After work, I went for a few beers at the bar because I couldn’t trust myself to be alone with Jo. I waited until she’d be asleep then crept into the apartment. I’d never intended to let my lust get so out of control, but I had to admit the situation had gotten crazy. I didn’t do things like this. I didn’t bring women into my home. I didn’t skirt the law to protect them. Now, with only a wall between us, I couldn’t get her out of my head. I fell asleep with my dick in my hand, dreamed of her pretty tits, and awoke with a raging erection and a mild hangover.

The smell of bacon and coffee lured me from the bedroom. Jo stood in front of the stove, wearing one of my oversized T-shirts, her hair piled high on top of her head. Fuck me if it wasn’t the sexiest thing I’d ever seen—a woman in my clothes, in my kitchen, cooking food for me. The caveman inside me roared his approval.

“You’re wearing my shirt.” The outlines of her breasts pressed against the thin cotton. A strange shiver ran down my back as my gaze lowered to the short hemline, the pale skin of her thighs, and her bare feet. Pink polish tipped her toes. Even her feet turned me on.

“Um, yes. I forgot to pack pajamas.” One of her small, fragile fingers ran along the inside of the collar, like she was letting off steam. “If it’s a problem—”

Yes, it was a problem. If I had my way, she’d be naked. I cleared my throat. “No, it’s fine.” After an awkward pause, I tried to look at something other than her bare legs. “What are you doing?”

Her gaze crawled over my black boxer briefs, along my chest, and stopped at my lips for a long, heart-stopping moment. I probably should have put on pants. I’d been living alone so long, the thought had never occurred to me until then. Just another thing I had in common with Mr. H. The blatant heat in her eyes stirred my cock to life. I stepped behind the kitchen island to hide my arousal.

“It’s an amazing invention called cooking,” she said, rolling her eyes with a small smile. “I found a box of pancake mix and some bacon. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Hell, I’m ecstatic.” I dragged a barstool from the island, my stomach rumbling enthusiastically, and took a seat across from her. On most mornings, I rolled out of bed, rumpled, smelling of stale beer and sex, to an empty apartment. If I was lucky, breakfast consisted of leftover pizza or takeout from the night before. Lately, I’d made the trek to Joe’s Java Junction for espresso and one of Jo’s specialty muffins. Having her in my kitchen was much, much better. She dropped a stack of pancakes onto a plate and nudged it toward me. My mouth watered at the sight of the golden circles of batter and her blue eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever cooked for me.”

“Seriously?” With a hand on her hip, she searched my face. “Not even your mom?”

Sardonic laughter burned my throat. The idea of Honey in front of a stove tickled my funny bone. “The most my mother ever did was open a bag of potato chips and hand it to me. She was always too worried about her figure to eat and too obsessed with my father to care whether I ate or not.”

The brightness of her eyes dimmed. I hated that look, one I’d seen so often in my childhood, tinged with pity. “What did you do?” She slid a bottle of warm syrup across the counter.

“I managed.” I didn’t want to dwell on the quiet nights, the empty house, or the loneliness that had characterized my childhood. The syrup drizzled over the golden pancakes, oozing over the sides with grand slowness. My mouth watered at the sight and scent of the gooey, sticky sweetness. “Most of the time I ate at Rhett’s house. His mom loves me.” I smirked to lighten the mood, but Jo remained somber, reminding me that a rift still existed between us, and I had no idea how to span the distance.

“Mealtime was fun around my house. Bronte and I would help my mom fix everything. She loved to cook and taught us all of the family recipes.” She dipped a finger into the syrup on my plate and sucked it from her finger. I stared, mesmerized, remembering how her lips felt around my dick. I suppressed a groan and turned my attention to the food. The tip of her tongue swept over her lower lip. “I can’t imagine what that was like for you.”

“My family isn’t normal.” Since birth, I’d been trained to hide the relationship to my father, and to call my mother by her first name in public. She didn’t like people to know she was old enough to have a twenty-nine-year-old son. As a result, I never spoke of my parents to anyone, not even Rhett.

“And mine is?” Her laughter rang across the table, warm and tinkling. The light returned to her eyes. “My dad spends his days and nights watching reality TV in his underwear. My sister is an autistic genius. I’m a stalker. No one would consider us normal.”

I placed my fork beside the plate and lifted my eyes to meet hers. Unlike most of the people in my life, I knew I could trust her. She’d been forthright about the most embarrassing details of her past. I wanted to do the same, but I couldn’t quite make the leap. “My mother is Honey Wilkes,” I said, and waited for her to process this tidbit.

“Honey Wilkes.” She rolled the name over her tongue, thinking. At last, her eyebrows lifted to her hairline. “The Honey Wilkes? From the music videos? No way.”

“Yes way.” Over the years, I’d become accustomed to people’s reactions.

“She was very beautiful. No wonder you’re so handsome,” she said, a faint flush coloring her cheeks at the admission.

I shrugged. “She still is beautiful. She’s the mistress of someone very famous and he got her pregnant, but he doesn’t publicly claim me.” It was the best I could do, the closest I’d ever come to admitting the truth about my birth.

“But you know who he is?” Soft, liquid eyes bored into mine.

“Yes, and he knows who I am. All this is the price of my silence.” I waved a hand to encompass the building. The words sounded far away, like they were spoken by someone else, my voice altered by the thickness in my throat. I wanted to tell her everything, to confess the sordid details of my birth, to bury my face in her silky hair, to be comforted, but I couldn’t continue. If I lowered the barrier around the vault of secrecy, I might break. “I stay away from him, and he stays out of my life. It’s better this way for both of us.”

“That must have been tough for you.” The smoothness of her palm covered the rough back of my hand. I stared at it, warring with shame over my upbringing and the lust that followed every time she touched me.

“Yeah, well…” The topic of conversation rattled my nerves. I didn’t want to think about all the ways life had shortchanged me. It didn’t matter. Not anymore. The turmoil of my childhood had taught me to invest in the future. Nothing could be gained from lingering in the past. I moved my hand from beneath hers and shoved the pancakes away, my appetite destroyed.

“You don’t like them? I usually make them from scratch. I did the best I could.” The wounded expression in her eyes brought me up short, and I thought about someone else’s feelings for a change.

“No. They’re excellent.” I cut a bite from the stack, dipped it in syrup, and held it up to her mouth. Her lips parted before enclosing around the fork. Our gazes locked. I’d never fed a woman before. The eroticism of the simple act caused lightning to flash low in my belly. A drop of syrup landed on the corner of her mouth. I swiped it away with my thumb then rubbed the pad over her lower lip, spreading the syrup. Her tongue darted out to lick away the sticky residue. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pry my gaze from her mouth, that voluptuous, fuckable mouth.

Silence blanketed the room.

She looked away, breaking the delicate connection between us. “Well, I suppose, I should get dressed.” She stood and glanced around like her tail was on fire and she needed to escape. “I’ll come back and clean up the mess when you’re done.”

I watched her swinging backside move toward the door. I didn’t want her to leave. “You don’t have to clean up. The housekeeper will be here today.”

“No. It’s fine. It’ll give me something to do.” These last words were spoken over her shoulder, as if she didn’t trust herself to look at me directly.

“Calloway—the attorney—he’ll be here at ten,” I called after her, remembering the grim task ahead of us.

She paused, extending a delicate hand to the door frame, but didn’t turn around. “Okay.” Then she disappeared into the darkened hallway, leaving me alone.

I don’t know why it bothered me to see her leave. I should have been relieved. This was how I liked my life. Solitary. No responsibilities beyond work, getting laid, and keeping my ass out of trouble. I was always alone, always had been and always would be. Unless…I sat up straighter. The future was mine to choose.

Jo and I stood on a precipice with lies and misconceptions holding us apart. Before now, I’d never realized the fragility of our relationship. One wrong move could destroy any chance at calling her my girlfriend, because that was what I wanted, wasn’t it? To make her mine? To care for her and about her? This feeling, the insatiable yearning, was uncharted territory. I had no idea how to begin a serious relationship. I’d almost ruined things by withholding knowledge of the warrant, by screwing her at the hotel before telling her, and by putting my selfish, animalistic needs in front of hers.

I huffed a heavy sigh and rubbed my forehead, hoping to clear the clutter of thoughts. Throughout my life, I’d always been a gambler, taking chances, risking everything to get what I wanted, everything but my heart. It was easy to risk it all when you had nothing to lose, but with Jo, the stakes were too high. If she rejected me again, I’d be crushed. The idea of failure tasted bitter, but the concept of doing nothing, of not trying, carried a higher penalty. How could I face myself in the mirror knowing I’d passed up the chance at something special without even trying?