Two months later

Fucking yellow balloons.

It’s the dumbest thing to be scared of, right? Right. So imagine my surprise when I woke up in the hospital after my accident—my first accident, that is—saw a kid carrying a yellow balloon down the hallway, and got so scared, it felt like I was having a heart attack.

That was the first clue something strange was going on.

At first, I assumed it was the brain injury. Getting your head rammed by a steel rocket doing eighty miles per hour isn’t good for the old noggin, we can all agree on that. But then the voices started. Faint little whispers at my ear. One female, one male. The male was a pain in my ass, to be honest. Always going on about lightning strikes and football stats and B&Bs. Made no sense whatsoever.

The female voice, though. Hearing her was like hearing an angel.

She had this amazing laugh, as silky smooth as flowing water. That laugh was sexy as fuck. It rang in my ears like music.

Yeah, I had a thing for the imaginary voice in my head. Don’t judge me.

And don’t get me started about how my own voice had changed and now sounded exactly like the other whispering voice in my head—the irritating male.

If things weren’t looking fucked enough, I had all these memories that didn’t fit. Things I hadn’t done, places I’d never been, people I’d never met before.

Then the dreams started.

Nightmares, technically, because they were so scary. It wasn’t so much the dreams themselves that were scary, but how vivid they were. It was like I was there, in them.

Like I was living someone else’s life at night.

Then there were all these new habits and desires I suddenly had. Bear claws for breakfast every day? Sure, why not. French wine that costs two hundred bucks a bottle? Yeah, gotta have me some of that.

Oil painting, though I’d never picked up a brush before and couldn’t draw a straight line to save my life?

Bring it on.

If all that wasn’t bad enough, I developed an obsession with this old, empty Victorian house on the coast. More than an obsession—a compulsion. I had to be near it. I couldn’t stay away from it for more than a day, at most. It was like the thing was a giant fucking magnet, a powerful black hole drawing me helplessly in. I spent hours wandering its rooms, wondering what the hell was happening to me.

The only logical conclusion was that I was going insane.

Oh—I forgot to mention the precognition.

I knew she’d be there, that night at Cal’s Diner. I knew it in my goddamn bones. By that time, I’d spent five years with her voice in my head and her face taking shape over and over on my canvases. Part of me hoped that by painting her, I’d get rid of her, like there was a finite amount of her that would eventually deplete, but the supply was apparently endless.

I loved her long before we met.

If that sounds ridiculous—it is. But it’s also true.

I ached for her the way the desert aches for rain. Longing was something I’d never felt before, but it inhabited me so completely, I almost couldn’t function. Then, one rainy night, she appeared. Boom—she’s at the counter at Cal’s ordering a Denver omelet with extra bacon and key lime pie.

Exactly like I knew she would.

The fear I felt in that moment put the sighting of the yellow balloon to shame.

Because it wasn’t possible. Any of it—all of it.

And what was I supposed to do anyway? Walk up to her and say, “Hi! You don’t know me, but I’ve painted you naked and had sex with you in my dreams and I’m pretty sure we were married before—it’s great to finally meet you!”

I don’t think it would’ve gone over.

So I got mad. I got mad and I tried my damndest to stay away. The more I tried, the more I fell apart, until I was hanging on by a thread so thin, you could see right through it. When Dr. Garner told me I was schizophrenic, it was such a relief.

I mean, I didn’t believe it, but it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative. It was something solid I could hang on to. It made sense. Taking the drugs to set my brain straight made sense. Everything made sense again until Megan brought up that goddamn yellow balloon and I couldn’t pretend anymore.

Cue the sound of squealing tires.

That fight-or-flight response is such a bitch. I chose flight, and ended up in an accident—again.

And Jesus, am I looking rough.

“Honey, stop.”

Her soft voice comes from behind me. I look away from the bathroom mirror as she winds her arms around my waist and rests her chin on my arm.

“Why couldn’t they at least have fixed my nose? I feel kinda bad for it, having to hang out on my face like that, all crooked and sad.”

Megan tightens her arms around me and tries to hide a smile. “Your nose is perfect.”

“My nose is tragic.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. Except it’s not.” I grab her and pull her around to face me so I can kiss her. I can’t get enough of that mouth.

She melts against me with one of those little sighs that makes my dick instantly hard, but pulls away with a playful laugh when I squeeze her ass.

“They’re waiting.”

“Let them wait,” I murmur, then take her mouth again. Kissing her deeply, I wrap my arms around her so she can’t get away.

She’s so sweet. So fucking sweet. I don’t think she has any idea how much I love her. How I can’t breathe when she’s not within eyesight. How I’d gladly die for her, kill for her, do anything big or small that she asked.

All the other bullshit aside, I fell for her the normal way too. Because of who she is. Because of her courage, her strength, her intelligence. Because of her kindness and that gooey soft center she hides underneath her tough outer shell. The fact that she’s a knockout didn’t hurt, I’ll be honest, but she would’ve been my dream woman even if she wasn’t literally my dream woman.

We had a long conversation about it where she told me the same thing. I’m not just a placeholder for her past. It’s hard to explain, but I know that when she looks at me, she sees me.

And when I look at her, I see my entire world.

“Theo,” Megan says breathlessly, looking up at me with those gorgeous eyes. They’re the color of the ocean, blue and green combined, shifting hue with the light. “Theo, if we don’t go down now, it’ll be an hour, and I’ll never hear the end of it from Suzanne.”

“Pfft. You’ll never hear the end of it no matter what. She lives for drama.”

“C’mon, she’s worked really hard helping me put this party together!”

I caress her cheek, then bend and inhale against her neck. God, I love the smell of her skin. Warm vanilla and something sweet, like a cookie fresh from the oven. I wanna sink my teeth into her every time I get a whiff.

When I slide my hand up from her waist and gently squeeze one full breast, she warns, “Honey.”

I whisper, “I’ll be quick,” and use my hips to bump her back until she’s trapped between my crotch and the bathroom sink.

Her laugh is throaty. It sends a thrill of lust up my spine.

“No, honey.” She flaps her hands at me, trying to push me away.

Grinning, I grasp her wrists and wind her arms around her back. “Now what’re you gonna do?”

“Well, your balls are in the direct line of fire for a nasty jab from my knee,” she says sweetly, smiling. “I think that would do the trick.”

I pretend to glower. “Unfair.” Then I tickle her, because I love the way it makes her shriek.

“Stop! No! You asshole!” She squirms and wriggles in my arms, desperate to get away, but I’m too strong. I don’t relent until she’s helplessly laughing and has called me every curse word in the book.

Then I drop to my knees in front of her and rest my cheek on her belly. “Hey, little bean,” I whisper, framing the small swell of her stomach in my hands. “How you doing in there?”

Megan’s soft hands come to rest on my head. She combs her fingers through my hair, and I can feel how they tremble. “She’s doing great. She says she loves her daddy.”

I look up at her. Her eyes are soft and glimmer with tears, and are so full of love, it fucking kills me.

I say hoarsely, “I love her too. And her mommy.” My voice breaks. “So much.”

She presses her lips together and blinks really fast in that way she does when she’s trying hard not to cry.

From somewhere downstairs comes the sound of Suzanne’s aggravated holler. “Jesus Christ on a crutch, people, are you coming or what?”

I stand, give Megan a kiss against her laughing mouth, then grab her hand and lead her out of the bedroom. When we get downstairs, Suzanne, Coop, and all the guys from Hillrise are in the main parlor, milling around with drinks in their hands. There’s a bar set up in the corner, and two uniformed servers stand off to one side, holding silver platters filled with those tiny bites of food they serve at parties that you have to eat about a hundred of before you get full.

Everyone turns when we come in.

“There you are! Come over here and say a few words before the guests start to arrive.”

Suzanne has on a red dress cut so low, it might be illegal in some states. Coop—staring down at her with a huge grin and his arm wound around her shoulders—is too busy appreciating the view to look up at us.

Megan and I walk near the fireplace. Through the parlor windows, I see the valet stand set up at the curb on the street outside. More than three hundred guests RSVP’d for the grand reopening of the Buttercup Inn, but we’ll probably get more. People love free drinks.

Megan squeezes my hand, looking at me expectantly, but I shake my head. I still don’t like to talk around other people. Old habits die hard, I guess.

She turns to all our friends with a smile. “Okay, so we just want to thank you guys, so much, for everything you’ve done to make the Buttercup so amazingly beautiful. Honestly, it’s better than I dreamed.” She pauses to press a hand over her heart. I sling an arm around her shoulders and draw her closer, knowing she’s gonna struggle today.

The word bittersweet was invented for times like this.

She takes a breath and continues. “Coop, Suzanne…you’re our best friends. We wouldn’t have made it through all this without you. We love you.”

Suzanne swipes at her eyes. Coop nods his big head, his grin growing wider. “Love you too, marshmallow.” His eyes meet mine. More quietly, he says, “And you, brother.”

My chest gets tight.

Maybe one day, I’ll talk to Coop about what happened. One day when we’re old and gray and all our grandkids are running around our rocking chairs out on the back porch. But for now, we both leave it alone. He can tell I’m still processing. I’m damn lucky to have such a good friend.

Megan says, “To all the guys at Hillrise, tonight is a celebration of your hard work and talent. I know you’re as proud of the Buttercup as I am, because she’s perfect. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts. I’d toast you with champagne, but I’m not allowed.”

She rests a hand on her belly, smiling, and everyone laughs.

My heart swells. I have to swallow a few times and take some deep breaths before I’m under control again.

Then I catch sight of the first car pulling up outside and squeeze Megan’s shoulder. She follows my gaze and claps in excitement.

“Oh! People are starting to arrive!”

“Already?” shouts Suzanne, instantly panicking. “Oh, fuck, let me make sure the caterer is ready!” She breaks from Coop and runs from the room, hands flailing, heels clacking against the floor.

“Wait for me!” shouts Megan, already following.

I pull her back by her arm and give her one final, firm kiss.

She looks up at me, breathless, happiness shining in her eyes. “I love you,” she whispers.

I bend my head to her ear. “I love you too.”

She’s gone with a laugh, spinning out of my reach. I watch as she runs from the room, hair flying, long legs flashing, ass like an apple in a pair of tight blue jeans. And I know with the same sixth sense that told me she’d be there at Cal’s Diner that night that I’ll love this woman forever. Whatever happens, she’s the true north my soul will always point to.

I’ll love her in every one of my lives.