Sean

I stroked Anna’s hair until her breathing slowed.

Even now, I could feel the hot, salty tears on my thumbs. The evidence of her regret. 

The problem was, I couldn’t find it in me to feel sorry for what we’d done.

Alive; that’s what I felt.

My phone buzzed, and reaching for it out of habit, I skimmed Logan’s text. 

Party tonight at Maggie Mae’s. You in?

He was either the dumbest fucker on the planet or he was fishing. But my answer was the same. 

No. I’m good.

When I stretched to set the phone on the nightstand, Anna rolled onto her side. 

“I love licorice,” she mumbled. 

Tucking in behind her, I molded my chest to her back, spooning. How long had it been since I spooned? 

Almost four years. 

“Me too, baby.”

She hummed. “And Willow.”

Smiling, I pressed a kiss to her shoulder somewhere on the branches of her tattoo.

As my eyes grew heavy, my subconscious surrendered to the beat in my head, the familiar tune I’d vanquished to the archives the day I’d left Austin. 

The song of Anna.

Whether she invaded my dreams or I occupied hers, I wasn’t sure. But when I drifted off, Anna was with me, beneath our willow tree, with lips that tasted like candy. 

Cursing, I scooped the broken egg from the skillet, my fourth, and then looked around in a panic. The mangled, empty carton lay on the counter amid the debris of mixing bowls, utensils, and other ingredients. 

“Lola!”

My housekeeper strolled in, a basket of clean laundry under her arm. She didn’t answer, preferring to snicker at my distress.

Swinging my gaze to hers, I glared. “Do we have any more eggs?” 

Unfazed by my glower, she set the basket on the table. Plucking a clean T-shirt from the pile, she tossed it to me, staring pointedly at the scratches on my chest. And the bite marks on my neck. My just-fucked hair. 

In my defense, I didn’t know about the scratches or bite marks until I saw my reflection in the mirror this morning when I came downstairs. 

The night was a blur of peaceful sleep, vivid dreams, tangled limbs, and sweet lips that tasted like licorice.

Arching a brow, Lola meandered to the refrigerator. “You got a girl up there, or a lion?” 

I pulled the T-shirt over my head while she poked around in the Sub Zero, producing a dozen eggs from a compartment I’d never seen. 

“I thought you told me that you didn’t bring your floozies back here, Mr. Sean.” Lola sighed her discontent, laying the fresh carton of eggs next to the stove. “You’re free to live your life any way you see fit, but I’m not going to be cleaning up their messes. I told you when you hired me, I used to work for someone in the movie business. Brought a different gal around every day.” Clucking, she shook her head. “Those girls started ordering me around. And, lordy, they were slobs.”

Normally, I’d laugh if someone used the word “floozies” but instead my back stiffened in defense.

“Anna’s not a floozy,” I muttered. “She’s my . . .”

Hell, I didn’t know what Anna was. And even if I did, I couldn’t describe her in a word. It would take a book. And besides, Lola was my housekeeper, not my mother. 

“You going to turn that pancake, Mr. Sean?” Lola asked. “Or are you planning on burning the house down?”

I jerked my gaze to the stove where a plume of black smoke hovered over the burners. 

“Shit.” 

I grabbed a pot holder so I could toss the pan into the sink without burning the hell out of my hand. The automatic faucet spluttered to life, dousing the charred remains. 

Fucking perfect.

Raking a frustrated hand through my hair, I surveyed my mess through watery eyes. Burnt pancakes, singed bacon, and something that resembled eggs, but not quite. 

Blowing out a defeated breath, I ignored my rumbling stomach as I searched the cupboards for clean bowls. 

I hadn’t eaten a full meal since breakfast yesterday morning at the Four Seasons, though I seemed to recall some dried fruit snacks Anna pulled out of her bag sometime before dawn. Or maybe it was licorice. 

Shit . . . I didn’t know. It was good, though. 

Lola elbowed my ribs. “Move, Mr. Sean. Whoever you got upstairs is going to starve to death. ’Sides, you’re just causing more work for me. It’s going to take an hour to clean up this disaster area as it is.”

I held my ground until my stomach let out another loud roar, then reluctantly backed away from the stove and my surly housekeeper. 

Lola got right to work, expertly dropping an egg into the skillet with one hand while simultaneously peeling bacon from the one-pound package with the other.

Even with all that, Lola still managed to shoot me an admonishing glare. “Make yourself useful and fetch me some orange juice from the fridge.” She snorted. “I would tell you to squeeze some fresh, but that juicer of yours takes an advanced degree to operate.” 

“I have a juicer?” I set the jug of OJ on the island, then opened a cupboard filled with canned goods. “Shit, where are the glasses?” 

Lola snapped me with a towel. 

“Ouch!” My hand shot to my arm, which stung like a bitch. “What the hell?” Clamping my mouth shut, I jumped out of the way as the tiny tyrant lifted the towel in preparation for another assault.

“No need to cuss. Your glasses are up there.” Lola pointed to a cabinet above the dishwasher. “Didn’t you buy anything in this house for yourself, Mr. Sean?”

“Just, Sean,” I corrected, the way I had done a dozen times. But Lola never took the hint. “And, no, I didn’t.”

Ladling four scoops of pancake batter onto what I thought was a burner cover, she tutted. “You got a built-in griddle, dummy. Why are you using a fry pan?”

I glared at the beast of a stove. Two ovens, eight burners, and apparently, a griddle. Who knew?

Lola snapped her fingers. “Fetch me a tray from the pantry. A wooden one.”

She pointed at the door next to the laundry room, and when I didn’t move, she rolled her eyes.

“I know where it is,” I grumbled. 

“It’s a miracle.” 

Biting my tongue, I stalked away without a reply. The little dictator could easily hold my breakfast hostage, and I was already feeling light headed. 

Poking around the large storeroom, I found the trays on a bottom shelf tucked between the juicer and some kind of tiny coffee machine. I didn’t know who my decorator thought I’d be entertaining, but at least I figured out how she spent so much money stocking the kitchen. 

As I turned to leave, a beat-up box with “Grace’s Jars” scrawled on the side in Anna’s handwriting caught my eye.

Memories of my mother came rushing back as I pulled off the lid.

Every spring, Mom would gather bluebonnets and display them in Mason jars. 

After we’d moved in together, Anna heard about the tradition, and I guess she’d asked my aunt for the jars because I came home one afternoon and found bluebonnets on every table. 

Peeling back the newspaper from one of the jars, I read the date in the corner. 

Two weeks before I’d left for the tour. 

Even with our relationship fucked beyond reason, Anna had lovingly boxed the treasures. 

“Mr. Sean, would you like coffee or—”

“Coffee’s fine, Lola,” I mumbled, dropping off the tray on my way to the back door. With one of my mother’s jars in hand, I hopped off the deck and then headed straight for a patch of wildflowers growing by the shore. 

Sorting through the brush, I picked a few of the most colorful blooms. 

As I retraced my steps, I heard Anna’s voice, and when I looked up to the second-floor balcony, I found her propped against the railing with her back to me and the phone pressed to her ear.

It was wrong to eavesdrop on Anna’s conversation, but I couldn’t help myself, so as quietly as possible, I edged toward the house.

“No . . . it’s in the blue bag,” Anna said, agitated. “No more than three or she’ll get jittery.” She paced in a tight circle, nodding absently. Her face lost all expression when she noticed me. “I’ve got to go,” she said, her tone devoid of emotion. “Yeah . . . you too.” 

You too . . .

I’d been on the receiving end of enough of her calls to recognize the familiar response. 

Anna forced a smile. “You should’ve woken me up.”

When the phone rang again, her gaze shot to the screen, and without a word, or even a glance my way, she turned on her heel and walked into the house. 

You have no right to be upset, I reminded myself as I filled the jar with water from the spigot next to the back door. 

I took a deep breath and wrestled the jealous beast trying to claw its way out of my skin.

Lola eyed me with concern when I flung the back door open. “You okay, Mr. Sean?”

“Fine,” I snapped as I arranged the silverware on the tray. Blowing out a breath, I met Lola’s gaze and smiled. “Sorry.” 

A thud against the marble steps, and then another, prompted Lola to step out from behind the island. 

“I got it,” I said on my way out of the room. 

Meeting Anna halfway up the stairs, my focus shifted to the suitcase in her hand. 

“What’s going on?” 

She blinked at me. “I have to go.”

Molding my palm to her hip, I held her in place. “Go where? What’s the matter?” Her chest heaved, heart thumping so loudly, I could practically feel every beat. “Anna, tell me. Whatever it is, we—”

“There is no we!” she cried. “I told you one night, and now I have to go.”

Seeing the tears well in her eyes, I let my hand fall to my side. “You don’t have to do anything. Whatever it is, we can work it out.” 

Anna looked at me for a long moment, her eyes roaming over my face. “No, we can’t. I’m sorry.” 

I clenched my hand into a fist to keep from hauling her into my arms. And then I smiled. “I’m not.”

Whatever that said about me, and my morals, I wouldn’t trade the last thirty-six hours for anything. In fact, I wanted more.

Anna glanced to the foyer and then back to me, so I gave it one last shot. Crossing my arms over my chest, I locked our gazes. “You can stay, Anna. For as long as you want.”

The indecision faded from Anna’s green eyes. “No, I really can’t,” she said flatly. And then she rushed down the stairs. Turning to me at the bottom, she frowned. “Goodbye, Sean.” 

I didn’t say anything, didn’t move. But then the front door clicked shut, and my knees got weak.

Sinking onto the step, the unforgiving marble chilled me straight through my jeans. 

“Can I help with anything, Mr. Sean?” asked Lola, hovering near the entrance to the kitchen. 

I smiled, fake as hell. “No thanks, I’m heading out to meet the guys. Might be gone a few days.” The thought of sleeping here—no, I couldn’t do it.

“Hey, Lola?” She paused, then turned back to me, her smile as fraudulent as mine. “Change the sheets, will ya? And get rid of the flowers.”