Prologue

“Right there. See it?” My father points to the perfectly aligned stars in the dark sky. “The Big Dipper,” he says quietly as not to disrupt the lightning bugs dancing around us in the humid evening air.

We lie on our backs, taking it all in. The endless sky you can see for miles, the crisp summer air tingling at my nose, and the quiet. You can hear everything here on the farm.

I’m beginning to get used to the silence. We moved back to Deer Creek, North Dakota, after my father lost every penny we had in an investment scheme. Everything he’d worked so hard to provide for our family was gone overnight—vanished into thin air at the hands of a so-called friend and mentor. Mom and Dad sold everything to pay off the debts he owed. We went from living a comfortable life, in an upper middle-class neighborhood of Chicago, back to my grandfather’s farm. This was where my mom grew up, and my uncle recently took over after my grandfather passed unexpectedly two months ago.

To say life has been full of changes lately would be an understatement. I pretend not to notice because I’m only thirteen. I’m supposed to believe that my family wanted to move back here, to northeastern North Dakota, for a simpler way of life. Except I’m wise beyond my years and learned to smell bullshit from a mile away a long time ago.

Murphy, the lab mix puppy that my dad gave me today for my birthday, sniffs the ground between Dad and me, and then settles into the cool grass at my feet. “Dad,” I whisper as I lace my fingers behind my head and focus on the Big Dipper he just pointed out.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Thanks for Murphy. He’s honestly the best gift I’ve ever gotten. You know I’ve been asking for a puppy for years.” I turn my head to the side to watch him as he stares at the sky. His Adam’s apple bobs ever so gently under the tan skin of his neck, and he inhales sharply before turning to look at me.

“I love you, Saige. I hope you remember that.” His voice breaks. He quickly clears his throat, burying a wave of emotion. “I wish I could’ve given you more.” He reaches out and squeezes my hand. His touch is firm yet gentle, and my normally hormonal self would shrug off his touch, but tonight, I let him hold my hand.

“I love you too, Dad.”

He sits up, leaning over to press a firm kiss to my forehead. Reaching down, he rubs the soft yellow fur on top of Murphy’s head before he pushes himself up from the ground. “Don’t stay out here too late,” he tells me, brushing the freshly cut grass from the back of his jeans.

“I won’t. Night, Dad.”

Dad shuffles his feet across the large grass yard toward the gravel drive and over to the barn that sits downhill from the house. The old barn door squeaks as he opens it and closes it behind him. When I can’t see him anymore, I settle back in to looking at the sky and searching for the Big Dipper again. It’s the one constellation he showed me that I could find time and again.

The metal screen door from the house hisses as it opens, and Uncle Brent bounds down the front porch steps toward me. “Whatcha doing, Piglet?” he says with a laugh.

“Don’t call me that.” I roll my eyes as he stands over me, blocking my view of the stars.

“Sorry, but you’ll always be a little piglet to me.” He chuckles. Brent is only six years older and more like a brother than an uncle to me. When I was born, he said I squealed like a baby piglet when I cried, and that’s where the nickname came from.

“I don’t like it,” I admit.

“I’m sorry,” he says half-heartedly before bending over and scooping Murphy off the ground. “Well, would you look how cute this little mutt is,” he says, rubbing Murphy’s muzzle.

“Dad got him for me.” I look at the fluffy puppy and I already love him.

“What’s his name?”

“Murphy.”

He smiles. “I like it; it fits him. He’s going to make a great farm dog, Saige.”

“He’s not going to be a farm dog. We won’t be here for long,” I snap, sitting up quickly.

Brent side-eyes me but doesn’t say anything. He knows what a touchy subject moving back to the farm has been for all of us.

“As soon as Mom finishes school, we’re moving back to the city,” I tell him as if I know what our plans are. I don’t, but I like to believe this is only temporary.

“Well, y’all are welcome to stay here as long as you need—I mean, want to,” he corrects himself. I know he feels sorry for us and he’s lousy at hiding it.

“Are you going to keep the farm?” I ask, because my mom has been pressuring him to sell it. She says that nineteen is too young to run a farm, that he’s got an entire life ahead of him away from this place. But I know this farm is all Brent really cares about.

“I think I am,” he admits with a smile. “It’s all I know, Piglet. I was raised on this farm, and it was Pop’s pride and joy,” he says. “I’m not ready to sell it, not sure if I ever will.” He sets Murphy down and stands with his hands on his hips. “Plus, I kinda like y’all being here with me.” He smiles at me and digs the toe of his tennis shoe playfully into my hip. I swat at his leg, and he jumps back with a boisterous laugh.

Suddenly, a large boom rings out and my body goes stiff, goose bumps instantly rising on my arms. “What was that?” I ask, my voice shaking with fear. The horses in the barn begin screaming, and it sounds like all-out chaos.

Murphy lunges to his feet and begins to bark in the direction of the barn.

“Saige, stay here,” Brent says as he takes off running toward the barn.

I’ve always been terrible at following directions, and I take off in a full sprint after Brent. My lungs burn as I gasp for breath while my feet try to keep up with him. He’s taller and faster than me, and I finally catch up as he’s throwing the barn door open. As I push past him, I’m the first to see.

The gun, the blood, my father with half of his head missing.

My stomach drops and I can feel the bile twist in my stomach. "Dad. Dad," I try to scream at him, but I'm barely able to breathe.

His limp body is lying in a pool of blood on the old wood floor next to a rifle. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

"Nooooo," I finally cry out. Vomit rises from my stomach as my legs go weak, and I fall to my knees.

The blood in my ears pounds so loudly, I can barely hear Brent screaming for help. Then I feel him pulling on my arms as my knees scrape against the wood floor. He’s dragging my limp body out of the barn, and I watch a stream of blood roll under a hay bale and inside one of the horse stalls before I finally close my eyes and give in.

* * *

Chapter 1

Saige

“Saige!” Evelyn, my roommate, yells at me as I gasp for air. "Breathe. Just breathe," she says, stumbling into my dark room. My lamp on the bedside table flicks on just as she sinks down next to me on my bed. She reaches for me and begins rubbing my arm. "That's two nights in a row," she whispers and frowns. I drop my head back against my headboard and try to get my breathing under control. "You need to talk to someone, Saige. You can't keep having these nightmares. You need to sleep."

I nod my head and stare at the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” I muster between breaths. Breathe. Breathe, I tell myself as my pulse begins to slow down. I moved to Chicago and in with Evelyn a month ago. The nightmares started back up about that time. As I began to live my dream—his dream—the past came crashing back into my life like a freight train with no brakes.

Every street here in Chicago, every chilly evening, and every sunny morning overlooking Lake Michigan reminds me of my father and the life we used to have here.

“Same nightmare?” Evelyn asks, her blue eyes wide with concern.

“Same one.”

She stands up to leave now that I’ve begun to settle down but pauses.

“Saige—”

“I know,” I groan. “I promise I will. There’s just been a lot of change lately. I need a little more time to settle into a routine. They always get worse this time of year.”

She knowingly nods. Every year, in the weeks leading up to my birthday, I tend to regress with my nightmares. She sighs and backs up toward the door. “Two more weeks, and if this doesn’t get better, I’m making the appointment for you.”

“Deal.”

She flips her long jet-black hair over her shoulder as she turns on her heel. “Dream of that sexy boss you told me about. What’s his name…Holt?” She winks at me. “Think about happy things, Saige. Hot men, rainbows, or fucking unicorns,” she quips.

I exhale loudly and narrow my eyes at her, then shoo her out of the room. Tugging the sheet up over my legs, I lean back against the headboard and rub my temples. “Holt,” I mumble and smirk. “Think of Holt.”

* * *

I stand at the small sink in the attached bathroom, dabbing concealer on the dark circles beneath my eyes and brush red lipstick across my lips, smacking them twice to distribute it evenly. This is as good as it’s going to get today. I take a sip of coffee from the mug Evelyn shoved into my hand as I was getting out of the shower this morning and groan at how good it tastes sliding down my throat and settling into my belly. Over the giant mug, I notice in the mirror how my green eyes pop against my fair complexion. I tuck my nearly black hair behind one of my ears and like the way it falls in long loose waves down my back. One positive for today—a good hair day.

Shimmying into a tight black pencil skirt and an olive green silk sleeveless blouse, I take one last look in the full-length mirror. I finish off my outfit with a pair of nude heels and grab my purse off the counter, shoving my cell phone into it.

“I’m outta here, Ev! Don’t wait up for me,” I shout as I shuffle out the apartment door and down the hallway of our old brick apartment building. A quick train ride later and I’m pushing through the revolving doors to Jackson-Hamilton Aviation.

“Morning, Larry!” I wave and hustle past the security desk where Larry sits.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he yells back, never once taking his eyes off the newspaper he’s reading.

My heels click loudly on the granite floor of the open-air atrium as I hustle over to the elevator bank. I frantically press the call button for the elevator and glance at my watch. I’m already five minutes late. I hate being late. Punctual is my middle name. If I’m not five minutes early, I’m late. That’s how I roll.

Groaning, I tap the toe of my shoe impatiently. When an elevator finally arrives, I scurry in just as a voice from behind me hollers out, “Hold that elevator, please.” I grumble but hold the doors as Holt Hamilton glides in, a cell phone pressed to his ear. With a curt nod, he steps aside and the elevator doors close while my heart pounds wildly in my chest.

Holt Hamilton. The sexiest man I’ve ever seen and the Vice President of Jackson-Hamilton Aviation—basically my boss. Standing at least six-foot-three, he could be Henry Cavill’s twin brother. With striking blue eyes and dark hair that’s styled back off of his face, he’s the perfect combination of businessman meets runway model. His cut jawline is accentuated by one very perfect dimple on his left cheek.

His athletic frame is highlighted by his custom-tailored suit that hugs each and every curve of his shoulders, arms, and waist, showing every muscle the man owns as he leans against the side of the elevator. Today he’s wearing a charcoal suit with a blue shirt and striped tie. The blue shirt makes his blue eyes stand out against his tan skin. I catch myself staring and quickly turn to face the doors of the elevator.

“Morning, Ms. Phillips,” he says with a tight smile. He shoves his cell phone into the pocket of his suit jacket.

Again, my heart is racing. “Mr. Hamilton.” I nod and keep my eyes on the digital display showing the floor numbers. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, I silently count as we continue to rise. Only thirty more. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

“How are you settling in?” he asks, his voice deep and commanding. I half-turn to speak to him and catch his smirk, but he quickly composes himself and adjusts his tie.

“It’s going well. I submitted the final orders for both planes that were overdue. Mr. Jackson emphasized those were priority.” I raise my chin confidently, but my heart continues to race with nervousness.

“You closed both orders?” he asks, surprised. “As in, you got both clients to agree to every last detail?” He looks skeptical. These particular clients were a nightmare. I knew when I accepted the job that I’d have demanding clients, but those two were the cream of the crop.

“I did.” Another confident nod.

"Huh," he mumbles, giving his head a little shake. “So how’d you do it? Rachel had been working for months with those clients, and they wouldn’t agree to anything she recommended. She tossed their client portfolios on my desk the day she resigned and swore we’d never close the deal on those planes.”

I try to contain my smirk. “I get to know my clients, Mr. Hamilton. I make an effort to really understand their likes and dislikes—their personal preferences. What excites them. What motivates them. Not just shove today’s best-selling aeronautical features down their throats. I work with them and, in the end, they trust me and my recommendations—we’re a team.”

“It's that easy?” He cocks an eyebrow in amusement.

I cock an eyebrow in return. “It's that easy. Payments are finalized and in the Jackson-Hamilton account, Mr. Hamilton. Planes are scheduled to be delivered to both clients in the next ninety days.” I rub my sweaty palms down the sides of my pencil skirt.

He stares at me silently, just chewing on the inside of his cheek when the elevator finally slows to a stop. The doors open and Holt reaches out and places his arm against the open door so as to not let them close on us, but in doing so, places himself shoulder to shoulder with me. Too close. So close I can smell his body wash and his minty breath.

I quickly step out of the elevator and into the lobby of Jackson-Hamilton Aviation and begin to walk down the hall toward my cubicle, the opposite direction of Holt Hamilton.

“Nice work, Phillips,” he says from behind me.

I smile and race to my desk, internally high-fiving myself.

“What’s put that shit-eating grin on your face?” Zay asks.

Isaiah, or Zay, as I've been told to call him, is our private sales coordinator. He works alongside our customers to determine what type of plane they need. Once they agree on the bones of the structure, he tosses them over to me, where I work with the client to customize and build their dream plane. Kind of like Pimp Your Plane, only it’s not reality television; it’s my job.

I'm the interior designer. I get to work with clients on the “fun part”...although, to be honest, it's a difficult job. Our customers are premier, the elite—celebrities, Fortune 500 companies, and CEOs. Even royalty. I work with people all over the world. They want the best for the least amount of money, and it's my job to make them happy while making Jackson-Hamilton Aviation some serious money in the process. No sale is complete until I submit all the final details back to Zay and payment has been received, then the planes are customized.

I shrug and slide my sleek laptop into the docking station, powering it on. Zay sits on my desk, bumping his shoulder into mine. "Talk to me, Phillips. That look on your face. What put it there?" Zay has the best smiles. His perfectly straight, bright white teeth stand out against his dark olive skin.

"Nothing.” I try to hide my smile, but I’m failing. “I'm just in a good mood. It's Friday, We received payment on the Zamora and Dubai planes."

He smacks his lips before he speaks. "Well, good. Then you'll be joining us for an impromptu happy hour after work tonight.”

I turn in my chair and smirk at him. “I’m not sure I’m ready for another happy hour with this group.” I twirl my hand around the small workspace that holds all of our cubicles.

I actually work with the nicest people I’ve ever met. We’re an eclectic bunch, with Zay bringing the spice. He’s half-Mexican and half-Caucasian and the epitome of the term “Latin lover.” Then there’s Emery, your classic hippie; mid-thirties with essential oils lining her desk, a cup full of some herbal concoction, and a foul mouth to boot. She’s honest and sincere and the matriarch of our little group. Of course there’s the token gay man, and that's Rowan. He’s sarcastic and witty, and if he weren’t twenty years older than me and gay, I’d find a way to make him love me. He's kind and nurturing and has the sense of humor and quick wit of Jimmy Fallon. Rounding out our little group is a spitfire named Kinsley. At twenty-five, she’s only two years older than me and the closest in age. Everything she says or does is borderline inappropriate, and we love her for it. Our group is fun and sassy and Human Resources’ worst nightmare.

“This group. You say it like we’re a bunch of lepers.” He laughs and leans back against my desk, crossing one of his legs over the other.

“Morning, sunshine.” Rowan air kisses my cheek and sets a piping hot cup of coffee from the local coffeehouse on my desk. He’s our early bird, and if I’m not here promptly at eight o’clock, he’ll walk to the coffee shop down the street and bring me back my coffee. God forbid he waits five minutes for me to get here. He’s a creature of habit, and I love him all the more for it.

“Non-fat caramel mocha,” he says, nodding at the cup he just set in front of me. “What are you two up to?” He glances between Zay and me. "Looks like I interrupted something."

“Zay says we’re doing happy hour tonight—”

Rowan claps excitedly. “Damn right we are. I need about six stiff drinks and—”

“That’s not the only stiff thing you need,” Zay jabs at him.

Rowan looks forlorn. “If you only knew, child … if you only knew.” He recently broke up with his partner of sixteen years, and he's anxious to put himself out on the market. He shakes his head and takes a seat in the only extra chair I have in my cubicle.

“What are you whores doing?” Kinsley asks as she walks by, throwing her purse and laptop bag onto the floor of her cube. She sits directly across from me and always keeps me entertained. She kicks off her flip-flops and steps into a pair of four-inch heels that look as though a hooker on Cicero Avenue should be wearing them. She strides across the hall and leans against the opening of my cube. “Did you get me a coffee?” She asks Rowan, batting her eyes and pouting her lips.

“Do I ever get you a coffee?” He rolls his eyes.

“Asshole,” she mumbles under her breath and rolls her eyes. It’s all in jest. Rowan and Kinsley could insult each other all day, but it's always for fun and shock value.

“Didn’t get laid last night, sweet cheeks?” Rowan laughs.

“Nope. That’s the plan for tonight.” She smirks. “I’m taking someone home, and if the pickings are slim, it’s going to be one of you two.” She looks between Zay and Rowan. With Rowan being gay, that leaves Zay as her target and she gives him a flirty smile.

“And I’m out of here.” Zay pushes himself up from my desk and walks away, mumbling something under his breath about crossing boundaries. We all laugh and Kinsley slides into the spot Zay just vacated.

"So tonight," she says, pulling my coffee from my hand and taking a sip. "You're in, right, Saige?"

I roll my eyes and smile. "Do I have a choice?" They never let me say no to happy hour.

"Nope." She giggles and taps my nose, handing me my coffee back.

"Do I at least have time to go home and change?" I feign annoyance.

"No. We're outta here at four. It's just down the street. There are always good-looking suits in there. Suits and cheap drinks, girlfriend. That skirt you're wearing is exactly what you need. You look hot, Saige." She gives me a little wink.

By “suits,” she means businessmen in their suits. "I'm not looking for a man or free drinks, Kins. I'll come for a quick drink. That's it."

"Drinks," she corrects me. "We're staying for drinks. Plural."

I roll my eyes at her and log in to my computer.

"I'll look out for you, kiddo." Rowan pats the top of my head. "Until then, I've got work to do." He starts walking away but turns around quickly. "Oh hey, great job on the Zamora and Dubai planes. Tonight over drinks, you're going to have to tell us how you got those bastards to agree to anything because I was convinced we were losing those sales."

I nod at Rowan and bite down on my lip as I fight back the smile forcing its way across my face. I’ve always prided myself on doing good work, but closing these two deals hopefully solidified the fact that I’m serious about my job at Jackson-Hamilton.