Panicked, I leap from my chair and watch Theo approach. Craig realizes where my attention has gone and straightens to his full, formidable height as he turns to face Theo. The waiter arrives with our wine just as Theo arrives at our table, then the world’s most uncomfortable pissing contest begins.

Eye to eye, chest to chest, Theo and Craig face each other. By chance, they stand exactly the same height, but that’s where any resemblance ends. In every other way possible, the two men are opposites. They’re night and day: one dark, one light; one rough, one polished; one a deep ocean of secrets, the other matter-of-factly wearing his heart on his sleeve.

One who never speaks. One who never shuts up, even when he should.

The waiter looks at me, looks at the two bristling males, then turns around and leaves without a word. Whispers rise from tables all around us.

In a tight voice, Craig says, “Whatever your problem is, friend, it’s about to get a lot worse.”

At his sides, Theo’s hands curl to fists. He slashes his gaze to me, and in his eyes, I see entire universes burning.

Moving slowly, holding Theo’s fierce gaze, I move closer to him and flatten my hand on his broad chest. His heart is like a drum under my palm. I say softly, “Theo, I’m okay.”

A low growl rumbles through his chest. He glares accusingly at Craig.

“Yes, he made me mad and he kissed me without my permission. I appreciate that you’re being protective, but I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

Theo’s left eyelid twitches. I swear if it weren’t for my hand on Theo’s chest, Craig would already be a pile of broken bones on the polished wood floor.

Craig says snidely, “What’s the matter, Valentine? Cat got your tongue?”

Before Theo can explode, I snap, “Shut up, Craig.”

It surprises them both. They look at me, distracted for a moment from commencing hand-to-hand combat.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” I give Theo a gentle shove with my hand. It doesn’t budge him, but I’m sure he gets the point. “You are going to walk away and get your temper under control.” I look at Craig. “And you are going to sit down and stop being an ass.”

When no one moves, I harden my voice. “Now, gentlemen.”

There’s a long, terrible pause wherein Theo and Craig simply stare at each other. Testosterone crackles dangerously in the air. Then Craig smiles like a game show host and takes his seat. He folds his hands in his lap, the picture of composure, and looks at Theo with a cocked eyebrow as if to say, Your move, pal.

Vibrating fury, Theo inhales a long breath. His hands flex as if they’re itching to curl around Craig’s throat.

I’m beginning to think Craig isn’t quite as smart as he thinks he is.

But finally, Theo relents. He turns on his heel and stalks away. I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding and rest a hand against my stomach in a futile effort to slow its queasy roll.

Watching him go, Craig muses, “You don’t have much experience with men, do you?”

I huff, vaguely insulted, though his tone isn’t accusatory, only inquisitive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that of all the things your friend Theo Valentine feels for you, dislike definitely isn’t one of them.”

Craig turns his head and meets my eyes. The warning in them gives me chills. “Be careful, Megan. The most dangerous creature on earth is a man with an obsession. There’s no limit to what he’ll destroy in his pursuit of it.”

* * *

You’d assume dinner would be ruined—potentially violent confrontations are good for that sort of thing—but Craig manages to keep the conversation afloat by steering it to less inflammatory topics than how much he’d like to get into my panties, my dead husband, or the awkward kerfuffle with the muscular mute who wanted to murder him.

One blip comes when he tries to pour me a glass of wine, but I quickly decline, telling him I only ever drink at home. I can tell he wants to ask why, but he doesn’t. What he does instead is instruct the waiter to recork the bottle, saying he’d changed his mind and would be taking it home with him to drink later.

He never takes a single sip of that wine. It’s a classy move, one I wish I was worthy of.

But by then, Craig had ceased to exist. For every moment that passes, my desire to see Theo again spreads throughout my body like wildfire until I’m sitting at the table, utterly consumed. By the time the check comes, I’m almost scratching my skin off in impatience.

When we leave, I look for Theo at the bar, but he’s gone.

Craig drives me home, keeping up a steady stream of chatter above the hideous beat of the polka braying from his stereo. He leaves me at the front door with a peck on the cheek and a promise to call me.

The first thing I do is kick off the heels and change out of the dress and into sweats. Then I go into the kitchen, barefoot, and open a bottle of wine. Fortified with a glass of liquid courage, I send Theo a text.

Not even thirty seconds pass before I get a response.

There’s no question mark at the end. It’s a statement, not a question, like he already knows the answer.

Is that his way of saying he does? I gulp some wine, my hands shaking, and read what he’s written several times, trying to decide how to respond.

But I’ve already said my piece. He knows I’m confused and upset but refuses to give me an inch in the way of explanation. “I can’t do it, Theo,” I whisper, reading his text one last time. “Here’s where I get off this merry-go-round.”

Like I knew he would, he remains silent. In his silence is my answer.

Theo Valentine is a door that’s going to stay forever closed.

* * *

I spend the evening in the kind of mean funk that can only be cured by pints of ice cream and old movies watched in bed. Several times during the night, I feel a pull calling me toward the windows, but I drag the pillow over my face and breathe until the urge to see if he’s out on the beach passes.

The same thing happens on Saturday. I sleep very little both nights, but what sleep I do get is filled with strange, unsettling dreams.

I dream of my wedding day. Of walking down the aisle toward Cass, the bouquet of purple sweet peas trembling in my hands. Of meeting his gaze when he lifts the veil from my face, but his eyes aren’t their normal, open sky blue. They’re dark as midnight at the bottom of a well, swimming with secrets and pain.

I dream of running through a maze of tall green shrubs in the moonlight, following someone ahead who I hear but never see. His steps on the dewy grass are sure and swift, and I lag farther behind with every corner I turn. My breath steams white in the cold night air; my heart pounds painfully hard. I try to call out his name, but it’s a plaintive howl that leaves my throat instead, the melancholy cry of a wolf seeking her lost mate.

I dream of babies. A hospital nursery full of newborns wrapped in pink and blue blankets. I stare at them through the nursery window, pounding my fists on the glass, screaming so loudly, it could rouse all the ghosts within miles from their graves.

I dream of Denver omelets and key lime pie, of lightning strikes in an empty desert, of black muscle cars roaring past me at top speed.

And, as I often do, I dream of blood.

Leaching into spiderweb cracks on asphalt, slick on the palms of my hands, sliding silently down my naked thighs as I sob, knowing what I’ve lost even before the gynecologist murmurs her apologies.

I wake panting and drenched in sweat, feeling as if something vitally important hovers just out of my reach. When the phone rings, I’m still disoriented. I answer without looking to see who’s calling. “Hello?”

“Hey, Megan, it’s Suzanne!”

“Oh. Hi.” I scrub a hand over my face and squint into the bright morning sun pouring through the bedroom windows.

“Geez, don’t get too excited to hear from me, you’ll give me a big head,” she says drily.

“Sorry. I just woke up. What time is it?”

“Seven thirty.”

“Why are you calling me at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning, Suzanne?” I yawn, flipping off the covers to shuffle toward the bathroom.

“I wanted to see if you’d like to go to church with me.”

“No.”

She laughs. “You want to think about that for half a millisecond?”

“God and I have our differences.” It’s impossible to stay friends with someone after he kills the love of your life. “My mother once said if the shadow of the cross fell on me, I’d turn to ashes. I don’t think she was joking.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“Fun? Church and fun have never gone together in the entire history of religion. I think it’s actually against the law for church to be anything but total misery.”

She laughs again. For some reason, my foul mood seems to delight her. “Whoa, there’s some major baggage behind that statement! But this church is different, I promise.”

“Pfft. Do they hand out joints on your way in the door?”

“Ha. We should be so lucky. No, they’re just cool.”

I make a noise that indicates how much I believe her church is anywhere near the vicinity of cool.

Suzanne giggles. “Are you living with some kind of large, disgruntled animal? Because that sounded a lot like a warthog.”

“How would a sophisticated urbanite like you know what a warthog sounds like?”

“You’d be surprised by the things I know,” she says, sounding mysterious.

I can tell that’s a loaded statement. “Okay, I’ll play. Like what?”

“Like Theo Valentine put Coop in charge of Hillrise Construction…” She pauses dramatically. “And left town.”

My surprise is so total, I almost drop the phone. “Left? When?”

“Friday night, according to what I heard.”

“Where did he go?” My voice is so loud, it echoes off the walls.

“Like Coop would tell anyone.” She chuffs in annoyance. “He’s almost as tight-lipped as Theo. Those two are like brothers. But from what I hear, Coop held an emergency meeting with Hillrise’s crew yesterday and told them not to expect Theo back anytime soon.”

Too shocked to continue standing, I plop down onto the lid of the toilet and stare at the floor. I’m blinded by images of Theo’s tortured expression when he looked at me on Friday night, at his expression of fury when he looked at Craig.

“What else did you hear?”

Her voice turns businesslike. “Nope, you’ve gotta pay to play, babes. Otherwise mum’s the word.”

My sigh is aggravated but also resigned. “Fine. What time are you picking me up?”

“In an hour. And don’t wear jeans and a T-shirt.”

“Why not? Since when does God give a shit about fashion?”

“It’s a house of worship, sweetie, not a dorm party. Show the Lord some respect.”

I mutter darkly, “Tell him to earn it,” and hang up.