I see the familiar gleaming silver sedan as soon as I turn off the street by my house, and automatically I slam on the brakes, making my seat belt lock up, pinning my torso to the seat.

God dammit.

It’s Logan’s car, parked next to Mike’s SUV, and both vehicles are occupying my driveway—though still leaving enough room for me to get into the garage.

Which is thoughtful of them, isn’t it? The McKinley men, always so solicitous and considerate toward me, having my best interests at heart. Snort.

I’m not ready for this. After his barrage of angry texts last night, I figured Logan had made good on his promise to come over, which didn’t matter to me, since I wasn’t here. Guess I shouldn’t be too surprised he still is, though. The man is nothing if not tenacious. Gah.

I could just leave again. Maybe go to a coffee shop or something, then send my father-in-law a message saying I’m not coming back until he gets his son the hell out of my house.

Can’t avoid him forever, though. And it’s not like waiting will make it any easier. Besides, I acknowledge as I hit the button to open the garage door, I’m actually a lot less on edge this morning. A day of self-indulgence—as well as an evening focused on nothing except what made me feel good—has worked wonders.

So, yeah. Pretty sure I can face Logan today without losing my mind.

Pulling my car into the garage, I press the button again, this time to have the door slide down behind me. I turn off the engine, climb out, tugging my bags with me, and after walking up to the door that leads into the house and testing the handle, I dig out my keys and unlock it.

Two steps inside and around a corner, I see there’s only one person in the kitchen: Mike, sitting at the breakfast counter with a newspaper and a mug of coffee. He and my dad are the only people I know who still read actual printed newspapers anymore. That's about all they have in common, though.

Catching sight of me, my father-in-law sets his cup down. “Morning.”

Since I’m still mad at him, I figure I’m exempt from politeness, so without responding, I cross over to the counter where he’s sitting, slapping my bags down on the granite surface. “Where are they?”

He tilts his head toward the French doors. “Backyard, playing with Baldwin.”

I march over there and pull the built-in blinds up, revealing almost the whole yard with its deck and grass and trees and kids’ play set. And there they are, in the middle of the lawn. Logan, Abi, and Freya form a triangle with Elliott and Baldwin in the middle, and they’re playing a monkey-in-the-middle type game, where Logan and the girls kick a soccer ball to each other and the toddler and the dog try to intercept it.

Dammit. I’ve told Logan before I don’t like that game, because Baldwin doesn’t realize how big and strong he is and how easily he could knock Elliott over and hurt him.

“Did Logan stay here last night?” I ask, watching them with clenched jaws, restraining the urge to go out there and stop them. Where did calm and peaceful Paige go?

“Yup.”

I turn to eye the older man, crossing my arms. “Then why did you stay?”

“Because you asked me to,” he answers easily.

I release a snort-laugh. “A little late for loyalty, don’t you think?”

Mike’s chin dips as he presses his lips together, and he lets out a sigh. “You know,” he observes quietly, thoughtfully, “I hoped that if I did that one thing for him, he’d finally let it all go.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you were just trying to help,” I comment bitterly, and though I know he’s talking about the surveillance, it occurs to me that the same words could apply to a lot of stuff his son has asked him to do, including the search for Rose. Logan can be such a shit.

“Well,” my father-in-law says, watching me gravely, “in any case, I’m sorry. I should’ve refused.”

“No shit.” I intend for it to be another angry retort, but for some reason, I don’t manage to put much bite into it.

“He’s one of the good guys, Paige,” Mike points out, his face softening, and then he adds with a wry smile, “Defending criminals aside.”

I swallow past a sudden constriction in my throat, a wobbling emotion that I write off as unwelcome weakness. “You’re biased.”

“Yeah, but I know you know it.” He sits back on the barstool, bracing his palm on his thigh and looking so much like the cop he used to be, all starched and authoritative. “I could tell the first time I met you. He’d had other girlfriends, but you were the first one he introduced me to. Then it turned out you were already married and having a kid, and I always assumed if he ever told me he’d knocked some girl up, I’d be disappointed, angry.”

He glances down for a second before pinning me with a gaze that seems to compel me to listen carefully and believe him. “After talking to you for just a few minutes, though, I knew you’d be the best thing that ever happened to him.”

My chest feels like it caves in. He needs to stop. I don’t have to listen to this; it’s discombobulating, distressing. “Are you done?”

He appears taken aback for a second, but then his lips curve, and he tilts his cup and looks into it. “Yeah, but I could use a refill.”

I purse my mouth at him, unamused.

The French door opens, and the girls spill inside first, followed by the dog. Logan enters close behind, carrying his son, and as soon as he notices me, his whole body freezes—until Elliott squirms, wanting to be let down. Which Logan does, and then Abi happily yells, “Mommy!” and before I can blink, I have three small people rushing at me.

Kneeling on the floor, I’m hugging and kissing them, asking how they’ve been doing, and listening to one non sequitur after the other, trying to follow their disjointed storytelling and their kid logic. And I’m so focused on them and how they make my heart so full it feels like it’s going to burst that for that short space of time I forget there’s anyone else in the room.

Mike brings me back to reality with a small cough. “How about I take the kids out for some ice cream?”

Freya jumps up from the floor, gaping at her grandfather. “Before lunch?”

“Yeah, why not? It’ll be an appetizer.” My father-in-law raises his eyebrows at me, clearly waiting for me to object, and I’m thinking I should, mostly because his intentions of leaving me and Logan alone are so blatant and annoying.

But I just give a short nod. Because I’m tired of being the villain. And because avoiding confrontation is not a habit of a self-sufficient, intelligent, functional adult.

While he herds the squealing, bouncing children out with impressive efficiency, having enough wherewithal to grab the diaper bag off the counter by the doorway, where he must’ve left it yesterday after picking them up, I realize I don’t have it in me to be mad at him anymore.

Mike is Mike. He’s always there for his son and his grandkids because he loves them all fiercely and will do anything for them. And yeah, he cares about me, too. I’ve never doubted that.

After I hear the front door shut, a sigh escapes me. I look sideways at Logan, who’s just standing there with his hands on his hips, watching me.

So let’s get this over with then.

“Before you say anything,” he says, holding up his palm, “I need to make a phone call.”

Uh.

What?

Blinking, I watch him walk over to the breakfast counter, put his phone down, and start tap-tapping around on the screen. Is he making the call on speakerphone?

My question is answered by the hum of quiet ringing sounds that grow louder as Logan presses the volume button. There’s a quick pop, and then a man’s voice fills the room, saying, “What do you want?”

It’s Hammerness. I’d recognize that gravelly timbre anywhere. But why is Logan calling him? Frowning, I wait for the answer.

Bracing his hands on the counter, his shoulders hunched, my husband says, “I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I’m leaving the firm, and I thought I’d offer to let you buy me out.”

I feel my jaw go slack. He’s doing what now?

“Yeah, that’s hilarious,” the man at the other end growls. “I’m on the green right now, and if I don’t putt this ball in one shot, I’m gonna lose. Why are you wasting my time with this shit?”

“I’m serious, Charlton,” Logan says, and I have to cross over to the counter and take a seat on the barstool across from him, because my legs feel like they don’t want to support me anymore.

What the hell is he doing? And why?

“What the fuck?” Hammerness barks, echoing my disbelief. “Why?”

Logan brushes a hand down the sides of his mouth, which is covered in gold-blond scruff. “Necessary changes.”

Dead silence on the other end. Then an explosion. “It’s that wife of yours, isn’t it, you pussy-whipped son of a bitch?” the older man yells.

Oh, nice. Guess some things never change, and Charlton Hammerness III will always be a tactless jackass.

His expression taut with distaste, Logan answers, “No, man. This is all me.”

“Bullshit,” his business partner snaps. “Why do you want her back so badly, huh? Does she have a magical cunt filled with rainbows and unicorns or something?”

What? My cheeks flame and my eyes bug out, and even Logan looks stunned, pushing off the counter to stand up straight, his eyes meeting mine in alarm.

Ugh. The Hammer is such a disgusting old pig. Knowing exactly how to get to him, though, I lean across the counter and chirp loudly, “Hi, Charlton. How are you?”

This time it takes him even longer to respond, and when he does, it sounds like thunder. “Am I on fucking speakerphone?”

Amusement ambushes me, and I press a fist against my mouth, a snicker rasping in my throat. Logan’s eyes are on me, laughter dancing in their depths as he answers, “Uh-huh.”

“You’re supposed to fucking warn people about that, Logan,” Hammerness snarls.

“Don’t worry,” my husband says. “Paige knows you too well to be shocked by anything you say.”

Ain’t that the truth? I let out a quiet huff.

“So are you going to buy me out? If not, I’m sure Vic will be interested.”

Hammer releases an aggravated breath. “What if I could guarantee your name on the door within the year? ‘Stevens, Hammerness, and McKinley.’”

I inhale sharply. Wow. That’s a huge offer and exactly what Logan’s been chasing for years. Is he really going to turn that down? Can he?

My husband blinks, his mouth pressed tight. Is it indecision that flickers across his face? He has to be at least considering it, right?

“I’m gonna have to pass,” he says at last, and the words hit me like a kick to the gut.

Who is this man? He doesn’t even look upset. Just resolute.

“Have you been calling clients already?” the Hammer demands through the phone speaker. “You’d better not try to take anyone with you.”

“Listen,” Logan fires back, obviously exasperated. “There’s no animosity here. You know I could take clients. Stuart Garnett, for example, would follow me off a cliff if I asked him. But I’m just leaving, not trying to pull a move.” His lips twisting, he adds, “Loyal to the end.”

“Fine. I’ll buy you out.” The older man is speaking too quickly, too staccato, and it dawns on me he’s genuinely upset. Obviously it’s hard to lose your Golden Boy. Puffing out air, he appends, “And fuck you very much.”

Rolling his eyes, Logan says, “See you Monday.” And then he taps aggressively on the screen, disconnecting.

I sit there, staring at him with my head buzzing, not sure what the hell just happened. “Well, you made sure his associates will be on the phone with clients all weekend, to make sure they don’t abandon ship with you,” I tell him, feeling dazed.

“Yup,” he says, a shrug in his voice.

“I can’t believe you quit your job.” I shake my head in wonder. “Why?”

“I’m getting my priorities straight.”

Squinting at him, I ask, “What does that mean?”

Sighing under his breath, he rubs the back of his neck. “It means that whatever happens with us, if we get back together or not, I’m gonna be closer. I’ll help out and be more involved. I’ll sell my condo, and if you decide to stay here, I’ll find a place nearby. And if you move up north, so will I.”

My pulse skitters and jumps. Is he for real? Just like that? No warning, no bargaining, no ultimatums. He abandons his career, one of his biggest passions and sources of pride, just like that?

“What about your dad?” I question in disbelief. “You’re okay with taking the kids away from him?”

“Up to him.” He replies at once, like he was anticipating it. “He could move, too. Might be good for him to finally get out of the house where he lived with my mom.”

Sure. I guess so. But—

There’s a centrifuge in my mind. It’s spinning and spinning, every thought blurring into one, and I can’t make it stop. What does this mean? How do I feel about it? What has changed?

I zero in on one thought, though, and I have to air it. “I never asked you to quit your job,” I state firmly, because that needs to be clear and never up for debate.

“I know.” His reply comes easily, casually.

I can feel him hacking away at it, the cage I spent yesterday erecting around myself. Every concession, every breath of sacrifice, every calm and reasonable statement tears out another chip. It shouldn’t be this hard to hang on to resentment.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” I ask in an attempt to fortify the cage. If he says yes, I’ll have reason to grow livid all over again. If he says no, I can try to convince myself he’s lying.

“No,” he says with a slow shake of his head. His expression full of sorrow, he adds, “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

God. I drop my gaze, not wanting to see his remorse. It cuts me, leaves me vulnerable. “You really hurt me,” I choke out.

“I know,” he repeats. So ashamed. So penitent.

Fine. I’ll be the one to confess, then. Let’s see how calm he can remain. Raising my eyes to him again, I say, “So yesterday I decided to hurt you back.”

His eyebrows draw together slightly. “What?”

Bending sideways over the counter, I grab my briefcase and haul it close enough that I can open the front pocket. I’m not sure why I stuffed the business card back in there—for no reason, probably—but it’s still there, and I pull it out and set it down, sliding it toward him.

He picks it up, examines it. “What is this?”

“The guy I had drinks with in Tahoe. The guy I kissed.” Instant pallor in his cheeks. It emboldens me. “I called him yesterday.” While his eyes flash darkly, I deliver the final blow. “I called him to ask him to meet up so that I could fuck his brains out.”

Nostrils flaring, he pushes away from the counter as if burned. Oh, yeah. Not so chill anymore now, is he?

“I don’t believe you,” he grinds out.

“Check the credit card statement. There’s a hotel charge.” I narrow my eyes on him, smiling coldly. “The Presidential Suite at the Hilton. It was really nice. Oversize whirlpool tub. A wet bar. Comfy king size bed. No idea if it’s good for actually sleeping on, though.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. I’ve created visuals, I can tell, and they’re eating at him.

“Bullshit,” he says, and then he reiterates, “I don’t believe you.”

“Are you serious?” I exclaim, a bubble of fury popping in my chest. “Do you see the irony here? Everything fell apart because you didn’t believe I wasn’t screwing around, and now it’s the complete opposite!”

Tossing fuel on my fire, he only shrugs, shoves his hands into his pockets. “What you see as irony to me feels like relief. It’s like I’ve been let out of prison.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, sucking in a breath. It’s like he’s made a bet with someone to see how maddening he can become. “Why don’t you believe me?” I grit out.

“You’re not the revenge-sex type.”

I shoot up, sliding off the barstool and pointing a finger at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what type I am! You did that when we first met, and it was complete crap then, too.”

“Yeah, because you did it to me first,” he argues without rancor. “And I never said it as an insult, Paige. I liked you just the way you were. I wanted you just the way you were. I still do.”

God help me. I clench my hands, digging my fingers into my palm. He’s good at this. Way too good. Knows exactly what to say to disarm me, to make my pulse race. My job is to not fall for it. Not this time.

It’s not that I doubt he means it.

It’s that it has nothing to do with anything. I didn’t leave him because he didn’t love me enough, did I?

“I told Beth to get the docs ready to file,” I say, a final, desperate attempt to punish him.

It takes him a while to respond to that, and I can see his emotions under the stony surface, struggling to burst forth. Then he just says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I widen my eyes at him.

“Well, no.” With a grimace, he takes his hands out of his pockets, crossing his arms. Defensive now. “It’s not okay. I obviously don’t want you to do that.”

Out of nowhere, I feel the fight go out of me. It drains like a gutter, leaving me empty. Helplessly, I tell him, “I don’t know what else to do.”

He appears to chew on that, and then he suggests succinctly, “You can forgive me.”

I laugh; I can’t help it. Throwing up my arms, I say, “Fine. I forgive you.”

“No, not like that. Do it for real.”

“It won’t make a difference.”

“Yeah, it will,” he insists, his gaze boring into me as he steps toward the end of the counter, toward me. “It makes you powerful. It sets you free. You won’t have to be angry anymore.”

I’m so tired. Those words, they make so much sense. They sound like the truest words ever spoken, and I want to believe them like a little kid wants to believe in Santa. I want to be powerful and free. I don’t want to be angry.

Sapped of energy, I sink back down on the stool, my elbows going up on the counter, my head falling into my hands.

“You know,” I say as my weirdly wired brain skips off wildly, landing on a fact tucked in its depths, “they’ve done brain scans on people while showing them photos of their significant other, and turns out, when you’re in love, certain areas of your brain light up—producing dopamine, making you happy.”

There’s a confused pause. “Okay?”

“It’s especially obvious with new couples.” I raise my gaze to him, my throat starting to constrict, my breaths not so much drawn into my lungs but sinking now, beyond my control. Struggling against it, trying not to let my voice break, I say, “But it also happens with people who’ve been together for decades, because for a lucky few, they’re still as crazy about each other as they were at the beginning.”

Logan’s throat is working, his expression cracking, and it’s seeing him fighting back tears that shoves me over the edge.

“And I’m terrified,” I go on, and it comes out as a sob, my eyes filling and overflowing, “that no matter how much I try to push you away, that’s always going to be me. Still in love with you, despite everything.”

“Paige,” he breathes out, and then he moves in toward me and is standing before me, reaching out. “Baby.”

“No,” I gasp out, swatting his arms away, tumbling off my chair and pushing at his chest with my elbows, aiming to escape, because I can’t stand this, it’s too much, and I need to get away. “No.”

He grabs me, locking me in his arms, tucking me against his body that has never felt bigger or stronger or more bone-jarringly real. I’m twitching like I’m fighting his hold, but I put no force into it. I can’t. I don’t want to, not really.

“Let me back in, baby,” he murmurs harshly, hoarsely, and I feel his hot breath on my hair.

“No.” It’s a whimper, a plea, a helpless protest. I’m panting, almost hyperventilating, tears falling in hot, rushing streams down my cheek. My legs start buckling, but he’s holding me up, not allowing me to go anywhere, be it up, down, or away.

Something within me releases. It’s like a vise, and as soon as it lets go, I exhale with relief, realizing it’s been crushing me for a long damn time. Sagging into my husband’s embrace and burying my face into the crook of his neck, his shirt immediately getting soaked with the fluids leaking from my face, I let the feeling envelop me.

I’m not surrendering.

I’m giving myself permission. Permission to want him and to need him…and to forgive him, like he asked.

“I love you,” I tell him, my voice muffled against his skin, and I force life back into my limp arms, wrapping them around his waist. “I just want us to be okay again.”

“We can be.” He digs fingers into my hair, making a fist, hand clenching and unclenching.

“How?” I demand miserably. “After what you did, now I’m the one who doesn’t trust you.”

He inches back, and his face brushes against mine until our noses touch. “We can just try to have faith in each other, baby.”

“That’s not all it takes, though,” I say with a small shake of my head. “If trust is like a wall, it’s not enough to rebuild it. You also have to give it time, lots of time with no further attacks, before you can be sure that it’s not going to collapse again.”

He’s quiet for several heartbeats before he whispers, “All I know is I’m nothing without you”—air whooshes from his chest—“and I feel like it’d kill me to let you go again.”

“I don’t want you to.” I tighten my arms around him, bunching part of his shirt on his back in my fist, tugging at it while I beg, “Please, don’t.”

That’s apparently as much encouragement as he needs, because with a grunt deep in his chest, he crushes his lips to mine. It’s a kiss full of quiet hunger, of intense desperation, and it’s also like coming home after a long journey or like stepping into a hot shower when you’re covered in filth and grime.

Closing my eyes, I let the sensation wash over me, let it submerge me. This is what peace feels like—Logan’s mouth and hands on me—and it’s what it feels like when an upside-down world turns right side up again.

We stand there like that for a long, long time. Frozen time. Time in a vacuum. Time that I don’t want to end.

Finally I pull back to look up at him, sliding my hand up and behind his neck, caressing gently. “You’ll have to earn your keep somehow, though, now that you’re an unemployed bum.”

His lips curve crookedly. “I can be your pool boy.”

“We don’t have a pool.”

“Guess I’ll have to find some other way to service you then.” He tilts his head, and then his teeth are grazing my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Tell me the truth, though,” he says near my ear. “Did you really call that guy?”

“Yeah,” I admit, sliding my hand down his chest, down to the hem of his shirt, seeking bare skin. “It went to voice mail, and I didn’t leave a message. Took me less than ten seconds to come to my senses.”

And then I spent most of the evening pampering myself in that expensive hotel suite—soaking in the Jacuzzi, ordering room service, and zoning out watching melodramatic shows on Netflix.

Until I lost patience with that and decided to do…something else.

“My little Good Girl.” Under his shirt, I can feel his abs flexing with his silent laughter, and I’m glad he thinks it’s funny, that I was angry enough to even make the phone call. Apparently I was allowed that much of a knee-jerk action, and with a smile to myself, I’m wondering just how long he’s going to feel guilty and how much I can milk it.

I shift far enough away to narrow my eyes up at him. “You didn’t ask what I did the rest of the day.”

“What did you do?” he asks, smiling indulgently.

Without a word, I untuck my blouse from my skirt, tugging it up, watching his eyes flicker with desire as he realizes what I’m doing. But that’s nothing to the transformation of his face when he sees my exposed belly button—and the ring pierced through it.

“Oh, shit,” he wheezes out. “That’s fucking hot. Jesus.” He puts his hand on my stomach, his thumb stroking the ring, testing out the feel of it. Then he kneels down and is about to put his mouth on it, but I stop him with my palm on his forehead, pushing him back.

“Uh-uh,” I tell him. “Germs. New piercing.”

“Dammit.” He heaves an exaggerated sigh, standing back up, and then his head dips in, his mouth seeking mine again.

Jerking my head back, I put my palm on his chest, smirking at him. “That’s not all.”

At his raised eyebrows, I unzip my skirt at my hip, doing it leisurely and enjoying the heat in his gaze, the thrilling promise in its depths. Turning around, I pull my blouse up again and wait. It only takes a second before his fingers hook under the hem of my skirt, nudging it down.

The breath he expels turns into a low chuckle. “That’s just perfect.”

I smile to myself again. Yeah. The young guy who did the tattoo seemed a little taken aback at my request: a plain percentage symbol. Guess it’s an unusual kind of tramp stamp? Like Logan said, it’s perfect for me, though.

I am a statistic.

All of a sudden, I can hear the lock in the front door turn, and whirling around, I widen my eyes at Logan. While I hurriedly tuck my shirt back in and yank the zipper back up, his chest shakes with quiet laughter, and it’s contagious, because I can’t help snickering, too.

He bends down and steals another quick, soft kiss, just as tiny feet come running into the room.

“Were you kissing?” Abi squeals at the top of her lungs, stopping in the middle of the kitchen and scrunching up her face. She has chocolate stains around her lips. Am I the only one that makes my kids wipe their mouths after eating? Sheesh.

“Ew!” exclaims Freya, coming in right behind her sister, and she sticks her tongue out and mimics shoving a finger down her throat.

Baldwin bounds past them with Elliott right behind, chasing him and giggling, and Mike soon appears, keys in hand and diaper bag hooked over his shoulder. He throws us a cautious, expectant look as he enters the kitchen.

“We were,” I say in response to my middle child’s question. “And you know what that means?”

“What?” the girls ask almost at the same time, Abi appearing excited and Freya suspicious.

“Daddy’s moving back home,” I announce gently. Beside me, while I watch the girls’ reaction, I can sense Logan’s sagging relief, know that if we were alone, he’d be grabbing me again.

The kids’ faces light up, first with disbelief and then with pure, unrestrained joy. They charge at us, jump into our arms for hugs and kisses—and reassurance.

Over by the doorway, Mike clears his throat. “I’m gonna head out then.”

His voice sounds tight, and I see his face looking wobbly with emotion. Finally, his expression says. And, This is how things should be.

Turning back to my husband, I meet his eyes, and silently, we communicate the same thing.

We’re going to be okay again.