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The summer breeze off the Pacific is cool and sweet, and the setting sun casts a sleepy orange glow over Cannon Beach. Majestic Haystack Rock rises from the waves a few hundred feet from shore, a benevolent overlord gazing on as families take advantage of the shortest night of the year to party long after most of these kids would usually be in bed asleep.

All in all, it’s an excellent evening for burning underwear.

“Good-bye silk thong,” I say, tossing my favorite, most comfortable thong onto the fire. It catches on one of the unburned driftwood limbs, trembling there as if hoping for a last-minute rescue from the flames licking upward.

But there will be no rescue. All the underthings must go. I’ve got the entire contents of my lingerie drawer in the duffle bag slung over my shoulder, and I’m not leaving until every bra, panty, and garter belt has been reduced to ashes.

“Good-bye, comfortable cotton briefs.” I drop a handful of simple black and white briefs into the heart of the fire, where they begin to smolder. “Good-bye lace boy-shorts. Good-bye push-up bra, I knew you well.”

A soft rumble of laughter alerts me to the fact I’m not alone.

I spin, eyes narrowed, to see Brendan standing behind me in a white button-up with sleeves rolled to the elbow, khaki shorts, and bare feet, looking ridiculously gorgeous, as usual. The man should come with a warning label—Danger: Do Not Look Directly into These Dreamy Blue Eyes for Too Long or You Will Forget That I am Off-Limits, Not Interested in Romance, and Also Irritating as Fucking Hell.

Brendan is captain of the Portland Badgers, the NHL team my PR efforts have helped lift from relative obscurity to become one of the big names in the league. The fact that they’ve qualified for the playoffs three out of the past five years probably hasn’t hurt, but I’m not afraid to take credit where credit is due. I’ve grown the Badger youth hockey program, increased season-ticket sales by twenty percent, and started a fantasy camp with a waiting list two hundred people deep.

I work hard for my team, and I appreciate players who make my job easy by being sweet to reporters, putting their best skate forward when I film spots to play during the games, and smiling for the camera at meet-and-greets designed to build goodwill within the community.

Brendan is not one of those players. Brendan is a cranky, recalcitrant, stand-offish, doesn’t-play-well-with-the-press pain in my ass, which makes the big smile on his face even more disconcerting.

Damn, he’s nice to look at.

It really is too bad that he’s determined to stay above the dating fray. He would make some lucky woman very happy. And maybe make himself easier to live with in the process.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help myself.” He ambles closer, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I had to see if you were really burning your bra.”

“I am. And my panties.” I flick another pair of briefs into the flames.

“Is this a feminist thing?” He comes to stand beside me, sending the smell of freshly washed man and an earthy, foresty cologne drifting to my nose.

He must have already been back to his room at the hotel to shower. I’m still in the bikini and oversize cover-up I’ve been wearing all day, rocking the casual look for the first annual Badger Beach Bum weekend. I’d planned to head up the hill half an hour ago and get cleaned up for the team cocktail party starting at ten, but after a chat with some teenagers who agreed to let me take over maintenance of their beach fire, I decided it was better to burn the underwear first.

The sooner I can put the Panty-gate disaster behind me, the better.

“No, it’s not a feminist thing.” I wait for the briefs to start smoking before I add more fuel to the fire. “It’s a walked in and caught my boyfriend wearing my underwear kind of thing.”

Brendan’s brows lift sharply. “Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah. I forgot my beach bag this morning. When I ran back to get it, I found Henry standing in the middle of my bedroom wearing my lace thong, silk stockings, and push up bra. There was also makeup involved, but that wasn’t mine.” I toss another bra, proud of how much better my aim is getting. “He’s a winter, not a spring.”

“I’m guessing this wasn’t something you knew about Henry going into the relationship.”

“No, it wasn’t. Henry is a seemingly straight-laced investment banker whose hobbies include making money, drinking scotch, playing fantasy football, power lifting, and going on long, aggressively competitive bike rides with other investment bankers. He never made any mention of a love for cross-dressing.”

“And if he had?” Brendan asks, collecting a slim piece of wood from the sand.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. To be honest, it would probably have still been a deal breaker, but if he’d been upfront about it—and bought his own lingerie instead of tainting mine—it would have at least been up for discussion.”

“Wouldn’t washing everything work just as well?”

“No, Brendan, washing everything won’t work just as well.” The next few bras hit the fire with considerably more force. “Some taints go too deep for soap. Some taints must be cleansed by fire.”

“Like taints that come from being close to your ex’s taint,” he says, summoning an unexpected laugh from between my lips.

“Yes, like that.” I peek at him from the corner of my eye. “I’m not used to you being funny.”

“It’s something I try to avoid as much as possible,” he says pleasantly. “It confuses people. Makes them think I’m not going to be a pain in their ass the next time they ask me to spend my Sunday morning eating pancakes with strangers.”

“So you saw the email…” I glance up at him, my throat tightening for reasons I can’t explain.

He nods. “I did.”

“There are worse things than being asked to eat pancakes, Brendan.”

“Pancakes with strangers,” he corrects, using the end of his stick to catch the thong that has thus far escaped the flames. “I don’t like strangers.”

“Even strangers who are also your biggest fans?” I watch him lower the panties into the fire, my cheeks flushing for reasons I also can’t explain.

“Even strangers who are fans. When I’m not away for a game, Sundays are for family.” The thong slides onto the coals, and Brendan turns to me, an all too familiar stubborn expression firming his features. “You can courtesy-copy Coach Swindle and the team manager on requests all you want, but I won’t be bullied by any of you. Chloe’s back from her grandparents’ house on Tuesday so I won’t be eating pancakes with anyone next Sunday, or any Sunday in the foreseeable future.”

“You can bring Chloe if you want,” I say, naively hoping this might be an easy fix. “I would be happy to watch her while you network.”

He crosses his arms at his chest. “No.”

I take a deep breath, in and out, fighting a wave of irritation. “Come on, Brendan. You know Chloe and I get along like macaroni and cheese. We could eat pancakes together at the kids’ table and then color until you’re ready to go. It will be fun.”

“No.”

“No? Just…no?” My volume rises as I drop my nearly empty duffle onto the sand and spread my fingers wide, palms up, in front of the most frustrating man in the universe. “That’s it? No, Laura, I will not allow you to do your job. No, Laura, you will never have my cooperation without a fight. No, Laura, I refuse to compromise no matter how far you bend over backward to make things easy for me.”

“That’s not—”

“No, Laura,” I push on, unable to stop the flood now that I’ve started, “you are a thorn in my side, and I hate you like I hate fans who bang on the glass, so you might as well give up and resign now because you are the worst part of my day. Every day. Bar none.”

His gaze softens, and the stubborn jut fades from his jawline. “I don’t hate you. Not even a little bit.”

I swallow hard, shocked to find my eyes beginning to sting. “Yeah, well sometimes it feels like it. I’m just trying to do my job, you know.”

“And I’m just a single dad trying to be there for my daughter.”

I nod, the stinging sensation getting even worse. “I know that. And I respect it so much, I really do. I adore Chloe, and would never want to take quality time with her dad away from her, but can’t we find a middle ground?”

Brendan’s blue eyes wrinkle at the edges. “Are you crying?”

“No.” I sniff hard, fighting to hold back the tears insisting it’s time to come parachuting out of my tear ducts. “I never cry.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy.”

My bottom lip trembles. “It’s fine. I don’t need to cry. It’s a waste of time. What does it matter if half the people I work with think I’m annoying and useless? I know I do good things for this team.”

“No one thinks you’re annoying or useless.”

“Yes, they do.” I sniff again as Brendan’s face begins to shimmer from the stupid tears filling my stupid eyes. “But it’s fine. Who cares? And who cares if I have to burn all my underwear because I’m not sure what Henry wore when I was gone? And who cares if the first guy I’ve given a key to my apartment in years didn’t trust me enough to be honest about his lady-panty fetish, and I’m clearly a crappy judge of character who will probably end up married to a serial killer? It’s fine, I’m just—”

“Stop it.” Brendan cups my face in his hands, drawing me closer. His touch is gentle but assured, commanding, and…interesting in ways I’ve never been interested in Brendan before.

I suck in a breath and hold it, blinking fast. Brendan has only ever been my friend, and there are times when things between us aren’t even really that friendly. But his face is suddenly very close to mine, and his eyes are burning with an intensity that is confusing

When he speaks in a soft, husky voice, my pulse begins to beat faster. “I’m sorry I make things hard on you. I’ll try to do better.”

My forehead furrows. “You will?”

“I will, and I’m going to prove it. Turn around and close your eyes.”

My brows shoot up, but before I can ask why I need to turn around, Brendan says, “Do it, Collins. You can trust me.”

It’s true. If there’s anyone I can trust, it’s Brendan. He isn’t the easiest person to get along with at times, but he is honorable to the core. He is trustworthy and good and, even in his most stubborn moments, kind.

With a nod, I turn to face the ocean. The crowd has thinned considerably in the last half hour. Now there are only a few couples still lounging on their blankets at the far end of the beach, and a trio of horseback riders trotting toward the trail that leads up to the cliffs overlooking the water and continues to the hotel parking lot.

“Okay, you can turn around,” Brendan says after a moment.

I turn, a confused smile curving my lips as I see what he’s holding in one hand. “Are those boxers?”

“They are.” He nods solemnly.

My smile widens. “How did you get them without taking off your shorts?”

“I didn’t.” He winks as he steps closer to the flames. “I used to be an Olympic-level streaker back in high school. I can get in and out of a pair of shorts in two seconds flat.”

“Impressive.” I nod, refusing to be flustered by that wink. “But I’m not sure I understand the point of this removal of underwear, Daniels.”

“Because I’m going to burn them in a show of solidarity, to help remove the taint of any bad feelings between us. Give us a fresh start.”

“Oh,” I whisper, surprised by how nice a fresh start sounds.

But then, that’s what this is really about. I’m not burning my bras because Henry might have worn them. I’m burning them because I don’t want to be the woman who was too proud to admit that things with her too-perfect-to-be-true boyfriend haven’t been perfect for a while. That they have, in fact, been pretty shitty.

I want a fresh start, to head back into the dating rat-race with my eyes open. I want to burn away the bullshit and make a commitment to being honest with myself about what I really want in a partner.

“You ready?” Brendan twirls his boxers in a circle.

I nod, reaching for the last handful of panties in my bag. “Ready.”

“On the count of three,” he says, holding my gaze. “One, two…”

On three, we both drop our drawers into the bonfire. For a moment, the flames dim, fighting for oxygen, but then they surge back even brighter than they were before, illuminating the smile on Brendan’s face.

“You should smile more often,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

He nudges me back. “And you should stop wearing makeup.”

I snort. “No way. I look like a twelve-year-old without eyelashes. Or eyebrows. Or lips, unless I have a sunburn.”

“No, you don’t,” he says softly, “you’re beautiful, Freckles.”

I usually hate any mention of my smattering of offensive nose dots, but when “freckles” is used in the same sentence as “you’re beautiful”…

I shift my gaze slowly to my right and find Brendan watching me with that intense look in his eyes again, making it clear he isn’t kidding. “Well, thank you. You’re not too bad to look at, either.”

He smiles as he shifts closer. “No? Not too bad?”

I shrug. “Nah. I mean, I don’t throw up in my mouth anymore when I see you coming down the tunnel all sweaty and gross.”

He laughs, his eyes doing this sparkling thing that is completely mesmerizing, holding me in thrall as he brushes my hair over my shoulder. “Well, that’s good. I don’t like tripping a woman’s gag reflex.”

“Right.” I blush hard, pulling a Libby—my little sister excels at turning bright red at the slightest mention of anything sexual—because I’m thinking about other ways a man could trip a woman’s gag reflex.

Yes, I’m thinking about Brendan’s cock and my mouth and all the fun they could have together. Sue me! I have a dirty mind; I can’t help it. And the fact that I know he’s free-balling beneath those khakis certainly isn’t helping things.

Brendan clears his throat with a soft laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Likely story.”

“I didn’t.” He’s still standing way closer to me than he ever has before, sending “gorgeous male in close proximity” alerts tickling across my skin. “I swear. I’ve been out of the game too long to be that quick with innuendo. I just meant that I enjoy not making you physically ill.”

I nod, torn between the urge to step back—hopefully clearing my head—or to lean in, bracing my hands on Brendan’s chest. Touching him is starting to seem like a good idea, a really good idea, though I know for a fact it’s not. We work together, we fight as often as we laugh, he has a daughter to consider, and my last breakup is so fresh I’m still sporting road rash.

But damn, he’s sexy, and he smells incredible, and the way he’s looking at me makes my lungs feel too small and my heart feel too large and my fingertips itch to be buried in his softly curled, dirty-blond hair.

“What are you thinking, Collins?” The husky note in his voice strikes a hard blow to my already weakening resolve.

“I was thinking about your quick change,” I confess, as he tips his head closer to mine. “What if I’d turned around too soon?”

“Then I guess you would have gotten an eyeful,” he says, his arm wrapping slowly around my waist. “But better bare than wearing your underwear, right?”

“Yes.” My pulse spikes as my breasts flatten against his chest, and my body celebrates how incredibly good it feels to be close to this man. I tip my head back, bringing my lips mere inches from Brendan’s as I whisper, “I like that you’re proceeding cautiously. Giving me plenty of time to come to my senses.”

His nose brushes against mine, and his breath is warm on my lips as he asks, “Are you going to come to your senses?”

“I don’t think so. That doesn’t sound very interesting.”

“And what does sound interesting?” His arm tightens around me. “Maybe something like this?”

Before I can

The snap shouts, “Pay attention! Something unexpected and potentially dangerous but also exciting is happening!”

And it is.

Cranky, pain-in-my-butt Brendan is kissing me, and it is the most incredible kiss of my entire life. The sweetest, sexiest, most intense kiss, one that turns my bones to jelly and sets off an electrical storm in my nervous system. His tongue strokes against mine, hungry and demanding, asking for what he needs, and I can’t help but wrap my arms around his neck and give it to him.

Because what he needs is me—my touch, my kiss, my body welcoming him in as he allows himself to get close to someone for the first time in so long.

Later that night, after we skip the cocktail party to spend a few hours naked and lost in each other in the big bed in Brendan’s ocean-view room, he holds me close and confesses that it was his first time since his wife died.

“Three years,” I whisper, breath rushing out. “Wow.”

“Almost three. Three next month.”

I press a kiss to his chest, right above his heart. “I’m sorry. And I’m so sorry you and Chloe lost her.” I didn’t know his wife Maryanne personally—I didn’t start working intimately with team members until after the car accident that killed her and put Chloe in the hospital for nearly a month—but I’ve heard wonderful things about her, this woman who was taken from her family way too soon.

“Thanks.” Brendan hugs me closer, eliminating the sliver of air between his skin and mine. “And thank you for this. I was beginning to think I’d never be with someone again. It just felt so wrong every time I tried. But not tonight. Tonight was…good.”

I smile grimly. I have no illusions about this being anything but a physical thing, but a girl likes to hear something better than “good.”

But I don’t let my bruised ego do the talking. I may have a temper sometimes, but I know when to put petty things aside. This man has just slept with a woman for the first time since his wife’s death, and that woman is me. And though I had no idea those were the fraught waters I was wading into when I said yes to coming up to his room, that is reality, and I’m big on reality.

And kindness, especially when people are as vulnerable as Brendan is right now.

So I simply kiss his chest again and say, “It was good for me, too.”

“Good enough to let me make you come again, Freckles?” He pulls me on top of him, guiding my legs to either side of his hips.

The second my most intimate places brush against his, lightning strikes all over again, and all I can say is, “Yes.”

Yes, as he fists one hand in my hair, holding me captive as he kisses me deep and slow while he moves inside me, shooting my soul full of light and bliss. Yes, as he carries me into the shower and we go again with my legs wrapped tight around his hips and my body pinned between the cool tile and his warm skin. Yes, as we fall asleep later with his arm tight around my waist and his voice soft in my ear, telling me he’s so glad I decided to stay.

Yes, as one night turns into two and then three, and we secretly stay at the hotel after the rest of the team has left. Yes, as we laugh and talk and take long walks on the beach and have sex like a meteor is on a collision course with earth and we only have two days left to orgasm.

---

By the time Monday morning rolls around, I wake up feeling so relaxed, happy, and well-fucked that I’m pretty sure nothing can bring me down.

And then I look up to see Brendan already dressed and tucking his carefully folded dirty clothes into his duffle bag.

“Hey.” He smiles the awkward smile of a guy who has decided the fun is over. “I didn’t want to wake you. You don’t need a ride back to the city, do you?”

“No, I have my car.” I try not to be hurt by the relief that flashes across his tense features. We’ve been together constantly for the past three days. It’s perfectly natural that he’s ready for some alone time.

“Cool. I have practice in two hours. It’s already going to be tight getting there on time.”

“Right.” I tuck the sheet around my chest as I sit up, leaning back against the headboard. “So, will I see you again? I mean, I know I’ll see you but…” My throat tightens as I await his response, because sometime in the past two days I stopped thinking of this as a one-weekend stand and started thinking I would like to keep laughing and talking and being with Brendan, to see where this might lead.

“I don’t know,” he says after a long, uncomfortable beat, his gaze fixed on the duvet we kicked to the end of the bed last night when the room got too hot. “The past few days have been amazing, Laura. But things are…complicated.”

Ouch. Complicated. Which means he isn’t interested in making an effort to work through the complications so he can keep fucking me on a regular basis. “Right. I get it.”

“You’re incredible.” He finally makes eye contact, though the regret in his gaze makes me wish he hadn’t. “You’re beautiful and fun and so insanely sexy. But I’m not a twenty-five-year-old kid anymore. I can’t let myself get swept up in something just because I’m having a good time. I need stability, for Chloe and for myself. I’m all she’s got. I can’t start thinking with my dick and let her down.”

I nod and keep nodding for way too long, while a hundred different things race through my brain. The possible responses are various shades of hurt, sad, angry, and offended, but what finally comes out is an only slightly wounded-sounding, “I care about Chloe, you know. And if you kept being the very not annoying person I’ve been with this weekend, I could care about you, too. It doesn’t have to be just sex.”

He presses his lips together, and in that endless second between my words and his, I die a little inside. “I’m sorry, Laura, I can’t.”

Okay, I die a lot.

Because no one has ever made me feel as wonderful—or as terrible—as Brendan Daniels.

He took me to sexy new highs and introduced me to excruciatingly embarrassing new lows. I’m probably lucky that this is the first time a man I wanted more than sex from doesn’t want more than sex from me. At least for a little while, until he gets tired of me or we realize we hate each other or I discover him dressed in my underwear.

I’m twenty-seven years old, for God’s sake. A killer rejection like this had to happen sooner or later, right?

As Brendan slips out the door, I huddle under the covers, trying to forget I ever made close, intimate friends with Mr. Daniel’s lovely, talented cock. I intend to sleep late, lick my wounds, and move on, foolishly thinking that will be the end of the pain.

I have no clue that the situation is so much worse than I’ve assumed.

It takes a couple of weeks to realize that I don’t simply miss pouncing Brendan’s gorgeous body. I miss the way we talked, the way we laughed, the way he pulled me close in the dark and held me like I was the only thing tethering him to our swiftly spinning planet.

By the time I come to terms with the fact that I’m in love with a man who wants nothing more to do with me, Brendan has moved on.

We’re back to acting like friends who occasionally irritate the shit out of each other. Except now, every time he looks at me, I feel simultaneously elated and miserable, and I wish I could rewind time so I would never know how right it feels to sleep in his arms.

So, yeah…

So far that fresh start stuff is working out really fucking well.