Laire raced down the stairs, stumbling over her feet in an effort to get as far away from him as quickly as possible. Tears streamed down her face, and her heart—oh, God, my heart—throbbed with longing, with memories, with love, with hate, with disappointment and loneliness and the sheer horror of running into him without any preparation.

One moment, she’d been fighting against the memory of stargazing with him at Utopia Manor, and the next, he was standing across from her, staring at her, saying her name, holding her elbow, helping her breathe.

“Oh, God,” she sobbed, reaching for the door to her room, only to discover she’d somehow locked it from the inside before leaving. “No!”

She resisted the urge to rattle the knob out of sheer frustration, knowing it might wake up Ava Grace. Out of options, overwrought, and exhausted, she turned her back to the door and slipped slowly down to the floor. As silent sobs racked her shoulders, she compressed her body, pulling her knees up to her chest and leaning her forehead down on them, so her tears could flow freely.

Erik.

Erik Rexford.

My Erik.

The Governor’s Son.

Here.

Here with me.

Here with . . . Ava Grace.

She shook her head against the sheer insanity of it, reaching up to run her fingers into her hair until they met at the back of head, lacing together.

We should leave.

We should get in the car and go.

We could find another place. We could—

Except there were no other hotels near Hatteras with a working generator. Where would she go? All the up to Nags Head or Kitty Hawk? Were the roads even passable yet?

“Fuck,” she muttered, blinking against the watery burn in her eyes and sitting up. She could hear footfalls coming down the stairs, and she prayed it wasn’t Erik.

She should have known her prayers would fall on deaf ears.

Four doors down, at the entrance of the hallway that led to the main staircase, Erik Rexford suddenly appeared, looking first to the right, then to the left. His eyes landed easily on her crumpled form, crouched outside her hotel room door at the end of the hall.

“Please go,” she murmured, half to him, half to herself, staring up at him through blurry eyes as he walked slowly toward her.

When he reached her, he glanced at the room across the hall from hers. The door read “SUPPLIES,” and he leaned against it, slowly letting himself sink to the floor until he was sitting across from her, long legs spread out between them.

His eyes searched her face for a long moment before he raised them to the number on her hotel room door: 208.

She didn’t acknowledge this, just averted her eyes, staring at the worn denim on her knee, picking at it with her finger.

“Wait,” he said. “Is this your room—208?”

His voice held a slight urgency, and she looked up at him, nodding once.

His lips parted and he blinked at her.

“I’m right upstairs from you. You have a . . . Are you here with a kid?”

Every muscle in her body clenched in reaction to these words, and it took every ounce of her strength not to show it outwardly. She nodded. “Yes.”

“Ava Grace,” he murmured.

She flinched. “Yes. How do you know that?”

“I met her at breakfast.” His face still looked stunned, and his eyes searched hers for answers. “She’s yours? Your . . . daughter?”

And yours.

She heard the words in her head but quickly silenced them. She had no interest or desire in sharing her beautiful, trusting, amazing daughter with the man sitting in front of her; with the Governor’s Son.

“Yes.”

“You named her Ava Grace,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes welling with tears as she looked up at him because she knew that he was thinking about the little girl at the Elizabethan Gardens, and it made her desperately sad and stupidly happy at the same time.

Her memories with Erik had no accompanying pictures, or friends who had witnessed their relationship. During these long and lonesome years, there was no one with whom to recall happy days or process the devastation of losing him. There was a certain comfort in someone, no matter who it was, remembering with her.

She saw pain cross his features, for sure, followed by an attempt to smile in polite congratulations, but he lost the battle with trying to appear pleased for her and dropped his eyes, staring down at his lap in barely concealed misery.

“So you’re married,” he whispered, the words tight and gravelly.

“No.”

His neck snapped up, his eyes registering surprise, followed briefly by relief and then confusion. “Divorced?”

She clenched her jaw, choosing her words carefully, adding up his meaning: he didn’t realize that Ava Grace was his. He hadn’t put it together. He didn’t know.

For a moment, when he’d whispered her name, Laire was sure it was because he’d put two and two together and realized that she was his daughter, but now she realized that he didn’t know, and a wave of relief made her exhale the breath she’d been holding.

He assumed that she’d been married to Ava Grace’s father. Good. The less he knew about her and Ava Grace, the better. He couldn’t be trusted. He was the worst kind of deceiver, capable of making her believe he truly loved her while he was actually cheating on her every moment they weren’t together.

He doesn’t know, she reassured herself, then decided it would be best to change the subject as quickly as possible, away from their daughter.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“I thought . . . I mean, I heard, a while ago, that you were engaged,” she said, wishing it didn’t hurt her to say these words, but the memory of Mrs. Rexford’s revelations bit and stung like they’d happened much more recently than six years ago.

“No,” he said softly.

“What?”

It was her turn to look up quickly, seizing his eyes to ascertain the truth of these words.

“Never.”

Her heart raced as her eyes scanned his. And as far as she could tell, he wasn’t lying. His eyes were fraught from their reunion, yes, but open and clear, his face neutral. But wait. How was it possible that he’d never been engaged? She’d seen him with Van. He was laughing, his arm around her, a big fat rock on her finger. Laire had seen it with her own eyes. And no, she’d never actually seen a news report that he was married to Van, but she’d always assumed it was just a long engagement. He certainly had been engaged. She’d seen it. She knew it was true—

Oh, fuck. Laire! He’s doing it. Right now. Lying to you. Stop believing everything he says! Whatever else happened or didn’t happen, of course he was engaged to Vanessa Osborn at one point in time. He’s just playing games with you . . . like he always did.

His face wasn’t to be trusted.

His words weren’t to be trusted.

There was no point in even sitting here talking to him, because she had no idea what was truth and what was lies, and she had zero interest in getting sucked back into a toxic, poisonous, cancerous conversation with someone who’d already broken her in half once.

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Gathering her strength, she pushed off from the floor and slid back up the door, holding his eyes as she rose to her full height, staring down at him with disgust.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go get a copy of my key—”

“Fine. I’ll stay here until you get back, and then we can contin—”

“—and then I’m going to bed.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, her words made his brown eyes darken to black, and suddenly, for the first time since running into him, she realized two things:

One, though she’d always known that there was an uncanny similarity between his eyes and Ava Grace’s, now she was struck with the full uniqueness of it. They were the same unusual color. The same deep, dark, soulful brown that turned black when their emotions flared, and for a split second, it made her feel weak to see the resemblance. The man she’d loved so desperately and the child she’d die for had the same eyes. She could get lost in his all over again if she wasn’t careful.

And two, Erik Rexford was even hotter at twenty-seven than he’d been at twenty-one. He was built and big, muscular and strong, his jet-black hair as thick as ever, and the way he was looking at her right now made her traitorous body remember how he’d touched her, how he’d loved her, how she’d writhed in his arms, begging for more. She couldn’t concentrate on this conversation anymore. She needed to get away from him.

“Please excuse me,” she said, though she didn’t turn and start walking down the hall. Her booted feet remained rooted, and her cheeks blazed with sudden heat. She stood there in front of her door, staring down at him, wishing that her attraction to him had died with her dreams.

“How long are you stayin’?” he asked, his tongue slipping between his lips to wet them.

She reached up to cover her cheeks, and she dropped his eyes. Fuck him. He knew exactly what he was doing, which somehow gave her the strength not to fall for it. He’d willingly used her for entertainment six years ago. She wasn’t available for his amusement anymore.

“None of your business.”

He huffed out a breath of air, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“I’m something else?” she demanded, hackles raising as she crossed her arms. “How do you live with yourself?”

He shot up from the floor, suddenly towering over her. “How do I live with myself? Probably because I never did anythin’ wrong!”

She scoffed. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“Did I promise you somethin’ that I didn’t deliver, Laire?”

Yes! Your honesty! Your respect! Your love! You promised all those things to me, and you didn’t fucking deliver! Instead you lied to me, fucked around with another girl behind my back, never really loved me, got me pregnant, got engaged to her, and broke my fucking heart!

She gasped, her inner monologue so indescribably painful, it knocked the wind from her lungs and left her breathless, gaping at him like a fish on a dock about to die.

Except I’m not about to die, she reminded herself, sucking in a big breath of air. He doesn’t have that kind of hold on me anymore.

“Go fuck yourself,” she bit out, hating her eyes for welling with tears, hating him for the unconscionable way he was speaking to her when he’d willfully deceived her and smashed her heart to smithereens.

He flinched, his head snapping back like she’d slapped him. “Real pretty words, Laire.”

“You don’t . . .” Her voice broke, but she took a deep breath and met his eyes, feeling stronger. “You don’t deserve any pretty words from me.”

His eyes widened as he ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

“What the fuck did I ever do to you?”

Behind Laire, she heard the noise of a door unlatching, and when she turned around, Ava Grace was standing in the open doorway in bare feet, a cartoon-princess nightgown thin on her slight body. She looked up at Laire with sleepy eyes, cocking her head to the side and frowning at her mother’s tears.

“Are you okay, Mama?” she asked in a small, worried voice. “Are you cryin’?”

“No, baby. Just something in my eye.” Laire leaned down and reached for her daughter, lifting her into her arms and pushing Ava Grace’s head onto her shoulder. She smoothed out her tangled, dark-red hair and whispered, “I’m fine, baby. I’m sorry we woke you up.”

“We?” With her head on Laire’s shoulder, Ava Grace gasped and exclaimed, “Oh! It’s Oscar! Hi, Oscar!”

“Hey, there, Ava Grace,” said Erik, and Laire was grateful to be facing the room, not her onetime true love, because she wouldn’t have been able to conceal the riot of emotions on her face as she listened to her daughter greet her father for the very first time.

“You and Mama woke me up.”

“Sorry about that, darlin’,” said Erik, and Laire shuddered inside, him calling Ava Grace the endearment darlin’, which she’d loved so desperately, making her feel a million different things, each more complicated and confusing than the next. She was holding their daughter, and Erik was calling her darlin’, the same way he’d called  her darlin’ an eternity ago.

Oh, my heart.

“I gotta go back to bed,” Ava Grace told him.

“I guess so,” said Erik, his voice gentle and warm, just as it used to be so many years ago, when he was speaking to Laire. She closed her eyes, almost unable to keep more tears from falling, her heart clenching with a longing that she didn’t want to feel.

“Wanna have breakfast with me and Mama tomorrow, Oscar?”

Wait, what?

“No, Ava Grace!” exclaimed Laire, her eyes popping open. She leaned back to see Ava Grace’s face and turned slightly to face Erik too. She flicked her eyes briefly to his, then back to their daughter. “No, baby. We don’t have meals with strangers, and besides I’m sure Mr. —”

“Rexford, Mama,” said Ava Grace matter-of-factly, reaching up to cradle her mother’s face with her tiny hands. “And he’s not a stranger. I already met him. His name is Erik Rexford, but Mr. Mopples calls him Oscar because he’s a grouch sometimes.”

He’s a grouch sometimes.

From nowhere—out of nowhere—Laire felt laughter rise up within her as she looked Ava Grace in the eyes. It was absurd, and yet so perfect, she couldn’t contain the wild little giggle that escaped through her lips. She’d been worried that Ava Grace wouldn’t be able to hold her own with the Rexfords, yet here she was, with the help of Mr. Mopples, putting him in his place before she even knew who he was.

She chanced a glance at Erik, who was staring down at his boots, his lips turned up as he chuckled softly to himself.

“Is that right?” she asked her daughter.

“Uh-huh,” confirmed Ava Grace with a resolute nod. “And you know Mr. Mopples, Mama. When she gets an idea in her head, it’s hard to get it out again.”

“I know Mr. Mopples.” Laire nodded at Ava Grace, kissing her forehead before lowering her to the floor and taking her hand to lead her back to bed.

She might have missed it if she hadn’t looked up just then, but Erik’s eyes sparkled with humor and tenderness, longing and . . . and . . .

“Time for bed,” murmured Laire, swallowing over the lump in her throat.

“Good night, Oscar,” said Ava Grace, waving at Erik as Laire pulled her into their room. “See you at breakfast.”

“Good night, Ava Grace,” said Erik, then added, so softly that Laire might have imagined it as she closed the door, “Good night, darlin’.”

***

Erik stood in the hallway, staring at their hotel room door, his feet waiting for the message that they should start moving, but it wasn’t forthcoming. He didn’t want to go anywhere. He was afraid if he walked away, he’d never see her again, never see them again.

Although she wasn’t married—news that his heart had received with such profound relief and joy, he hated himself for it—she’d certainly moved on from him fairly quickly. If Ava Grace was four, as he guessed, Laire would have become pregnant with her about a year after she dismissed him in her father’s hospital room.

It hurt, desperately, to imagine her with someone else. It hurt worse to imagine her married, for however short a time. It made Erik realize that all these years, he’d still thought of her as his, even though he had no idea where she was, or with whom.

Then again, seeing Laire and Ava Grace together thawed and lifted his heart in a way he never could have guessed. His reunion with Laire on the roof, and the subsequent words they exchanged in the hallway, had been fraught and upsetting, but he still wouldn’t trade a moment of it. He’d longed for a glimpse of her for years, and no matter why she’d pushed him away or how badly it had hurt, it fed his soul to see her again. And the moment Ava Grace had appeared, little spitfire that she was, she’d unwittingly defused the insurmountable tension between them.

He grinned, thinking about her sweet, sleepy face as she told her mother that Erik was a grouch. Man, but she was something. A fearless little beauty who should have her daddy wrapped around her finger.

. . . which made him flinch, his lighter mood instantly darkening.

So where the fuck was he? A kid like that deserved to have two amazing parents looking after her, raising her, loving her, giving her the best of everything.

Come to think of it, he wondered, how was Laire affording this hotel stay?

As he started walking back down the hall, he thought about the clothes she was wearing tonight: a designer jacket and jeans, trendy boots, and one of those fur scarves that every woman he knew was wearing this season. Her circumstances had certainly changed from six years ago, but how? Maybe her ex was paying some decent alimony and child support.

Well, that’s the least the fucker can do for abandoning them.

Or maybe, he thought, climbing the stairs to the third floor, her husband died, leaving her and Ava Grace taken care of, but alone.

He winced at the thought of Laire losing her husband and Ava Grace losing her father. Although his jealousy toward this unknown man was sharp, he didn’t wish that kind of loss and heartbreak for them.

Slipping the old-fashioned key into his door lock, he turned it and stepped into the dark, quiet room, instantly aware of the fact that Laire’s room was directly beneath his. He had a sudden, ridiculous urge to lie down on the floor and press his ear to the boards, just to see if he could hear her, to fall asleep feeling connected to her the only way he could.

“Stalker,” he whispered, closing the door, crossing the room to the desk and opening a bottle of bourbon he’d pilfered from Utopia Manor. He poured half a tumbler and threw it back, cringing at the burn before filling the glass again.

He turned on the desk lamp, which bathed the room in warm light, and shrugged off his parka, putting it over the back of the desk chair.

Taking his glass to the balcony, he opened the doors and stepped outside onto the icy platform.

Where has she been all this time? And with whom?

Where was Ava Grace’s father? Was he still in the picture at all?

He had so many questions, but as he took another sip of bourbon, they faded, and older questions resumed their place in his mind: Why did she break up with him? And had she ever loved him at all?

The final question loomed large and hurt most, and he swallowed back the remainder of the alcohol in his glass as he stared out at the sea, ruminating.

She’d called their epic love affair a summer fling that day in the hospital. She’d practically begged him to leave her alone. And tonight, when he’d said, You never wanted to see me again, she’d answered simply, No.

But he sensed it wasn’t that simple.

He rested the empty glass on the iron railing, the frigid sea air bracing and welcome.

No. He knew it wasn’t that simple.

When he’d said to her, Well, too bad for you, then, because here I am, she’d sobbed. And when he’d looked at her face, he’d recognized the emotion in her eyes immediately.

“Agony,” he whispered into the wind.

He knew it because he’d felt it every day they’d been apart.

And if Laire felt agony, he reasoned, then things between them hadn’t ended clean for her. In fact, he thought, remembering his own anguish at losing her, you didn’t feel an emotion that strong unless your heart was broken.

“But I never broke her heart,” he said softly, turning back into the room and closing the French doors behind him. Fuck. He had too many questions and not enough answers.

Well, I want answers, he thought as he turned off his desk lamp and placed the lowball glass beside the bottle of bourbon, wondering how to get them.

Ava Grace had invited him to join them for breakfast, hadn’t she? Well, Erik would go downstairs at seven and wait until nine for them to come down. And when they did, hopefully he and Laire could figure out a time to talk. Because he deserved to understand what the hell had happened between them so many years ago, and this chance meeting might be the last chance he’d ever have to find out.

Sighing with frustration and still reeling from their unexpected meeting, he stripped naked and climbed between the chilly, crisp white sheets, pulling the duvet over his bare chest.

For a moment—just a moment—he allowed himself to remember the flush of her cheeks when she said she was leaving and didn’t go. He could feel it between them in that instant: the crackles and currents of attraction that had existed between them since the first day they met. They were still there now, though her suggestion that he go fuck himself made it clear that she wasn’t happy about it.

Erik took a deep breath and closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep, dreaming of the days when their attraction had led to love, not hate, and wishing for those days once again.

***

Laire waited until the last-possible moment to go down to breakfast, hoping to avoid seeing Erik. She’d had a terrible time trying to fall asleep last night, her mind swirling with memories and questions. Why had he looked so relieved when she said she wasn’t married? Why had he said that he was never engaged when she knew that he was?

But even worse than these unanswered questions was the way he’d made her feel. She’d almost fainted on first seeing him, but he’d been up in a flash, telling her to breathe, holding on to her elbow until she’d regained her composure. She would never have expected such tenderness from him, such instant concern.

And her heart ached from the warm, gentle way he’d spoken to Ava Grace, calling her darlin’ and cheerfully tolerating Mr. Mopples’s swift and caustic judgment. The way he’d looked at them together—like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life . . . She remembered that look from their precious summer together, and it made her long for things that she couldn’t have, that she shouldn’t want. Not with him, not with the Governor’s Son, who was duplicitous, who’d willfully broken her heart.

Finally, at eight fifty, with Ava Grace complaining bitterly that her tummy was “growly,” they went downstairs.

And there, sitting in an easy chair in the reception area, facing the stairs, was Erik.

She wasn’t as surprised to see him this morning, of course, but it shocked her that her heart lifted effortlessly, practically singing with pleasure to see his dark head bent over his laptop. Her fingers twitched with the sensory memory of those thick strands against her skin. And deep inside, parts of her body that she’d tried to ignore for six long years awoke from their dark, deep sleep, ravenously hungry for the man who’d tricked her and lied to her.

For shame, Laire, to let a man who hurt you make you feel such things.

“Oscar!” cried Ava Grace, letting go of Laire’s hand and rushing down the remaining stairs. “You waited for us!”

As Erik looked up, his face split into a grin, first at Ava Grace, then at Laire, who held his eyes like seeing them again was a miracle she never thought she’d be granted.

Dear Lord, she still wanted him.

Gyah, this is bad. This is really bad.

Suddenly his face changed, and in an instant he’d thrown his laptop on the sofa and was up and running toward them but not fast enough to catch Ava Grace, who had stumbled in her haste to get to him.

She missed the last three steps, flying through the air and landing at the foot of the stairs in a heap. Though Laire cringed at the sound of it, there was a certain relief in the ungodly shriek that followed. As every mother in the world eventually learns, silence is worse.

Rushing down the rest of the stairs, she was no match for Erik, who was already sitting on the floor, gathering Ava Grace into his arms.

Wailing pitifully, she buried her face against his chest, hiccuping and crying all over his pressed, light blue, button-down shirt, the marks of her tears bleeding into wide circles. Erik looked up at Laire, his eyes wide and worried as Laire squatted down beside them.

“Ava Grace, tell Mama what hurts.”

“My kn-kn-kneeeee. And m-my elb-b-b-oooooow!”

Erik’s face was fraught as he held on to Ava Grace, looking up at Laire for some kind of reassurance.

“You’re okay, angel,” she said, nodding at Erik, who exhaled a relieved breath and nodded back.

“I’m . . . n-n-nooooot!” she protested, tears still falling.

Laire looked at Ava Grace’s elbow, which was red and scratched but not bleeding. And her jeans over her knee weren’t ripped, which meant she’d just burned the skin on the denim when she fell.

“You got a few scratches, and I think you got the wind knocked out of you.” And wounded your pride in front of “Oscar.”

“I’m huuuuurt!” she insisted in a howl.

“Come to Mama, baby,” said Laire, putting her hands under Ava Grace’s shoulders to lift her off Erik’s lap, but Ava Grace resisted her, pulling away from her mother to nestle closer to him.

“Hey, little darlin’,” said Erik gently, finally finding his voice, “you sure know how to make an entrance.”

“What d-does that m-mean?” she asked between sniffles.

“Means that the next time you walk into a room, I’m goin’ to be standin’ nearby and ready to catch you.”

Ava Grace leaned away from his chest, looking up into his eyes. “You w-w-will?”

“Heck, yes,” said Erik, grinning at her. “Can’t let you take a trip like that again.”

“A t-trip?” she asked, sniffling loudly as her tears stopped falling.

“It’s a play on words. You tripped . . . so, you ‘took a trip,’ see?”

A tiny smile tilted up the corners of Ava Grace’s mouth as she nodded at him. “I took a trip . . . but not a good one.”

“True enough.” Erik chuckled softly, reaching up to push a lock of hair from her forehead. “You okay now? Can you stand up?”

“I’m hungry,” she said, frowning at him.

“I told Kelsey to save you some pancakes,” said Erik, sliding his eyes to Laire. “Just in case you showed.”

Ava Grace wriggled off his lap in a flash and stood up. “Thanks, Oscar!”

Laire watched her run to the dining room before returning her glance to Erik. She gulped softly, the word she needed to say sticking in her throat.

“Thanks,” she managed softly.

He nodded at her from the floor, then stood up. “Were you avoidin’ me?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, though she could feel her goddamn cheeks getting hot because she knew exactly what he meant.

“Comin’ down to breakfast late so you wouldn’t have to see me?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, his lips on the brink of an old, familiar smile.

Laire took a deep breath, staring down at her boots for a moment before looking up at him. “Yes.”

He nodded in understanding, that smile still fighting for life. “Okay.”

“Okay what?” she squeaked.

He shrugged. “You’re stayin’ here. I’m stayin’ here. I know where to find you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means . . .” He stared at her, his eyes soft and tender, and so familiar, her breath caught with yearning. “I want to talk to you.”

“I have n-nothing to say,” she answered, hating the waver in her voice.

His eyes, so deep and tender, held hers without flinching, ignoring her words. “Will you meet me later?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I will not meet you, Erik. Absolutely not.”

“Why? What are you so scared of, Freckles?”

Freckles. Oh, my heart.

“Nothing.” Everything. “Why do you want to meet?”

He sighed, and she could see several emotions pass over his face before resignation won. Leaning closer to her ear, there was an urgency to his voice that compelled her to listen.

“I don’t understand why you broke up with me that day in the hospital. I’ve wondered about it every day for six and a half years. And now here you are, and here I am, and it’s . . . I feel like it’s the only chance I’m ever goin’ to get to find out what happened.”

She clenched her jaw, remembering that terrible day, a deluge of awful emotions returning in an instant—her desperate fear for her father’s life, her tremendous guilt, how she blamed Erik as much as she blamed herself and wanted to hurt him, how she’d bargained with God to save her father in exchange for her happiness with Erik. There were so many reasons she’d pushed him away—fear, spite, immaturity, desperation—and all of them were still painful. What good would it do to rehash it now? Besides, he’d been cheating on her that summer, even though she hadn’t known it at the time. Did he really deserve an honest answer?

Shaking her head, she started to refuse again, but he reached out and placed his palm on her cheek, his touch so gentle, so surprising, so tender and familiar and unexpected, her breath hitched, and she held it, letting her eyes flutter closed for an instant as she savored the contact.

“Please, Laire,” he whispered, his breath kissing her ear as it had so many times before. “You name the time and place. But, please, darlin’, I’m beggin’ you for this one thing.”

Her eyes burned with tears when she opened them and nodded at him.

“The widow’s walk. Eight thirty.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, caressing her cheek as he dropped his hand. “I’ll be there.”