “We got a little distracted and I never got the noodles or the sauce ready.” Her eyes are trained on mine. “Well, what are you waiting for, woman?” I ask, pressing a kiss into her forehead. “Make me some dinner.”

She laughs lightly—although I still hear a hint of tension behind it all—and flits about the kitchen in an exercise in efficiency and concision. She pours wine for us as I set the table, amazed at how comfortable I feel in her home. I sit at her table and watch her work with her hummingbird-like energy. Before tonight, I would have envied her drive, her need to stay in motion, but after seeing that look in her eyes, after watching her come totally undone before me, I’m not so sure her need for perfection comes from a healthy place. She serves me, putting my plate down in front of me almost ceremoniously, and then perches on the edge of her chair, waiting for me to take the first bite. I had already decided that no matter how the dinner actually tasted, I was going to go on like it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Which, to be honest, surprises me, because I am not one for falsehoods and pretense. I like to call it like I see it and keep things honest and real. But something tells me she needs to please me, needs to be good, needs to feel like she’s succeeded, and something inside me has risen up to answer that call. Something in this perfect woman is dreadfully broken and I want to put her back together again. The good news is that I don’t have to fake a damn thing. The meatballs are delicious. I moan and my eyes roll closed. “Shit, woman. Smart. Sexy. Beautiful. And you can cook? How perfect can you be?” She beams and takes a bite, blushing as she chews. We talk as we eat. I ask her about her family and she goes on about how wonderful they are. She tells me about her sisters—love shining in her eyes. “Our childhoods couldn’t be more different,” I say and take a bite of meatball. She shakes her head, suddenly self-aware. “I can only imagine. I’m sorry for going on and on.” “No need to be sorry. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to hear it.” “Was it hard? Growing up in the foster system?” “I think growing up is just hard. Period.” I shrug, not sure I’m ready to show her the stark contrast between her memories and mine. “That’s true.” Chelsea smiles and I know that she’s giving me the out, searching her head for a safer topic. I surprise myself and keep talking. “From what I gather,” I say, stabbing the last meatball on my plate. “You were raised. For better or for worse, your parents instilled a sense of belonging and this burning desire to succeed in you. Me? I raised myself. Forged who I am despite the people and influences working against me.” She nods, conceding the point, guilt casting a shadow across her face. “I can’t even begin to imagine.” “But,” I say, leaning forward to catch her eye. “I’m not so sure it was a bad thing. I’m quite comfortable in who I am. All the things I am, I chose to be, you know? I don’t doubt my wants and needs because I understand where they come from.” “I never thought about it like that. I’ve often wondered who I’d be if I wasn’t busy trying to live my life the way my parents taught me. Trying to live up to who

they want me to be.” “You’d still be you. Good and sweet and wonderful. And maybe a little more okay with being a lowly physical therapist.” I make sure she catches the sarcasm in my voice and sees how much I respect her job. Chelsea picks at the food left on her plate, a flurry of thoughts parading across her face. “How did your parents die?” she finally asks. I sit back in my chair and clear my throat, dropping my eyes from hers for the first time since we sat down. It’s the one thing, the one thing in my past I haven’t made peace with. The one part of myself I don’t want to share. Don’t want her pity or her judgement. “It’s okay,” she says, shaking her head, an apology in her eyes. “I was out of line.” I think of her in the kitchen, bared to me in more than just the physical sense. She showed me her soul tonight and here I am, hiding mine from her in return. That’s not fair or right or just. “They were murdered.” The words taste like ash. Her lips part. Shock. Pain. Regret. They dance on her face in the silence. “Oh wow…” At least she didn’t say she was sorry. So many people go for that. Empty words to fill the space, designed to make themselves feel better. “My dad was involved in a crime ring in New York. All kinds of illegal stuff. Guess he got started with them when he was a teenager and then just never got out. He didn’t climb very far up the ranks. I don’t think he was an ambitious man. But he got in deep enough, I guess.” I want to watch her face as I talk, but I’m mostly speaking to my plate. “According to my grandma, my mom was okay with it in the beginning. Liked the danger, I guess. And the easy money was probably nice, too. But after I was born, she wanted him to get out. And it didn’t take long until he wanted to get out. Building a better life for his family stopped meaning providing all the material things and started meaning providing the stuff that matters. Safety. Protection. The ability to sleep at night. That kind of stuff.” I glance at her and she’s rapt. Her eyes trained on mine. No judgement. No pity. Nothing. It’s not at all what I expected and everything I should have expected because when hasn’t she been exactly what I needed? “He thought he got out,” I say. “But I guess the mob had other ideas. They broke into our house and killed my mom while my dad watched and I hid under the table in the kitchen. She fell to the floor in front of me, her blood sneaking out towards my hands while my dad screamed. The sound…” I shake my head. “It haunts me.” Chelsea reaches across the table and touches my hand. Silent support. “The guy came for me next, digging under the table for me.” A memory, harsh and ugly. My hands smearing in my mother’s blood as I tried to push away from the snarling man who would kill me. I won’t share that with Chelsea. It’s mine to bear. “My dad shot him. The guy didn’t die right away, turned and killed my dad and then died, half under the table with me.” I finish the story and regret everything. That was my story. Mine and no other.

I’ve never shared it with someone who wasn’t my grandma or a therapist and I don’t know what caused me to share it today, but I wish I could scoop it back up and hide it away. Take it all back and return to flirting and laughing with Chelsea. “How old were you? Six?” I nod. “That’s a lot to carry.” Her voice is soft, her focus trained on me. In this moment, I am all that she sees and I refuse to buckle under the scrutiny. “It was. It is. I think things would have turned out a whole hell of a lot differently if it hadn’t been for my grandma. She was determined to raise me up strong enough to carry it all.” “Was she your mom’s mom or your dad’s mom?” “My dad’s. And she was hell-bent on making me better than him. In showing me how to find my own true north and keep my moral compass pointed that way. I had four good years with her until she passed. And those four years were the foundation that kept me sane while I was bounced around the system.” And there it all is. Well, the majority of it anyway. Out there in the open for Chelsea to study and digest. I thought it would be uncomfortable, having everything out in the open like this, but it almost feels good to share it. And good that of all the people in the world I could share it with, I chose her. “Sorry,” I say, swiping up my wine with a flourish and taking a quick sip. “Not exactly second date material.” “This doesn’t exactly feel like a second date.” Chelsea takes a drink of her own wine. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I’m glad to know you. To skip past all the parts where I have to guess at the things that made you the man in front of me and just get to the truth of it.” “I do appreciate a general lack of bullshit and prefer to get right to the point.” Chelsea laughs. “I may have noticed that about you.” “Oh yeah? And what else have you noticed about me?” “That you’re good and you’re strong and you see right through the bullshit other people put up. You see who they are underneath it all. You see me, I think. Maybe even better than I see myself.” “Not yet,” I say. “But I’ll get there.” I stand and gather out plates. “If you’ll let me.”

19

MAX AND I SETTLE INTO AN EXHILARATING ROUTINE OF BEING THE SOLE FOCUS OF EACH OTHER’S attention. Here I thought that I had the unique ability to obsess over something, to put all my attention on one thing in a way that puts other people to shame. Turns out it’s unique to the both of us. He writes me these beautiful emails, long and detailed, discussing the most intimate parts of who he is and where he comes from. I learn about the good foster families and the bad. I learn about the things that used to scare him and the stuff that still does. I learn about the nightmares that overtake him, the memories that cloud his days and send him into his house, shades drawn, a deep frown etched into that handsome face. In return, I pour my heart out to him as well, both in person and through text. I tell him the things the demon-bitch in my head says. Tell him how I feel I will never be enough to satisfy anyone. I show him the deepest, darkest parts of myself, the parts where I am nothing more than a scared little girl inside, trying my best to get it all right and failing miserably all the while. He texts me first thing in the morning. Good morning, my beautiful. And I respond, each and every time. Good morning, my knight in shining armor. My phone is always with me. In my hand as much as possible because we are constantly in contact, even while we’re at work. And as soon as we’re home? I’m at his house or he’s at mine and we’re talking, laughing, learning more about each other. And the sex…

Holy shit. The sex is amazing. He guides me and controls me, maybe sensing the fact that I’ve never done much more than lie on my back in a bed while some man grunts over top of me. I never considered myself inexperienced before. I mean, I’ve had my fair share of partners. But I’m learning that there’s a whole new world of experiences that Max is going to open up for me. Experiences that both scare the hell out of me and excite me at the same time. I’m at once unnerved by the bareness of it all and turned on by the fact that I’m sharing this kind of secret double life with Max. That he knows things about me and I know things about him that no one else knows. This is intimacy and it builds fast between us. Tonight he’s coming over with toys. Like, adult toys. And yes, I know I’m an adult, but no, I’ve never used them. Like, never ever. The day I admitted that to him, he looked at me with some strange mixture of shock and pity and disbelief so strong I felt ashamed. Of course, he saw that shame and pulled me into his lap, pulled out his phone that very moment and started browsing a section on Amazon that I’ve never been to before. He asked me what intrigued me, letting me look and read and explore, being patient as I worked through the heavy weight of embarrassment pushing down on me and begging me to be silent. In the end, I asked him to choose, because for the most part, I felt like I’d be willing to try just about anything I saw. He smiled and hid the phone from me, clicking on way more items than I thought appropriate and purchasing them on the spot. When I asked what he picked, he told me it was a surprise and that we’d get to play as soon as they arrived. I got a text this morning saying that the packages had arrived and I am not at all ashamed to admit that I have thought about nothing else since then. The fear of the unknown mixing with the tantalizing secret, mixing with just the little taste of danger that some of the more illicit items aroused in me. I don’t know what we’re going to do tonight and the expectation is sublime. After a very distracted day at work, I arrive home and shower before spending more time picking out my underwear than I do my actual outfit. Max is taking me to dinner, but I don’t know if I can eat. My belly is twisting in excitement. I’m perched on the couch when he knocks and practically sprint to the door, letting him in with a strong gust of mid-November air. He’s got a bag with him. A big bag. And I can’t get my eyes off it. “What did you bring?” I ask, reaching for it as he snatches away. “Patience, sweet girl.” “I used up all my patience today. I am officially out of patience.” I reach for the bag again. “What’s in there?” Max moves the bag out of my grasp. “You are being very naughty, little girl.” “Maybe I like being naughty.” I bite my lip, doing my best to look scrumptious and irresistible. Max’s eyes go dark. “Naughty girls need punishments.”

Adrenaline mixes with lust and I am on fire. “Maybe I need you to punish me.” Max advances on me. Wraps his fist in my hair and pulls back, exposing my neck, so I’m looking up at him as he peers down at me. “I am in charge of your needs. I will decide if, when, and how you need punished.” He presses a kiss to my lips and a surge of desire pools between my legs. “Do you understand?” he asks, his lips brushing mine. I nod, blushing and smiling and so turned on I’m almost embarrassed. I love it when he takes control like this. Love it when he claims me. He releases me and opens the bag, pulls out a box about the size of his hand. “I think—you naughty, needy girl—that you’re right. You need to be reminded who’s in control here.” He opens the box and pulls out a swatch of red lace, a small black oval, and what looks like a remote. “Put this on.” The lace turns out to be underwear, the oval, a remote-controlled vibrator that fits into a slit in the panties. And the remote control? All his. I do as I’m told, a mess of nervous expectation, and he tests the remote, cycling through the different speeds from a low buzzing hum, teasing me awake, to a full on, orgasm-building vibration that has me panting and fighting for control. “Do you like it?” he asks. “Does it feel good?” “Yes,” I say, breathing heavy. “It feels very good.” “Good. Grab your purse.” My eyes go wide. “My purse?” He can’t actually mean to take me out in public like this, all turned on and totally at his mercy. “Yes, Chelsea. Your purse.,” he says dismissively, turning the vibrations off. “I’m hungry.” I hesitate. The thought of playing with all our new toys in the safety of my home was such a turn on. The thought of being at his mercy out in public? Where I might lose control? Where I have to trust him to keep me from making a total fool of myself? That’s a little more daunting. Max eyes me, all strong and dominant as I falter. “Trust me,” he says. “I will take care of you better than you understand yet.” He runs a thumb across my cheek, hands me my purse, and heads out the door, sending a wave of vibrations through my body with a flick of his finger on the remote. I grab my coat and follow him out in the night. He plays with me in the car ride, bringing me to the point of coming time and again, only to turn everything off the moment before I fall over the edge. Meanwhile, he speaks about work. About Reagan. About Charlie. I can barely concentrate. All I know is that I am ready to burst. He takes me to a crowded bar and grill. Loud music. Louder conversation. All the better to cover up the hum of the vibrator in my pants, I guess. I get a brief reprieve as we head to our table and the hostess hands us the menus. The moment I sit, he turns it on the lowest setting and leaves it there. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks. I fight the urge to roll my hips, my body aching for more friction. “Yes,” I say,

letting my eyes burn into his, hoping he sees how very exquisitely turned on I am. “Me too.” He drops me a wink and sends a surge of vibration my way. I jump and squeak and blush furiously as he drops it back to the lowest setting. “I like seeing you lose control. I like it even better knowing that you’ve given it all to me.” When the waitress arrives—a perky thing who gives my parted lips a strange look—I order a Long Island iced tea and Max orders a Guinness, both of us needing extra time to decide just what we want for dinner. “Did you see the way she looked at you, naughty girl?” Max raises the speed of the vibrations. “She could see how turned on you are.” He leans forward. “I can see how turned on you are right now.” I swallow hard, my eyes fluttering. “Is this how you like me? Totally at your mercy, ready and waiting for you?” “This is exactly how I like you. Writhing in pleasure, knowing that ecstasy is around the corner.” He lowers the vibrations again. “When I decide it’s time, that is.” I manage to choose a meal, though I don’t know how since concentration is pretty much a non-issue. When our waitress comes back with a drink, I blurt out the first item that catches my attention on the menu, a burger and fries that I’m sure I won’t even be able to eat. “So, my naughty little girl,” Max says after ordering his own meal. “Have you even thought to wonder what your exact punishment is?” I giggle. “You mean sitting in a public space, being teased to the brink of orgasm and back isn’t it?” “And just what about that is bad enough to count as punishment?” “The embarrassment.” “You don’t look one bit embarrassed to me. You look really and truly alive. Excited even.” I fidget, nervous again. He’s right. I have very much enjoyed this game. This secret between us, my pleasure at the tip of his finger. I’m not so sure that I’m ready for the rules to change. “But what if I brought you all the way to the brink of orgasm…” He flips through the speeds and my muscles clench, my hips rocking forward against my will. God it feels good. Too good. So good that I might just fall over the edge right now. “What if I don’t pull you back?” My eyes go wide and my breath quickens. I watch him watch me and can see the lust in his eyes. He is enjoying this almost as much as I am. My muscles begin to flutter, the orgasm so close and just as I begin to fall, the panic of public humiliation dancing deliciously with the danger of our secret, he turns the damn thing off. I moan audibly, distraught at the fading of pleasure. “Not yet, Chelsea. Not until I decide you’re ready.” He smiles at me, an adorable little quirk of his lips that makes me want to kiss him. I don’t come in public that night, even though Max brings me so close I can taste

it more than once. But when we get back to my house? I come not once, not twice, but three earth-shattering times until finally, when my body is spent and limp, Max comes too, thrusting himself inside me while I cry out his name.

20

“YOU DOING ANYTHING FOR THANKSGIVING NEXT WEEK?” Charlie has been quiet today and that’s not at all like him. He’s just been sitting there, quietly picking at his pizza, barely making eye contact. He shrugs in response to my question, looking out toward the arcade teeming with kids clamoring for coins and parents following behind, looking bedraggled and exhausted. “Mom will probably go out with Tucker which means that I’ll get pizza or something.” He pulls off a piece of pepperoni and studies it before popping it in his mouth and chewing slowly. “I’m not doing anything either,” I say, painfully aware of how much this kid needs advice that I’m not qualified to give. “Just gonna sit with Reagan and listen to music, I guess.” “You not gonna go see that doctor?” Charlie looks at me, really looks at me for the first time today, and the pain in his eyes takes me back. “She’ll be with her family.” Charlie nods. “You’re supposed to spend Thanksgiving with the people that matter to you. Give thanks and all that. At least that’s what they talk about in school.” “I think that’s how a lot of people do it.” “Doesn’t it make you mad that you don’t matter to her?” His eyes are hard and in his question I hear what’s really in his heart. He doesn’t think he matters to his mother. To his own goddamned mother. The one person who should make him feel like a spoiled little prince among princes. “Nah,” I say, trying to give him strength through my own. “I know I’m

important to her. Just like you know you’re important to your mom.” Charlie grunts. “I don’t know that I’m all that important to her.” And the look in his eyes says that he believes that down to his core. “You’re important to me,” I say. “Hanging out with you is one of the best parts of my week.” “Yeah?” Hope in his eyes, hurting my soul. “Of course. You’re pretty amazing.” I ball up the wrapper my straw came in and throw it his way. “But that’s probably because you hang out with me so much. My awesome is contagious.” Charlie laughs. “Is that what that smell is?” He picks up his pizza and takes a bite, his eyes flitting back out towards the arcade. “Charlie,” I say, and wait for him to give his full attention to me. “I’m sorry your mom makes you feel like you don’t matter. It’s not fair and I’m sure it hurts. But here’s the thing, life isn’t fair and people are flawed, but…” I’m making an utter mess of this. I want to tell him to be strong and confident in himself and that his mom is a piece of trash who doesn’t deserve a great kid like him, but I can’t really say that, now can I? “Her failings aren’t yours.” I barely get the words out before something in my throat clamps down on the great dose of wisdom I wanted to give him. Some role model I am. Here he is, in need, and all I’ve got for him is a bunch of platitudes and a tight throat. Imagine my surprise when Charlie smiles. “Sometimes,” he says, his voice quiet. “I look at her and know just how I don’t want to be when I grow up.” I nod. “See? More proof that you’re a special kind of person.” I lift my plastic cup of soda in a toast. Charlie taps his against mine and we drink on it. I sigh and stare at the kid, an idea forming in my mind, one that I’m not sure I’m totally comfortable with but one that I can’t ignore now that I’ve discovered it. “Hey,” I say. “Why don’t you come to my house on Thanksgiving? We can eat. Watch some football. Reagan will be thrilled to see you.” Charlie’s eyes light up. “Really? Like a for real Thanksgiving with turkey and mashed potatoes and all that stuff I always see on TV?” I don’t have a fucking clue how to make a turkey. When I offered dinner, I was thinking more about take out of some kind. But after that reaction, I will learn how to make a turkey that rivals anything this kid has been seeing on TV. “We’ll talk to your mom when she gets here. Get things all set up.” I lift my chin in his direction. “I got you. There’s no way you’re spending Thanksgiving alone.” Charlie beams, chatters away happily as he devours the rest of the pizza.

21

“YOU LIKE BEING ON YOUR KNEES IN FRONT OF ME, DON’T YOU?” MAX THREADS HIS FINGERS INTO MY HAIR and thrusts his cock between my lips. “You sweet, naughty little girl.” I look up at him as I bob my head, using my tongue along his shaft, and cupping his balls with my hand. He’s right. I do like being on my knees for him. I like having him inside me. I like bringing him pleasure. I like the way he towers over me, making me feel both small and protected in the same instant, his size both a threat and a shield. I love handing him control of my body, knowing that I am safe in his competent hands, but also knowing that while he’s inside me, I am the source of his greatest pleasure. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says as he slides himself in and out of my mouth, careful not to go too deep and choke me. “I could look at you all day.” Suddenly, I’m less interested in him being careful and more interested in him having the blow job of his dreams. I put my hands on his hips to still him before I push him all the way to the back of my throat. My eyes water and I pull away, gasping. “Fuck, Chelsea,” he says as I pull him back in. He grabs me by the hair and thrusts himself into me a few times, rocking his hips into my mouth, totally out of control for all of three seconds. He pulls out of my mouth and helps me to stand before he slings me over his shoulder and tosses me onto my bed. My room has become a treasure trove of toys. My drawers hiding a number of secrets ranging from mild to exotic, from simple to brow-raising. I watch as he struts around the room, his cock hard and straining in front of him, his ass, so perfect, his thighs so powerful I can’t believe they belong to a man who would

waste his time with me. He digs in one of my favorite drawers, pulling out a blindfold and fitting it on me before I hear him go back to pulling out toys. He’ll bind me, tonight. He always does when I push his boundaries. He lost control just a moment ago, fucking my throat without concern for my well-being. (And I was more than fine with it, thank you very much.) But as a reward, I’ve earned myself the blindfold and the binding. Which I’m also more than fine with. I love giving myself over to him. Rope scrapes across one wrist and then the other. There’s the familiar tug as he sets his knots and then ties me to the headboard. He kisses me, drinking me in. And then he’s gone. There’s a whisper of sound, the flick of a lighter, and then the caress of silk on my nipples, trailing down my stomach and dancing between my legs. A scarf. So it’s going to be simple, then. And here I was in the mood to try some of our newer, more leather-bound toys. But the scarf is good. He teases me with it and I know that my body writhing under his attentions has him so hard, so turned on he can barely contain himself. “Don’t be afraid,” he says, pulling away the scarf. “We’re going to try something new tonight.” He pulls off the blindfold and my eyes go wide. He has a riding crop in one hand, and he trails it up the inside of my leg as he puts the blindfold on the bedside table. I specifically asked for the riding crop, added it to his Amazon wish list after reading a particularly hot book on my Kindle one night. As I eye the toy, he brings it gently down to my breast, circling the leather around my taut nipple as my chest heaves and my eyes slide closed. He swats lightly, eliciting a gasp from me as my eyes spring open. “Is that good? Is that what my naughty girl likes?” I nod, very much enjoying the anticipation as he swirls the crop around my other breast. He swats again, harder this time, and a flare of pain takes my breath away. He immediately brings his mouth to the spot, licking and kissing, the warmth of his lips mingling with the warmth from his crop. The stinging fades and I miss it. He trails it down my belly, letting it slide across my clit and the anticipation is almost too much for me. He pushes against my folds, bringing it back up, and then flicking it against my inner thigh. After that, I lose myself to sensation. He alternates between pleasure and little flashes of pain, only to cover it all right back up with pleasure again. Instinctively, or perhaps because he just knows me so damn well, he never pushes past my limit. The pleasure far outweighs the pain. “Fuck Max,” I gasp. “Please fuck me. I need you moving inside me.” “When I’m ready, sweet girl. No sooner.” But it turns out he’s more ready than he wants to admit. He spends some time with his mouth on my clit, his fingers working deftly inside me, bringing an orgasm out of nowhere. I scream with it as he hooks his fingers to find that one spot that pushes me farther than I’ve ever gone before. There’s a brief respite as he pulls out of me and puts on a condom and then he drives himself inside me, moving deeper and deeper while I cry out as one orgasm blends into another. I am lost in him. I am

made whole by him. As he rolls his hips chasing his own orgasm, he pulls me towards him, bringing us closer and closer together. He falls down over me, his mouth on mine, his chest to mine, his hands on either side of my head. We are joined. We are one. One soul in two bodies. He comes with a shout and I am undone, losing myself in the waves of pleasure washing over me. “SO THAT WAS FUN,” I say after I catch my breath. “You sure I didn’t hurt you?” He rolls off of me and props his head up with a pillow. “No. I mean yes. I mean, it was exactly what I wanted.” Relief settles in his eyes. “Good.” He looks so handsome, so at ease, his dark hair framing his face against the crisp white pillowcase, I can’t help but smile. “What?” A question crinkles his eyebrows. “I just like looking at you. I like being with you. I like having you in my bed.” He grins. “I like being in your bed.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the opening I’ve been waiting for. “Would you stay? Here? With me?” Max pushes up on his elbow. “You mean, like, an overnight?” He widens his eyes like I’ve just asked him for the most scandalous thing ever. “Yes. Exactly like an overnight.” He’s never stayed with me before, always using the dog as an excuse to go home. And maybe that’s not fair. I mean, needing to let the dog out really is a valid reason not to stay. But the times we’ve been at his house haven’t come with an invitation for me to stay. It’s always made me wonder if the dog was just a cover story. Max pulls me in close and I snuggle in, wrapping my leg over his and pressing my cheek against his chest. “I’d love to stay,” he says, his voice rumbling in my ear. I’ll just have to leave kind of early to make sure Reagan’s okay.” I snuggle in even closer, breathing him in. “Thank you.” “No need to thank me, sweet girl.” He runs a hand through my hair. “I get to spend the night curled up next to this fine body? I think I’m the one who should be doing all the thanking.” “So…” I take a breath, a little uncomfortable about asking him my next question. “Next week is Thanksgiving. And it also just happens to be my birthday —” Max pulls himself out from underneath me. “Your birthday? How do I not know this?” He looks stricken. I suck in both my lips and drop my eyes. “It’s my thirtieth and I was kind of hoping to just let it slide by without noticing. Bury it under Thanksgiving and ignore the fact that I’m old now.” “Just like that. Boom.” Max snaps his fingers. “You’re old.”

I roll my eyes. “Thirty is a big deal. Next comes wrinkles and sagging skin and then what good am I?” “First of all, you’re a long way from wrinkles and sagging skin. But second of all, how in the world does your physical appearance have anything to do with your worth?” “Think about it. You’ve got two women, one well-groomed, pretty, trim. Young. The other? Older. Rounder. A little squishy around the edges. Where does your eye go?” I squirm. We’re getting way off track here. I wanted to invite him to Thanksgiving with my family and here we are talking about my fear of growing old. “My eye goes to you.” Max sits up and puts his hand on my cheek. “No matter who else is in the room, I only ever see you.” Tears sting my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper around a tightening throat. “Now you listen to me,” Max says, his face and voice earnest. “You take broken bodies and put them back together again. You bring out the best in me. You make me smile when I had started to think I had forgotten how. You have shown me what it means to really and truly feel close to someone, to share the good and the bad parts of me. You have a quick mind and a sharp wit that keeps me on my toes. You have a drive to succeed and achieve like no one else I have ever met in all my life. That, all that, is your worth. It has nothing to do with age or beauty or wrinkles or anything like that. Yes, you’re physically beautiful, I mean look at you. But your true beauty lies in who you are. And you are the most beautiful person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.” I’m crying now. Like lips quivering. Breath hitching. Can’t swallow. Max is a man of few words. To hear him say all of that about me. The look in his eyes. The warmth of his voice. To know that he’s seen me bare and uncovered, uncensored and unfiltered, and he still feels that way about me … it’s everything I ever wanted. My whole life, I wanted someone to see me. The real me. And I just wanted the real me to be okay. Enough. I wanted someone to look at me and want me for who I am, not for who they thought I could be. And Max just did that. “Why are you crying?” he asks, wiping the tears from my eyes. “Because…” I swallow and sniff. Sit up and take his hands, not even bothering to cover my breasts with the sheet. “You make me feel like I matter. Like me, who I am inside. What I think. Why I do the things I do. All those things matter to you. You see them and understand them. You don’t want me to be anything but what I am…” I take a breath and give him a watery smile. “It feels good to be accepted. That’s all.” I wish I could explain it better. Wish I could explain the pressure I feel to succeed. That it’s just built into my sub-conscious that I will never achieve enough because I am capable of so much more. I can hear my dad’s words to me over the years. Not bad, Chels. But I know you can do more. Over and over and over. Time and again. And it doesn’t matter what I

accomplish, it’s always the same. I know you can do more. Max’s eyes soften. He holds my gaze and I fall into him, tumbling head over heels, into his heart and soul. “I love you, Chelsea.” His voice is raw. Powerful. The truth of his statement hits my chest like a ray of light and I take a sobbing breath. “Oh, Max, I love you, too. Like crazy, beautiful in love with you. I’ve never felt this way before. Like, never ever.” He kisses me and the answer to everything is in that moment, our lips touching, our breath shared. His hands cupping my face. And when we’re done, we sit with our foreheads pressed together, just staring into each other’s eyes, falling head over heels together. “Will you come to my birthday Thanksgiving with me? With my family?” I whisper the question, afraid to push too far, too fast. Max pulls back, distress in his eyes. “I can’t…” I knew I shouldn’t have asked. I knew it was going to be too much, too soon. Leave it to me to ruin the most beautiful moment of my life by asking for more. “I’m sorry…” I pull back and give my head a little shake. “No, no.” Max reaches for my hands. “It’s not that. I promised Charlie that I’d spend Thanksgiving with him so he didn’t end up being alone.” “Alone? Isn’t he only ten?” “Exactly. I refuse to let that happen. So, it’s going to be a me and Charlie kind of day.” Max smiles sadly, flaring his hands. “Bring him.” Who knows how my family will feel about me bringing a random kid to our Thanksgiving, but you know what? Sometimes I get to have what I want, too. Max shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know, Chels. A strange man and an at-risk kid at a London family gathering? Is that really the best idea?” “It’s what I want. I can’t imagine spending the day without you. Besides, maybe it’ll be good for Charlie to get the full-on family get together experience.” I shrug. Or, it could be disastrous, but I’m not ready to give into that thought just yet. “You sure about this?” Max is smiling and I know I’ve already won him over. For better or for worse, I’ll be showing up to my family’s Thanksgiving with my broken police officer and someone else’s at risk kid.

22

SLEEP ELUDES ME. CHELSEA IS CURLED UP IN MY ARM, SOFT AND SWEET, HER BREATH DEEP AND EVEN. IT’S not that I’m uncomfortable here with her. It’s that I’m too comfortable here with her. I avoided spending a night together for so long because I wanted it so badly. I wanted to know she was safe with me, tucked in my arms where I can keep her and protect her. I wanted to know she needed me. I wanted to know she loved me. Sometimes, that scared me. But others? It fueled me. And for all the nights she asked me to stay, I was afraid to say yes and discover that it wasn’t what I thought it’d be. That having her curled up next to me, our bodies pressed together in sleep, that it would somehow let me down. It hasn’t. It’s everything I wanted. She’s everything I wanted. So strong, yet so broken. So confident and capable, yet wracked with self-doubt. It amazes me sometimes, how backwards we are. Given our upbringings, I should be the one wearing all the scars. And I do. They haunt me when I’m alone at night. But, she should be scar free. She was cultivated. Her parents raised her and groomed her and gave her every opportunity to shine. Me? I grew wild and free, shaping myself. I know it embarrasses her, admitting how much her perfect upbringing hurt her, especially in the face of all that I had to face. It shouldn’t. Maybe, as awful as it is to admit, the death of my parents came at just the right time. The truth of who my dad was and the consequences of his actions a cold jolt of reality at just the right time. And then the years with my grandmother—the years when I was the most open to her teachings—young enough to still believe in her wisdom and old enough to understand what she

wanted me to learn. I absorbed her lessons and then had time to put them into practice as I floundered from family to family, from kindness to cruelty. I had the time to choose who I was and why. Chelsea? She never made choices. She followed rules set out in front of her, bending herself to her parents’ will. She isn’t her own person. She is theirs. And she wears scars she shouldn’t and berates herself for them, seeing them as another one of her many imagined flaws. I finally succumb to sleep, wondering about the complexities of life. About who I would have been if my childhood had been different. About Charlie and all the struggles he faces on a daily basis. About Chelsea and everything about her that makes her so perfect it scares me to death. THE FIRST THING I do when I wake is check outside to see if the guy in the car is out there. I haven’t said anything to her, but I’ve been keeping an eye out. He hasn’t been back in that spot, not since I showed up in my uniform all those weeks ago, but I have caught glimpses of a similar car driving past her house too many times. It’s not enough to worry her about, but it is enough for me to worry about. No one is going to hurt her. Not on my watch. The street is clear. It’s early still, but I’m most definitely not going back to sleep. I pull on my pants and head downstairs, intent on finding some coffee, and maybe making Chelsea breakfast. I won’t be able to stay much longer; I’m already worried about the mess I might find when I get home to let Reagan out. The crazy thing is, I really don’t want to leave. I’d love to sit here with her all day, just extend our night into a weekend. The fact that I’m standing here in her kitchen, grinning like a madman is proof enough that what we have is something special. I told her I love her last night. What I didn’t tell her is that she’s the first person I’ve really loved. I have never felt like this about another person. Never. I would die to protect her. I would sacrifice to keep her safe. I am hers and yet, I know that somehow, she is mine. It’s a beautiful feeling. Love is beautiful, and I suppose I should be saddened to know that I spent all the long years of my life not knowing that simple truth. I’m not. Somehow, it makes it all the more special, knowing that I saved it all up to give to her. Chelsea. My sweet, naughty, needy little girl.

23

TODAY’S THE DAY. MY BIRTHDAY. THE DAY I OFFICIALLY LEAVE MY TWENTIES BEHIND AND EMBARK ON A disappointing journey into old age. I don’t feel any different. No nervous breakdowns on the horizon. No wrinkles jumping out on my face, announcing to the world that I’m officially past my prime. I thought I’d wake up today an emotional mess. I didn’t. I woke up excited to see Max, to meet Charlie, and to show them off to my family. My amazing man, with the bullet blue eyes, and a heart big enough to take care of a small boy who needs him. I’m proud to be his. Proud to love him. Proud to show him off. Proud to know that he loves me. Mom was surprised when I told her I was bringing guests. I hadn’t even told her I was seeing someone. The first thing she asked me was what he did for a living, as if she could size up the man by knowing his profession. She didn’t seem impressed to learn he was a cop, although Charlie’s story seemed to earn him some bonus points. She asked me to bring some pies and said she’s be glad to set two extra plates at the table. I don’t know if she recognized it or not, but that was the first time I ever told my mom I was doing something. I didn’t ask her if I could bring guests, I told her. Maybe it’s a little sad that it took me until my thirtieth birthday to claim that small measure of independence. It doesn’t matter. It still feels good. There’s a knock on my door. Or rather, more of a strange thump. I check the time; leave it to Max to be early. Excited to meet Charlie, I fling open the front door with a huge smile on my face. Except no one’s there. Nerves skitter beneath the surface of my skin and for some reason I just happen to look down. There, at my

feet, neck all twisted the wrong way, is a mouse, still and unmoving. My hands fly to my face and I shriek, stumble backwards as I recognize Max’s car turning the corner onto my street. He sees me, sees the fear, I know it because he bumps up into my driveway too fast and has the door open before he kills the engine. I watch him turn, probably talking to Charlie in the backseat, and then he bounds out of the car, stopping when he sees the mouse at my feet. “What happened?” “I heard a thump. Thought it was you, knocking. Opened the door to find this poor thing.” Max glances back to the car. I can see a blonde head in the back, a small face pressed to the glass. “I’ll take care of the mouse. I want you and Charlie inside, behind locked doors. I’m going to take a look around.” He swoops up the mouse by the tail and tosses it into my garbage bin on his way to get Charlie out of the car. “Charlie, this is Chelsea, my girlfriend,” he says, his voice light and easy. “Hey, Charlie.” I wave, fighting a roll of nausea brought on by the mouse on my doorstep and all that it might mean. “Hey.” Charlie smiles at me, a broad thing, all teeth and honesty. “Max is going to take care of something for me. Will you come in and help me get the pies ready?” Charlie shrugs. “Sure.” He follows me inside, either not noticing or not caring that I lock the door behind us. He studies my house the way Max did, seeing everything all at once. I show him how to wrap the pies and place them in the carrying containers. Max knocks a few minutes later and I let him in. “Nothing,” he says with a shake of his head. “But you’re coming home with me tonight. Go grab some clothes.” I do as he says without question, listening to the happy sounds of Max joking with Charlie downstairs. I’m scared. I don’t know what that mouse means, but I do know mice just don’t run up and break their neck on people’s doorsteps, so it can’t mean anything good. I pack my bag quickly and head downstairs. As if I needed another reason to be nervous about today. Max is in rare form, joking with Charlie until the boy is absolutely bellylaughing. He ushers us into his car, his quick eyes sizing up my entire neighborhood while he navigates us out to the main roads. His hand is on mine the whole way, holding me tight. “So, Charlie,” I say, spinning a little so I can look at him in the backseat. “What’s your favorite kind of pie?” He makes a face. “Do I have to pick just one?” I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. “You’ve been hanging out with Max too much.” Charlie shrugs. “Maybe.” “Hey now,” Max says, glancing at Charlie through the mirror. “There is no such

thing as too much Max.” “The man has a point,” I say to the boy. “I can’t get enough of him.” Charlie just grins and Max squeezes my hand. Before I know it, we’re pulling into my parents’ driveway. So here we go then. It’s my thirtieth birthday. I’m showing up at to a family gathering with a man they’ve never met, a boy I don’t know, and the secret of a dead mouse showing up on my doorstep. I think I might pass out. “You ready for this?” I ask Max as we climb out of the car. “Of course.” He smiles, wide and open. “Are you?” I shake my head and suck in my lips. “I hope so.” “Don’t worry. You got this and I got you.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to him. I wonder if he knows how safe I feel next to him. “What about you?” he asks Charlie. “You ready for this?” “Your mom a good cook?” he asks me as we head up to the porch. “She’s a very good cook.” “Well, then what are we waiting for? I’m starved.” Max is right. This kid is something special. I lead them through the front door, calling out to announce our arrival. “We’re in the kitchen,” calls my mom. I collect Max and Charlie’s coats and hang them by the door before leading them through my parents’ massive house to the kitchen in the back. Charlie takes it all in, eyes wary, face closed. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but the look on Max’s face is identical. I juggle hugs and pies and introductions. My dad sizes up Max and Charlie and dismisses them both. I see it on his face. He has deemed them unworthy. I take a deep breath and hope he keeps his thoughts to himself. “Happy birthday, Moo,” Dad says as he smiles down at me. “You’re officially an old lady, now.” “Thanks, Dad.” I say it, though I don’t mean it. First the nickname, one I earned when I was a little girl because I apparently had more appetite than metabolism in his eyes, then the dink on my age. He sure knows how to come in with the one-two punch to the ego. Whatever. Now is not the time. I introduce him to Max and Charlie and watch as they shake hands. Thankfully, Maya shows up and distracts everyone for a little bit and just as that bit of excitement settles down, Dakota and Dominic show up in a swirl of energy and amazing stories of their travels. With so many people here, the focus is off our strange little trio and that is more than fine with me. Dominic and Max hit it off and they disappear with Charlie and my dad to go watch football in the living room, leaving me with my mom and my sisters. “What the hell, Chelsea?” Dakota hits me in the arm. “You didn’t tell me he was a fucking monument to manliness.” She shakes her head. “Oh, and happy birthday by the way.” “Thanks, I think.” I rub my arm. “And I’m pretty sure I told you he was good

looking.” “Right. Good looking. Not oozing strength and confidence and chiseled composure.” Maya pours a glass of wine, earning herself a disapproving look from our mom. “You definitely skimped on the details, Chels. Max is something.” I blush. “He is something. I’ll give you that.” “Look at you.” Dakota leans back and glances at my sister and mother in disbelief. “Is my ever-independent big sister falling for the big, strong and sexy cop?” Maya giggles. “I’d say she’s already fallen.” Mom leans in. “I’m glad for you. It’s nice to see you so happy.” The conversation moves on and I find myself sneaking peeks at Max, sitting in the family room with my dad and my brother-in-law. They’re laughing and smiling and yelling at the TV, a group of men doing their manly thing. Charlie sitting at the floor at their feet, eyes everywhere at once, but smiling nonetheless. We roll into dinner and I’m amazed at how well things are going, although I’m glad to be back at Max’s side. It was nice being with my mom and my sisters, but I feel best when I’m with him. I watch Charlie to see how he’s handling everything and find that he’s busy watching everything to see how he should handle it. He’s a smart kid. I wonder about the kind of mom who would leave a treasure like that alone on any day, let alone a holiday. But at least he’s got Max. My dad smiles down at us from his place at the head of the table. “I’ll start with the tradition of thanks this year. I’m thankful for a smiling wife and daughters who continue to strive to realize their full potential.” I know he means it as a compliment, but what I hear is that I’m not good enough yet. The pinched looks on Maya and Dakota’s faces show that they heard the same thing. We go around the table, each of us saying our peace. Dakota thankful for Dominic, Dominic thankful for Dakota, Maya thankful for a recent patient recovering well. Charlie’s eyes go wide when he realizes it’s his turn. He looks at Max and then down at his plate. “I’m thankful for him,” he mutters, jerking his head towards Max. “Otherwise I’d be alone. All the time. He’s all I got to look forward to.” There’s a brief moment of stunned silence. All eyes turn to Max, jaws dropped, hearts on sleeves, breaking for the boy and his moment of raw honesty. Max ruffles the boy’s hair. “You’re never alone. You got a phone, you got me. It’s that simple. One call and I’m there.” I think all of us heard the weighty emotion he tried to hide from the boy. I think all of us felt it. Throats tightening. Eyes burning. How can we have so much when so many have so little? How can I spend so much energy caring about hated nicknames and the pressure of expected success when Charlie has nothing? How self-centered can I be? My family loves me. Isn’t that enough? “I guess that means it’s my turn,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m thankful for Max, too. For the safety and security you’ve brought me. For the honesty with which you

see me. For the selfless way you love me. For who you are fitting so well with who I am that I finally feel like I’m becoming the person I was meant to be. You’re a gift.” I turn to the rest of my family. “And I’m thankful for parents who have taught me never to be satisfied with anything less than perfect and sisters who keep me laughing through the hard stuff.” All eyes turn to Max, who clears his throat. “I’m thankful for all the events in my life that carved me into the man I am, so that when I met the people I was supposed to meet…” He turns first to Charlie and then to me. “I was ready to be exactly what they needed when they needed it.” And if I thought I loved the guy before, his words just sealed the deal.

24

I AM AN ABSOLUTE MESS. BETWEEN CHARLIE’S STATEMENT AT THE DINNER TABLE, CHELSEA’S PASSIVEaggressive dad cutting her down every chance he gets, and ever constant worry of that fucking mouse on her doorstep this morning, I can barely maintain my composure. It’s not lost on me that her family barely wished her a happy birthday. There’s no cake. No cards. No presents. Her mom made mention of the fact that she assumed she wouldn’t want a big deal made out of it because, you know, it was her thirtieth. She whispered the word from behind her hand, a grimace on her dainty face, like she was saying the dirtiest word she could imagine. Before I showed up at Chelsea’s and watched her discover the mouse, I had already planned on having her stay with me tonight. I have a slew of birthday surprises in store for her because birthday’s are about celebrating the person, not some number. God knows there are more than enough reasons to celebrate Chelsea. But after the mouse? There’s no way she’s going home until I figure out what the hell is going on. My instincts tell me she’s in danger, regardless of the fact that I don’t have enough evidence to open an actual investigation. Thankfully, I don’t have to go through department channels to get the job done. I know how to protect the woman I love and the moment I have enough evidence to bring the law down on the asshole who’s threatening her, I will. I soothe my swirling thoughts by watching Charlie shovel food into his mouth like some sort of starving dog. He asks for seconds and then thirds and then tries a piece of each pie. “Apple,” he says to Chelsea, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I like

apple the best.” She smiles, offers him some more, and looks relieved when he finally turns her down. Her dad offers to set up the Xbox for him in the study and Charlie’s eyes light up. I try to help clear the table and offer to help with the dishes, but Chelsea’s mom shoos us all out to the living room, after dinner drinks in hand. We sit, Chelsea leaning into me, and talk. I like her sisters. Dakota is her complete opposite. Loud and confident, choosing to walk her own path without remorse. Maya seems sweet, lost between the polarities of her sisters. And I think I really like Dominic. He doesn’t say much, but what he does say makes me laugh. All that being said, Mr. London has one more caustic thing to say to any of his daughters before I feel the need to shut the man up. He’s got three lovely girls, each successful in her own right. It’s time he step back and let them live the lives they’ve built. I’m not sure how Chelsea would handle me being that forthright, though, so I keep focusing on keeping my cool just in case. We stay a few more hours and I feel her grow heavy on my shoulder, sleep calling her. Hell, it’s calling me, that’s for sure. I’m officially in a food coma. Chelsea was right, her mom can sure cook. “I should probably be getting Charlie back to his mom,” I say, even though I’m afraid I’ll be returning him to an empty apartment. My statement ignites a flurry of energy as everyone stands, Chelsea’s mom rushing into the kitchen to grab a bag of Tupperware filled with leftovers. We exchange hugs and handshakes and finally, finally, I hear someone wish Chelsea a happy birthday. Well, two someones. Maya and Dakota. We find Charlie curled in a ball on the couch in the study, fast asleep. He seems even smaller now, with the wariness in his eyes hidden behind closed lids. I consider carrying him but wonder if that would be too personal. I wake him instead and lead him out to the car where I’m half certain he’ll fall right back to sleep the moment we pull out onto the street. We spend the ride to his apartment in silence, Chelsea’s hand on my thigh, my hand on top of hers. Despite the high emotions of the day, I’m content. The boy in the back seat and the woman beside me bringing me more peace than I ever thought I’d find in my life. I meant what I said at her family’s table. I am thankful for the things that made me who I am so that when these two people came looking for me, I was ready. I know I will do everything in my power to protect them. To make them happy. To prove to them that they are worthy of love. I will serve them by keeping them safe. By propping them up. By supporting them and cheering them on. It’s my purpose and knowing it makes me feel complete. We pull up to Charlie’s apartment and I turn to wake him. “Hey, buddy. We’re here,” I say as I turn off the car. He sits up, groggy and confused, and starts fumbling with his seatbelt. I turn to Chelsea. “I’m going to walk him in, I think. Come with me?” I won’t leave her alone. The chances are slim that the guy who left the mouse on her doorstep is adept enough at being crazy to have followed us, but I’m not taking any chances with her safety.

She nods and reaches for her seatbelt and we walk into Charlie’s building, me between them, one arm around her waist, the other around his shoulders. The building is decrepit. Dirty. Crumbling down around the tenants. I hate leaving Charlie here. I feel his shoulders slump as we draw closer to his front door. At first I think it’s just the weight of coming home, but then I see something taped to the door. “She ain’t here,” he says, his voice thick. I pull the note from the door and stare down at a big duffle bag, half full, leaning against the wall. I look at Charlie, my instincts going absolutely crazy. Something is way the fuck wrong. Sensing my tension, Chelsea moves in closer to me as I open the note. I can barely read the chicken scratch on the paper, partly the fault of the near unintelligible handwriting and broken spelling, but mostly because of the rage boiling beneath the surface. Red. Hot. Blinding.

I can’t keep him no more. He ain’t good for me and god knows I’m no good for him. I know you’ll help him.

I TURN the note over and hand it to Chelsea, who reads it with ever-widening eyes. I jiggle the handle. It’s locked, of course, and I know without a doubt that Charlie’s mom is never coming back. I look down at him, his wide eyes trained on me. I slam my fist into the door and both Chelsea and Charlie jump. “Sorry,” I say, throat raw. What am I supposed to do? Show this boy the note from his mother that says she doesn’t want him? The note she didn’t even write to him? No I love you’s. No apologies. No admission of her decision having anything to do with making his life better. Just three little lines and a disappearance. “She’s gone, isn’t she?” Charlie nudges the duffle bag with his foot. “Always said she’d do it.” His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t cry. I swoop up the bag and put my hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Come on,” I say, turning him away from the door. “Let’s go home.”

25

THE CAR RIDE HOME IS QUIET. MAX TURNS ON THE RADIO TO FILL THE VOID, BUT IT SEEMS INAPPROPRIATE somehow. The happy pop songs filling the car while the boy in the backseat just got abandoned by his mother. I am hollowed out. Gutted. I can’t even begin to imagine how Charlie must feel. I’m terrified by all the unanswered questions about what happens next. What’s going to happen to him? Where’s he going to go? How’s he going to come out of this with his sanity intact? I mean, what kind of woman would walk away from her own child? We pull into Max’s driveway and silently slide out of the car and walk up to his front door. To any passersby, we’d look like a family arriving home, hands laden with leftovers, tired from the day. Instead, Charlie and I are refuges, brought together by Max and his wonderful ability to take care of those in need. I can’t go home and Charlie no longer has a home and thank God for Max Santoro. He swings open the front door and flips on the lights, revealing a living room decorated for my birthday. Balloons and streamers hang from the ceiling. Glitter and confetti litter just about every surface, and sitting on his dinner table is a whole pile of presents wrapped in pink zebra-striped paper, decorated in bows. There’s a cake. And flowers. And a card, propped against the vase. Reagan comes barreling around the corner, her tail wagging maniacally, tongue lolling out the side of the mouth. She dissolves in front of Max, and then heads straight to Charlie, practically knocking the boy over in her excitement. Max turns to me sheepishly. “Happy birthday, sweet girl.” He smiles, though it’s sad. Apologetic and worried. Charlie crouches down to hug the wiggling Reagan. “What’s going to happen to

me now?” he asks. “Right now you’re going to go into the guest room and unpack. There’s a dresser in there for you to put your things in. Consider the room yours. Put things where you want them. After you’re settled, come on downstairs and we’ll wish this woman a happy birthday.” “But after that?” Charlie’s face is pinched. “What about after that?” Max drops a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ve got me in your corner, little man. You can trust me to make sure that it’s all going to be okay.” Charlie takes a long breath, his eyes trained on Max. He nods once, grabs the duffle bag that is way too small to hold much of anything and heads upstairs, following Max’s directions to the guest room. “Maybe it’s better to skip the whole birthday party thing,” I say. “Sweet as it is. I don’t think I’ve had a celebration this big in my whole life.” I lean into Max, needing to be close to him. “No way.” Max wraps an arm around me, sensing my need for security. “You deserve celebrating and he needs the distraction. I just need to take a few of those presents off the table so we can open them later. In private.” He lets me go and grabs three presents off the table and puts them in a cabinet in the kitchen. “Seriously though,” I say when he comes back. “What are you going to do?” Max leans on the wall. Arms crossed across his chest. “I’m going to give her the weekend in case she changes her mind.” “Changes her mind?” I’m appalled. “Is that even possible? And if it is, how can he just go back to someone who’s willing to walk out on him like that?” “She’s his mom.” Max shrugs. “But you better believe that if she comes back for him, I’ll do everything in my power to handle it. For now, he’ll stay here.” “And later?” “I don’t know. He won’t go into the system, that’s for sure. I won’t let that happen to him.” There’s a ferocity in his voice. Determination. Frustration. Something darker that scares me a little. His face is pinched and I can see the tension thrumming through his body. He hides it as Charlie comes down, bringing out a huge smile and kind eyes. “So, how’s it look up there?” “That’s a real big bed.” Charlie almost looks excited and giggles a little as Reagan goes crazy in front of him. “Yep. And it’s yours for as long as you need it. How about clothes and stuff? You all set?” Charlie scowls and shakes his head. “Only thing in the bag is my baby blanket, that jacket you bought me, and a couple shirts.” Max takes a minute to digest that information. “Okay, then. A shopping trip it is.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “But first. Presents.” He points at an overstuffed armchair in the corner. “Sit, sweet girl. Right there in best seat in the

house.” “We really don’t have to make a big deal about this.” I’m kind of frozen by the attention. I mean, even if it weren’t for all the craziness of today, I wouldn’t know how to handle all this, but combine it with dead mice on my doorstep, a slightly tense family get together, and abandoned children, and all of this is starting to feel a little absurd. “Nonsense, right Charlie? Did you even know it was her birthday?” Charlie frowns. “Nope.” “And shouldn’t everyone feel special on their birthday?” “Yep.” “So why don’t you help her get her butt in that chair and pick out a present.” Somehow, despite the gravity of the day, Max gets us all laughing and smiling. I’m surrounded in wrapping paper and boxes, gifts that prove just how much he pays attention to me. A purse I’ve been eyeing but never would have bought myself, a pair of earrings and matching necklace that are mesmerizingly beautiful, and a massive bag of my favorite jelly beans. Charlie’s eyes light up. “I love jelly beans.” “Me too,” I say, tearing into the bag. “Have you ever had this kind?” “I don’t think so. They good?” “You have no idea.” I pour out a handful for him and show him the back of the bag. “They’ve got a list of flavors back here. You can eat them one at a time, or you can mix and match to create your own flavors.” Max lights the candles on my cake and the boys sing me happy birthday. I’m not sure why, but it brings tears to my eyes. Is it the combination of Max’s deep baritone and Charlie’s sweet, off-key exuberance? Is it the fact that I haven’t blown out candles since I was too little to remember? Is it just the tension and emotion of the day coming through in the worst possible way? I make a wish for Charlie. Happiness and health and all the things he needs to grow into the best possible version of himself. Somehow, despite being full to bursting and slightly sick from an influx of jellybeans, we manage to eat our cake. “Come on, then,” says Max as we groan over our poor, too-full bellies. “Let’s head out and get this boy set up.” We pile back in car and Max head to Target. This time, the pop music feels more appropriate. Whatever dark cloud that had settled over us has dissipated, obliterated by laughter, good company, and the constant and consistent effort of Max to keep things light and easy. We descend on Target like locusts, buzzing through department after department, filling our cart overfull with anything and everything Charlie could ever need. Clothes. Shoes. Underwear. Socks. A toothbrush and his very own towel. Books. Some toys. The entire Harry Potter series on Blu-ray. And as if that isn’t enough, Max plops a brand new Xbox One in there, along with a slew of games that seem to interest both boy and men equally. Charlie is overjoyed. I’d guess he’s never seen a shopping trip quite like this. His

exuberance makes me smile. But Max’s exuberance? The fact that he’s got an entire wardrobe’s worth of clothes in the cart rather than just enough to get through the weekend? It worries me. Is he just caught up in the day? Trying to make Charlie feel better? Is this Max’s need to protect and provide coming through, or is this a sign that he’s thinking more long term about Charlie? Not that that’s a bad thing. Clearly, Max is good for Charlie. But if there’s a chance that the boy’s mother might be coming back into the picture, is it safe for Max to be opening his heart like this? Is he setting himself up for the worst kind of disappointment? And even if she doesn’t come back, can Max really keep Charlie out of the system? I mean, I don’t have the foggiest idea how any of this works, but eventually, Max is going to have to report this to someone. I mean, the boy has to go to school. Maybe he has family out there who will be looking for him. I’m afraid Max is setting himself for one hell of a painful let down. I don’t say anything though. Not now. Not yet. Not in front of Charlie. Not when there’s so much still up in the air. And who knows? Maybe, it’ll all work out in the end. For now, Charlie is smiling, and that’s something. And I’m falling ever more in love with the man who would take in a boy and spend a fortune on his happiness, if even only for a weekend. We get back to Max’s and carry bag after bag of stuff into the house. Charlie bounds up the stairs, eager to get all his stuff unpacked and organized, Reagan hot on his heels. I collapse onto the couch and grab my bag of jellybeans, not at all hungry, but in need of something to do with my hands. “Thanks for being so cool about this,” says Max, that furrowed line between his brows deepening. “This was supposed to be your day and everything.” I’m a little shocked that he would even think an apology is necessary. “Of course. I mean, this is a pretty big deal. And honestly, I’m pretty impressed with the way you’re handling it. Someone else might have marched Charlie right to the police station and let someone else deal with it. Hell, imagine if you hadn’t walked him into the building.” Max closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I know. I haven’t been able to get that thought out of my head.” Charlie’s gone for longer than we expect and after a good half hour, we head upstairs and find him curled up in a tight little ball on the bed. Clothes still on. Bed still made. Baby blanket from his mom clutched in his hands. All the clothes and toys and books are unopened and still in the bags on the floor. His face looks puffy, his eyes red, like maybe he’d been crying up here. Alone. Probably scared out of his mind. Max sighs and gently lifts him up while I pull down the covers. We tuck the boy into bed and he whimpers as we smooth the covers into place, his sweet face tightening with worry. We turn off the light, but leave the door open just in case he gets scared at night, and head into Max’s room. We dress for bed and curl up into each other. His body pressed against mine is the most welcome thing ever. I haven’t had time to process the mouse at my doorstep. There’s just been too much today for that to matter in

the least. But now that the lights are off and sleep is supposed to come and rescue me from the day, it’s all I can think about. Why was it there and what does it mean and how will I ever feel safe in my home again?

26

I WAIT UNTIL CHELSEA IS ASLEEP BEFORE I UNTANGLE MYSELF FROM HER AND CLIMB OUT OF BED. THERE’S no way I’m sleeping tonight. My mind is not going to turn off, that’s for sure. If I’m not worrying about Charlie, then I’m worrying about Chelsea. And if I’m not worrying about either of them, then I’m worrying about myself. These people need my protection. But I’m not sure I’m ready to have my house filled with an instant family. I love them both, no doubt in my mind about that. But … what? But I don’t want to give up my privacy. And what happens on my dark days? The days I’m not strong enough to keep myself from sinking down into the depths of maddening memories? I can’t hold them up when I’m not strong enough to keep myself afloat. And for all my bravado about not letting Charlie get put into the system, how the fuck do I think I’m going to keep that from happening? Do I think I’m going to adopt him? Because a single man, a goddamned police officer who works weird hours and puts his life in jeopardy every time he goes to work, that’s not the kind of home they’re going to want to put Charlie in. I pace my living room, my fists tight, my jaw tighter. But fuck. I can’t let him go to just anyone. I can’t abandon him, not after his own mother did. And then there’s Chelsea and that dead mouse on her doorstep. My instincts are raging on that one. It’s got crazy stalker written all over it. And if the guy is off center enough to kill a mouse and leave it like some deranged gift, then he’s crazy enough to do just about anything. And so, she can’t go home. Not until I find the guy and know she’s safe. But how can I do that when I’ve got to deal with the Charlie thing? When I don’t have enough evidence to really get an official case started?

So, what? I’m just going to keep these two people here in my house forever? Never mind that he has to go to school and she has to go to work and I am not equipped for this. I continue to pace, muttering to myself, careful to stay quiet, but Reagan hears me anyway. She comes barreling out of Charlie’s room, her tags jingling abrasively in the silence of the house. I unclip her collar so she doesn’t wake Charlie and Chelsea and head into the kitchen for a beer. What I need is a plan. I need to set a course. Know where I’m going, why I’m going in that direction, and how I’m going to get there. I grab a pen and paper, sit down at the table, and start writing. At some point, I switch from beer to coffee and as the sun peeks through the slats in my blinds, I’m starting to feel like I have a decent course of action laid out for us. There are still a ton of unanswered questions and a lot of uncertainty, but at least I know how I want to proceed. At least I can see a way to get from where we are to where I want to get us. Never mind the fact that I’m wholly uncertain as to whether I actually want to be where I plan on taking us. That actual decision has been taken right out of my hands. There are several truths operating here. One, I’m in love with Chelsea and will not do anything to put her in danger. Taking her home will put her in danger, at least until I can be certain that the stalker threat is neutralized. And two, I will fight to keep Charlie safe and sane. If I am the one thing he’s had to look forward to, then I will continue to be the kind of guy who earns statements like that. I will not let this kid down. I will not abandon him when he needs me most. Today will be all about distraction. I’ll take them out. Spend some more money, it’s not like I need to worry about running out. Grandma saw to that. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to Charlie’s apartment. See if I can get the landlord to give us any information, maybe get a clue as to whether his mom might be back or not. We’ll drive by Chelsea’s house after that. I can check around to make sure that everything is as it should be and she can grab all the stuff she needs for an extended stay at my house and then we’ll talk about moving her in permanently. It’s fast. Drastic. But necessary. I have to work on Sunday, and while I’m there I’ll look into what I need to do to get some sort of custody of Charlie. I’m in no way ready to be a full-time parent, but, who really ever is? And as much as my stomach churns with the thought of it, I couldn’t respect myself if I just let the kid go. Feeling better about things, I close my notebook and start pulling stuff out of the fridge for breakfast. It’s going to be a long day without sleep, but I’ve been here before and I know how to handle myself. Besides, today isn’t about me. It’s about taking care of the people who need me. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you think she split?” The landlord at Charlie’s apartment isn’t exactly happy to see us. He rakes a hand through his thinning hair and hikes up his pants. “She still owes me the last two months’ rent.”

I’ve already explained the situation to him once, but I go ahead and explain it again. Calm and cool and collected. Today, I intend to catch my flies with honey, rather than the vinegar that’s actually coursing through my veins. “If you could just let us into the apartment, maybe we could see if she happened to leave any of the boy’s stuff,” I say, wrapping my arm around Charlie’s shoulder as he hangs his head in shame. He’s been hard to read. Spent most of Friday smiling and silent and then fell asleep on top of his covers again, still dressed in his clothes, curled around his baby blanket like the night before. The old man mutters and grabs a ring of keys off a hook by the door before waddling his way out into the hallway. We follow him as he walks, muttering a ceaseless string of obscenities. Chelsea catches my eye and purses her brow while Charlie just chuckles at my side. “He always like this?” I whisper. Charlie nods. “He’s usually worse.” When we get inside the apartment, it’s evident that Charlie’s mom is gone for good. The place is disgusting. Piles of stuff on every imaginable surface, the floor sticky and covered in bits and pieces of food and trash. But the furniture is gone. And the closets are empty. I watch Charlie wander through the place, trying to gauge his reaction and failing miserably. The boy is tough. I’ll give him that. “Well. That’s that, I guess,” says the old man with a shake of his head and a wipe of his nose on the back of his hand. “Don’t look like she’s planning on being back.” His eyes settle on Charlie and bounce to me. It looks like he’s about to ask a question, but I silence him by stepping forward. “Thank you so much for letting us in.” I hand him one of my business cards and he looks at me differently after reading it, now that he knows I’m a cop. “You give me a call if you hear anything.” And with that, we are very much done here. I guide Chelsea and Charlie out of the place with the full and complete intention of never coming back.

27

THERE’S SOMETHING SO VERY FINAL IN SEEING CHARLIE’S EMPTY BEDROOM. I THINK WE ALL FEEL IT, EVEN the crazy old man with the keys. We leave the place and I can’t help but watch the boy and wonder what’s going on in his head and heart. Kids are supposed to be so resilient, and given the shape of that apartment, he’s probably used to dealing with heavier stuff than I even know how to imagine. But, resilient or not, this has to be hard on him. I expect another awkwardly silent car ride back to Max’s house and am shocked when Charlie pipes up from the back seat. “Kinda feels good to know she’s gone,” he says. “Does that make me a bad person? That I don’t want my mom to come back?” I don’t have an answer for him, but thankfully, Max does. “Of course it doesn’t. Didn’t you tell me the other day that you used her as an example of how not to be?” “Yeah.” Charlie’s voice is hesitant. “Seems like that might be the kind of person who would be hard to miss once she’s gone.” “She wasn’t very nice. Yelled a lot. Slept all the time. I don’t think she liked me. I tried to be quiet. But like, sometimes when I got real hungry, I’d try to get some food, but I’d always drop stuff or make a mess and she’d get so mad.” He pauses, furrowing his brows. “But I don’t think it’s supposed to be like that, is it? It’s not like that on TV. Or if it is, it’s usually because the mom is a bad guy.” I’ve never heard that many words come out of his mouth at once. I mean, I don’t think I’ve heard that many words come out of his mouth in the entire time we’ve

spent together over the last couple days. That alone is shocking. But when you add the content of what he actually said into the equation? I’m so out of my depth I don’t know what to do. “You think your mom is bad?” Max asks. Charlie nods. “Yeah. She sure ain’t good, I know that. But I think it’s worse. I think she breaks the law a lot.” I catch Max’s eyes for just a fraction of a second. He takes a breath and lets it out through his nose. “You’re a smart kid. I’m sure you’re seeing things the way they are.” “She always said my dad was a loser. But if my mom is bad, and my dad is bad, does that mean I’m bad, too?” “Nope,” says Max, not missing a beat. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. One that only a very few people know about me.” He pulls the car into his driveway, kills the engine, and spins in his seat to face Charlie. “My dad was a bad man. A criminal. He broke lots of laws and made every bad decision out there. For a long time, I was afraid that meant I was a bad person, too. That I was just going to wake up one day and lose control of myself and start hurting people. But you know what? I’m not a bad guy. Like you, I decided to use his life as an example of how not to be.” “So you think I’m going to be okay?” “Charlie. I know you’re going to be okay.” We climb out of the car and head into the house. I clean up the breakfast dishes while Max gets the Xbox hooked up for Charlie. So much has happened, I don’t even know how to process it all. When I think back to the gruff, asshole cop who pulled me over all those months ago, the guy who stood on the front steps of the police station and told me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t a family man, I can’t even begin to marry him with the guy in the other room. The guy who is sweeping in and putting a little boy back together piece by piece. The guy who hasn’t let me go home yet because of a silly little dead mouse on my front porch. A guy who hasn’t slept in days, yet still manages to smile. Still managed to take us out yesterday for more fun than I think Charlie has ever had in his whole life. I always thought my family was made up of good people. Watching the way Max has handled these past few days has changed the way I see … everything. My family is polite. Max is good. There’s a very distinct difference. Would my dad be working so hard if he were in Max’s situation? No. He wouldn’t. Charlie would be at the police station. I would be at home, jumping out of my skin at every little bump in the night, and my dad would have very politely offered us the all the best on his way out the door. The respect I have for Max has grown exponentially over the last few days, and, if I’m honest, I’m worried about him. I know he hasn’t slept. And I know he has to work tomorrow. Which worries him because he’ll have to leave Charlie and me alone and that means he won’t sleep much tonight, either. And to top all the worry off, I keep wondering how he’s handling all this. After all, he is the guy who swore

he wouldn’t do family, and here we are, an awkward little family for the foreseeable future. Is he okay sharing his home with us? Like really and truly okay? Our relationship is new. Wonderful, but new. He just told me he loved me for the first time the other day. Can we survive something this intense? My stomach falls to my feet. We have to survive this, because I don’t want to go back to surviving without him. I need him. Not because I can’t be without him, but because I don’t want to be. Sure, if our relationship caves under this pressure, I’d go on with my life and keep putting one foot in front of the other like I always have. But it’d be like living in the dark, all the while craving the sun, remembering its warmth. Heavy thoughts for a heavy day, I guess. Max wanders into the kitchen as I finish the dishes. His hands are shoved in his pockets and his shoulders are rounded forward. It’s not a posture I’m used to seeing on my strong, proud man. I don’t like it. “Can we talk?” he asks, his eyes on the floor. “Sure.” I take a seat at the kitchen table. Perch uneasily at the edge of the thing, hands clasped in my lap. Back straight. Heart still. Breath held. “It’s been a hard couple days,” he says as he takes a seat next to me. Elbows on knees. Eyes on floor. “Isn’t that the truth.” My mouth is working on autopilot. “It’s a lot to adjust to, you know?” I just nod, terrified to hear that he has used up all his good and is moving on to polite. He looks up. His eyes settle on mine and I see through to his soul and damn if this man doesn’t move me with the power of who he is. My breath quickens. “I love you, Chelsea. I don’t say that lightly. I mean it from the bottom of my heart with everything I know is true about me. And I know that I things are going to be weird, what with Charlie here, and our relationship being kind of new, but…” He pauses and I’m so confused I don’t know what to say. I thought he was going to break up with me, but now I’m not so sure. “I want you to move in,” he says and takes my hands in his. “Not just until we figure out what’s going on at your house and not just until we figure out what’s going on with Charlie. I want to share my bed with you and I never want to worry whether or not you’re safe. I want to know you’re safe. Because you’re here. With me.” My heart surges with happiness while my brain goes to work dampening everything. I want to jump up and say yes, over and over again, yes, but the demonbitch in my head is busy reminding me all the reasons to say no. He hasn’t slept and isn’t thinking clearly. He doesn’t really want you. He just feels obligated. He wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t for all the crazy happening lately. You’ll move in and he’ll realize that you’re not enough. You’re not enough for him. You’re never going to be good enough.

My mouth opens and closes while the bitch goes on her tirade. I can’t get a word out. “I know it’s fast. I know you probably think it’s stupid. Probably even think it has more to do with the situation and less to do with me actually wanting to live with you.” I find my voice. “That thought did cross my mind.” Max nods. “I figured. And I’d be lying if I told you that this weekend hasn’t sped up the decision making process. But believe me when I say, I want you here because I love you and don’t want to be without you. Not because of some jerk hanging around outside your house. He just helped me to see how much I want you a little sooner than I might have otherwise.” “It’s a big step,” I say, still busy listening to my head rather than my heart. “I know. But don’t you think it’s an inevitable step? I mean, when I pay close attention to how I really feel about you, I know there’s no other person out there who’s going to match me the way you do. I mean, really. If you say no, we’re just delaying the inevitable because we’re going to live together eventually.” Max smiles, those bullet blue eyes lighting my heart on fire. As much as I want to say yes, I can’t quite bring myself to say it. Not while I’m still sure he’s more motivated by his desire to protect me than an actual desire to live with me. But as much as I think I should say no, I can’t bring myself to say that either. I’m literally silenced by indecision. Max’s brow furrows. “You should say something.” “I know.” “But you aren’t.” “I know that, too.” “Why?” I take a breath. Hold it for a second. How honest should I be? One look at Max, this man I love and respect so much gives me my answer. Totally honest. “Because I’m afraid to say yes and find out that you only want me here because of what’s happening. That when it all dies down, you’ll be sorry you asked me. That I won’t be enough for you or that I’ll be too much. I’m afraid to say yes and ruin what we have and I’m afraid to say no and ruin what we have.” “Oh my sweet girl. You are everything to me. The perfect amount of everything. Stop worrying so much and just say you’ll move in with me. I love you so much and want to wake up to your smiling face every day.” I open my mouth to say no. To tell him it’s too soon. Imagine my surprise when I say yes. “Okay.” I nod, happiness filling every ounce of my body. “Yeah. I’ll move in with you.” Max stands and pulls me into his arms. “You will?” “Yeah.” I nod now, more and more certain that this is the right decision. Max

kisses me and for just a moment I let myself forget about all the craziness of the weekend and just let myself be happy in the one place I feel best, wrapped up in his arms, my body pressed to his.

28

LATER THAT DAY, THE THREE OF US DRIVE OVER TO MY HOUSE SO I CAN GET MY CAR AND A FEW MORE OF MY things. Max walks me up to the door and checks the lock and front windows for any signs of tampering before I let us in. He peers through the front door while I peek out from around his shoulder. It’s amazing how ominous the house feels, given how safe I felt here just last week. Oh, how quickly things can change. “Tell you what,” says Max. “You go on in, I’m going to take Charlie around the outside here and show him some of the things I look for when I’m trying to keep the things most important to me safe.” Max drops a wink my way and it does wonders to my anxiety levels. If he’s joking around, he’s not stressed and if he’s not stressed, then he’s not really all that concerned about something bad happening to us while we’re here. I admit. My imagination has been running a little wild. I’ve spent more time wondering about the meaning of the dead mouse than I should. I assume that the guy who has been watching my house is the guy who left it. Which means that I’ve spent time actually thinking about him breaking that poor little thing’s neck. Of course, the thump of its body against my door could mean that he threw it. So maybe it was the impact that broke its neck. Either way, the scenario is horrifying. While I’m here, I’m going to have to clean out the fridge, but that can wait until we’re about ready to leave. First things first. Time to get my clothes and toiletries packed. I head upstairs, flipping on lights as I go. I guess part of me is still a little girl, frightened of the boogieman hiding in the dark. I love this house. I’m proud of this house. I bought it when so many of my friends were renting apartments, too financially strapped by college and bad

decisions to qualify for a home loan. Not me. I managed to not only qualify, but get a damn good interest rate and have been paying more than the minimum payment since I moved in. It’s clean. It’s well-cared for. And it’s worth more than I owe. And yet, despite all that, I’m not going to miss living here one bit. All the long nights spent at the computer. Lonely. Nothing to focus on but work, work, and work some more. I’m really tired of being that person. I’m ready to relax a little, breathe a bit. I honestly can’t wait to curl up with Max at the end of a long day and just exist with him. My first stop is the bathroom, where I grab my shampoo and conditioner and all the yummy smelling lotions and creams that I love so much. Nothing like spending a few days in a bathroom stocked by a man to appreciate all the wonderful parts about being a woman. After that, I head into my bedroom and pull open my drawers. Start pulling out all my sexy lingerie, hand-picked for my evenings with Max. Hands full, I spin so I can start stacking things on my bed before organizing them into the bags we brought. There’s something on my pillow. A piece of paper, neatly folded and wholly out of place. My blood runs cold, and my palms go sweaty and I whirl, suddenly certain someone is behind me. All the feelings of safety bleed from the room, the corners and shadows threatening hidden secrets and looming disaster. I should leave. Just spin on my heel and head outside to find Max and Charlie. Forget the shit on my bed and get out to safety. But, I don’t do that. Oh, no. I’m busy ignoring every instinct I have, curiosity about the piece of paper on my pillow somehow overwhelming my sense of danger. I pick it up, barely able to touch it. Pinching it between my thumb and forefinger like it might be covered in poison. When I read the words scrawled on the page, I realize that yes, this note is poison indeed.

How can I love you this much when I hate you more than anything? You are everything. The sun and the sky and the bitch I can’t wait to watch die. My hands. My hands. Yours. I will show you how much you mean to me with these hands at your throat.

THERE’S movement behind me and I whirl in time to see a small man close the door, the sound of the latch clicking into place thundering in my head. I drop the paper and it flutters to the ground, seesawing peacefully. The guys steps forward, a disgusting smile slithering across his face. Here’s the thing. Does he really think I’m just going to stand here, all quiet and trembling while he advances on me? I took on a mother fucking linebacker for fuck’s sake.

I am not the kind of woman who curls up and cries on the bathroom floor. With a shriek that rips through my throat, burning my esophagus, I launch myself at the guy. I am teeth and claws and fists that pummel and knees that thrust into his balls. I am sound and fury. A whirlwind of retribution. He covers his face with his hands and backs up, hunching in on himself while I call for Max, who throws open the front door and bounds up the stairs. It’s only a matter of seconds before the bedroom door bounces off the man who would be my assailant. “Chelsea!” Max is panicked. His voice a megaphone. An explosion of power. I stumble back and the small man falls to the floor. Max shoves the door into him, somehow scooting the man across the carpet while I shove myself into the farthest possible corner. The rest is almost anticlimactic. Max pins the guy who has gone limp. Totally compliant. Utterly non-threatening. “Are you okay?” he asks me, his eyes like weapons raking over my body and face. “I’m fine,” I say. “I think he’s more hurt than I am.” Max smiles. “That’s my girl.” He calls the police and my house becomes a circus of swirling lights and cameramen and reporters yelling questions our way from behind police tape. The man is more than happy to talk. More than happy to explain why he spent months following me. He loves me and he hates me. Fell in love with the idea of me while watching my TV interviews, but came to hate me when Sloan Anderson got charged for assault. I ruined his favorite player. His love and his hate twisted into an obsession in his crazy little mind. I’m not the first person he’s fixated on. A quick check of his records shows more than one restraining order from more than one woman. This time though, with Max standing strong beside me, this guy is going to jail. Chalk another win up for me, I guess. Chelsea London, champion of women everywhere, taking sexual predators off the street, one swift knee to the balls at a time. When it’s all said and done, Max pulls me in close, wrapping his arms all the way around me and pressing a kiss into my hair. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been so scared,” he said. “When I heard you scream, I thought I lost you.” “I was pretty scared, myself. But I guess when the going gets tough, I get tougher.” I smile up at him, proud of myself. I like the way it feels, knowing that I didn’t let my fear of the guy cripple me. “There was a moment when I was afraid that I’d get upstairs and find you dead. That maybe even though my DNA doesn’t instantly make me a bad man, that maybe it makes me a tragic man. That just when I let myself love someone, I lose them.” I can see the swirl of memories in his eyes. “I’m still here.” He puts a finger to my chin and lifts, examining me for any damages yet again. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I promise. I don’t think he even got his hands on me.” I smile up at him. “I’m fine.” “I realized exactly how much you mean to me today. I mean, I already knew you were pretty much my everything, but today really helped send the message home. I love you, Chelsea.” He pauses and there’s so much emotion on his face, it brings tears to my eyes. “I love you, too, Max.” I look around my living room. The sterile colors. The utter lack of personalization anywhere. I’m kind of glad to be leaving it behind. “You know,” I say, giving Max a devilish look. “Now that the crazy guy is in jail, you’re off the hook with the whole moving in together thing.” “Are you kidding me? Did you not hear what I just said, woman?” Max swoops me up in his arms while I shriek in surprise. “Charlie!” he bellows, heading for the door. “Let’s go home.”

29

LIFE GOES CRAZY FOR A LITTLE WHILE. SUDDENLY, THE MEDIA CARES ABOUT ME AGAIN, BUT I’M NOT EVEN A little interested in playing that game anymore. I avoid them until they forget about me. But that only settles things down a little bit because a lot of the craziness comes from the fact that Max and Charlie and I have to figure out how to be a family together. I don’t know how he did it, but Max pulled some strings, calling in so many favors to so many different people that I couldn’t keep things straight when he explained it all. But the long and short of it is that Max managed to adopt Charlie. Which, of course, I saw coming from a million miles away and completely and totally support the decision. Charlie’s a great kid. Smart. Hard-working. Eager to please. But we’ve definitely had our growing pains as Max and I got a crash course in parenting and Charlie got a crash course on how to be an actual kid. Things settled down around Christmas and over the last month and a half have finally started to find a rhythm that we’re all comfortable with. One thing’s for sure, I certainly don’t have time to devote myself completely to work anymore. I’ve got people who want and deserve my attention at home and that’s a very good thing. I’m still good at what I do, don’t get me wrong. Like Maya and Dakota always say, I excel at excelling. I think I’m just more balanced now. More complete. Whatever it is, I like it. I like getting up early to make my men breakfast before they leave for work and school. I like finding little notes from Max in the lunch he packs for me. I like helping Charlie with his homework at night. And I like laughing

with them when we sit down to dinner on the nights we’re not running Charlie to some kind of practice or another. Life is good and we’re all happy. What more could I ask for? Well, this morning I think I could ask for not being late. Wouldn’t you know, on the very day that I’m set to start working with Hudson Knox again—poor guy is hurt again—I manage to burn our breakfast and then get caught behind the busses dropping Charlie off at school. Now, I’m swooping and swerving through traffic, thankful that the snow they’re calling for later this evening hasn’t started yet. Small blessings, you know? Of course, people are thoroughly pissed at me, honking and flipping me the bird and I just grimace and keep holding my hand up in apology. If I were them, I’d hate me, too. Funny thing is, I can’t stop smiling because it just reminds me so much of the first day I met Max. He was such an asshole that day, how could I ever have imagined that he’d end up being the absolute love of my life? How could I know that underneath that furrowed brow and etched-in scowl was a heart so big it would swoop me up, rescuing a small boy from certain disaster along the way? Although, given distracted I was by his sexiness at first—and totally surprised by it because he so wasn’t my type—maybe I did know, on some level, that he was everything I needed and then some. Maybe my soul took one look at his soul and said ‘hey, I know you!’ and that was the end of it. I flip on my turn signal and cut off some poor lady who looks too sleepy to be dealing with likes of me. “Sorry,” I say out loud, hoping to catch her eyes through the mirror. Instead, I catch the whirl of blue and red lights. The chirp of a siren. What is it about me that every time I speed I get caught? Am I just that bad at being bad? I pull over and slide my license and proof of insurance out of my wallet and prepare myself for the long wait while the officer pulls up my information. Imagine my surprise when there’s a knock on my window while I’m pulling my registration out of the glove compartment. I whirl and find myself staring at a blue-clad torso, thumbs hooked in his utility belt. I roll down the window and crane my neck, trying to see the guy’s face. “I’m sorry, officer,” I say. “I’m running late…” “I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle.” Fear surges through me, but only for an instant, because I totally recognize that voice. “Max?” “Officer Santoro, ma’am. And I need you to step out of the vehicle.” I peer up at him and his eyes glimmer with excitement, the only normal thing in his otherwise completely stoic face. He steps aside to give me room to swing open the car door. The frigid February air hits me in the face and I shudder as I stand. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” “Max, what’s going on?” I flare my hands, utterly confused. “Answer the question. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Because I was speeding? I’m really late. And if I don’t—” Max puts his hands on my shoulders and spins me around. Pushes me over so my hands go flat against the hood of my car. I gasp as he pats me down like a common criminal on the side of the road. He gives my hips and breasts more attention than I’m sure is professional. “What you’ve done is far more serious than breaking the speed limit.” His voice is hard. Almost foreign. “It’s inexcusable really.” He takes his hands off me and I just stand there for a second, hands on the hood of my car, legs splayed, totally freaked the hell out. Well, until I remember that this is Max and that no, I haven’t done anything other than break a few hundred traffic laws on my way to work this morning. Max’s hands come back to my shoulders and he spins me again, gently this time. He’s smiling when I come to face him. Nervous. It’s not a look he wears well. “So, do you know what you’ve done?” he asks. “Why I pulled you over?” I shake my head. “If it’s not the speeding thing, then I’m utterly clueless.” A slow smile twists the corner of his mouth. “You’ve stolen my heart, you sweet girl. Each and every day you’ve made it more and more yours and less and less mine and now, I can’t imagine how I’ll ever manage to live without you. You’ve made my house into a home, helped me through this transition with Charlie. We’re both better off because of you.” I’m smiling now, too, because this may be one of the sweetest things he’s ever done, even if I am going to be super late to work. “No, silly. I’m better off because of you guys.” Max shrugs. “Or maybe we’re all better off together.” “I think that’s probably the truth.” Max takes my hand in his and I look down. He has a ring poised over the tip of my finger. “Chelsea?” I look up at him, mouth open, eyes filling with tears. “Will you marry me? Be mine for the rest of our days?” I don’t hesitate because I think I’ve known my answer since the very first moment I ever met him. “I’ve always been yours, Max. And I always will.” And it’s the truth and it’s beautiful and I know, without doubt or question that we will live happily ever after for the rest of our days. WANT to know as soon as Abby’s next book is released? Click here to join Abby’s Reader Group to get notified on release day.

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