I was going to be late.

Shit.

I was going to be really, really late.

And I couldn’t be late.

Everything was riding on this meeting.

In one heel and wearing a fitted skirt, I stumbled out of the walk-in closet, which was filled with a bunch of boxes my grandmother had left behind.

I stumbled, my hand darting out to the wall for support, and paused for a beat in an attempt to shimmy on the other heel. Once I was at least the same height on both sides, I tried again.

Two steps away from the small dressing table on the far side of the room, my ankle rolled.

All the way to the side.

Pain splintered up the outside of my leg.

“Shit,” I yelped as I tried to rebound and stop my fall. The only thing I managed to do was to propel myself forward. Falling fast. My hands shot out, and my fingertips just snagged the edge of the stool a split second before my face slammed against the floor.

My knees weren’t so lucky.

They dug into the worn carpet, pantyhose shredded.

Awesome.

My head dropped between my shoulders, and I fought the sting of tears that rushed to my eyes.

Tears of frustration. Tears of worry. Tears of this heartache that had grown every day since Rex Gunner had walked out my door two weeks ago without another word.

I’d told myself I was just being stupid. Foolish. Chasing a man who obviously wanted nothing to do with me. Just because I told myself those things didn’t mean I could so easily convince myself of them. Not when they felt like a lie.

God. Why did life have to be so complicated? I had enough to worry about without the gorgeous man and his adorable daughter who lived across the street. And somehow, they had become the center of every thought.

Laughter jutted from my mouth.

The maniacal kind.

The kind that could have been sobbing. It all depended on how you heard it. Or maybe on the way you looked at it.

If you aren’t laughing, you’re crying. Now, which would you rather be doing?

My grandmother’s soft encouragement prodded at my consciousness, and I could almost feel the pad of her thumb brushing across my cheek.

I drew in a deep breath, hoping it might give me clarity, guidance, the words a chorus of convoluted whispers that tumbled from my tongue. “I don’t know if I know the difference anymore, Gramma. Things are getting complicated. So complicated, and I don’t know how to handle them all. I don’t know if I can do this. It feels like I’m going to fail.”

God. What if I failed?

The thought made that gulp of air in my lungs throb and threaten to burst. It was a complete rejection of the idea.

Needing to pull myself together, I lifted my head and started to climb to my feet. A frown pulled across my brow when my sight latched on an envelope I’d never noticed before. It was tucked in a small cubby on the dressing table.

“Oh, Gramma.”

I sat up on my knees, fingers trembling with affection and grief. I reached out and pulled the envelope free. I was quick to turn it over, rip open the flap, and tear out the card.

I devoured the words.

“What are you trying to tell me, Gramma?” I whispered into the nothingness. That nothingness echoed back. Crushing me with affection. With loss. With the memories of her voice and her reason and everything she’d given up for me.

I clutched the letter to my chest. Cherishing her words. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t decipher them. All that mattered was that they were meant for me. Given in a moment I needed them most.

My grandmother always had that way about her. Insight. The uncanny ability to know when I needed a kind word or a soft prod.

Resolved, I pushed to my feet, tore off the ruined pantyhose, and shoved my feet back into the shoes. I dusted a little powder on my nose and ran some shimmery nude gloss across my lips.

I looked at myself in the mirror. “You can do this, Rynna Dayne. You wanted this. Now, go and get it.”

I rushed downstairs and through the living room, grabbing my leather bag and the portfolio I’d prepared that waited inside. Silently, I went through the details in my head. The things I would say, employing some of the strategy tools I’d learned back in San Francisco.

Maybe I was supposed to have gone there. Maybe that experience had been preparing me for this day all along.

I didn’t mean to falter a step when I strode outside and into the morning light.

But I did.

Because Rex Gunner was there, just backing out of the backseat of his truck where I knew he had just gotten done strapping his daughter into her booster seat. His care for her was nearly as breathtaking as his presence.

Regretful eyes moved my direction. I thought maybe he didn’t have the power to stop them. Just the same way as I couldn’t stop my own. My gaze drank him in as if he were forbidden fruit. Something—someone—I wanted so desperately I was willing to try to pluck him free from all the thorny barbs and spindly spines that kept him bound.

That destination perilous.

Hazardous to my health.

Sucking in a stealing breath, I shook off the reaction and forced myself to walk down the steps and to my SUV, barely glancing back when I pulled out of my drive and headed down the road.

But in that barest glimpse I saw him.

I saw his pain. I saw his fear. I saw his regret. And I swore I saw him standing there, held back by that gnarl of branches, wishing I could reach him, too.

But sometimes we have to admit when those obstacles just run too deep.

* * *

Spine stiff and straight, I shifted anxiously in the hard plastic chair. My legs were perfectly pressed together, from my thighs to my knees to my ankles, the portfolio neatly placed on my lap as I waited.

Each second that passed was excruciating, my heart thundering so loud I kept expecting someone to lean my direction and shush me. To tell me to rein in the riot of nerves that stampeded out ahead of me, only to do laps around the small waiting room of the bank.

My gaze darted everywhere, to the tellers, then to the few clerks who were opening and managing accounts in the grouping of cubicle offices that took up the right front side of the bank.

Who would these people be rooting for in this race?

For me?

For my grandmother?

For the vacant, deserted diner that sat only three miles away, begging for someone to take mercy on its desolation?

Scrubbing away the grime would only get me so far.

If I were going to get any farther, I needed money. God knew that five dollars I’d had left to work magic with hadn’t gotten me very far.

A woman appeared at the end of a hall. “Ms. Dayne?”

“Yes?”

She cast me a generous smile. “Mr. Roth will see you now. Right this way.”

Trembling, I stood, fingers shaking as I straightened my skirt. “Thank you.”

I attempted to gather my wits, to put on a brave face, to wear resolve and confidence. I knew I would be riding the fine line of approval since my loan was high risk, and I could only hope my belief in the business would throw it over the edge in my favor.

I followed her down the short hall to where the private loan offices were located. My heels clicked on the tile floor, in tune with the hammer of my heart. It drummed harder and harder with each step.

She gestured with her arm into an office, murmuring, “Good luck,” as she turned to walk back the direction we’d come.

Swallowing hard, I lifted my chin, painting on that firm confidence and forcing myself to wear a smile as I turned the corner of the doorway and stepped into the office.

I faltered to a standstill.

My breath gone.

Stolen.

Stopped by an obstacle I wasn’t sure I could overcome.

Timothy Roth.

Tim.

Handsy asshole from the bar.

Doesn’t understand the word no.

He cracked an arrogant smile. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the lovely . . .” He paused to inspect the name on the application that sat open on his desk. The pre-approval application I’d dropped off three days ago before my scheduled appointment with the head loan officer.

Timothy Roth.

“Corinne Dayne.” He rocked back in his big leather office chair, looking as if he’d just won the lottery. Or more like he was just holding hostage the numbers to my winning lottery ticket.

That sounded about right.

Dread slithered up my throat, like the slow, slimy slide of a snake. Constricting from the outside. Suffocating from the inside.

“Mr. Roth.” It was a breath of uncertainty. Of indecision and doubt.

Why? First Aaron, and then this asshole? What was I going to do?

He gestured a little too eagerly to the chair that sat across from his desk. “Please, shut the door and take a seat.”

My body quaked, but I did what I was told, the door snapping shut behind me, my feet unsteady as I took the three steps to stand in front of his desk. In discomfort, I eased down onto the chair.

Get it together, Rynna. This is too important for you to mess up now. Don’t let either of these jerks hold you back.

I wasn’t fool enough to think all things didn’t come at a cost. And sometimes that cost was your pride.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” I managed.

He had his elbow propped on the armrest of his chair, his index finger at his temple and his thumb under his jaw. Blatantly, he looked me up and down. His eager smile curved into a smirk. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

I ignored the lump that thickened in my throat. “I hope you’ve had the chance to look at my application.”

“Yes, I have, and we appreciate you looking to our establishment for your needs.”

Okay. This was good. We could totally ignore our previous awkward situation.

I nodded, continued. “As you read, I inherited Pepper’s Pies from my grandmother when she passed away several months ago.” God, I hated the way it came out, as if she were nothing but a distant memory. Not when her loss was a fresh wound that ached inside of me. I forced a small smile. “The location is on Fairview, a prime location, especially with all the renovations currently happening in the area.”

He thumbed through the paperwork. I eased a little, my rigid spine softening when he turned his attention from me and to the reason I was here.

“And you’re asking for two-hundred-thousand dollars?” he asked, still perusing the sheets. “How did you come to this number?”

“Yes. I had an estimator come in before I took over holdings on the building. It should be sufficient to get us up and running again.”

He nodded. “That’s good.”

Hope blazed to life.

I shifted to the edge of the chair. “You can see we have the profit and loss estimates on page thirteen. With the reputation of the diner, I was told I could expect profits to exceed the loss within a year. It will give me plenty for the upkeep of the diner, a modest salary for myself, and the ability to pay the loan each month.”

Okay, maybe it was a bit of a stretch. I’d be riding a fine line. But I was willing to put in the extra work.

Studying that page, he rubbed his chin. “Estimates are estimates, Ms. Dayne. There’s no guarantee customers will be rushing back to the diner.”

That hope fizzled a little, but I pulled it together, prepared for this type of resistance. “I wouldn’t consider my situation atypical. Most small businesses begin with a loan, just the same as I’m seeking from this bank. And most start-ups don’t already have a name behind them. We have a built-in customer base, and with the hotel going in across the street, there will be hundreds of hungry people in front of my restaurant every single day.”

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and I smiled back eagerly. He flipped the folder closed and rocked back in his seat, threading his fingers together. “I’ll tell you what . . .”

“Yes?” I edged forward more just as he leaned over his desk, unable to stop myself from mimicking his posture, those dreams I’d once held now dangling right out in front of me like a carrot.

His voice lowered as he leaned even closer. “We discuss this over dinner and you can show me just how badly you want this loan.”

Something sinister had infiltrated those words.

Something dark and vulgar.

The hairs at my nape prickled in a sickening kind of awareness.

“Excuse me?” I asked, barely able to speak.

“You look like a smart woman, Ms. Dayne. I think you’re playing coy again.”

Every sleazy memory of him came rushing back, the arrogant man who didn’t know how to take no for an answer and thought women should bow at his feet. But this was his job. Was he really going there?

“I think you need to demonstrate just how good you are.” Every word was packed with innuendo. “Show me why I should recommend this loan for approval.”

He cocked his head. The man with all the power. My dreams held hostage in his filthy paws.

Nausea turned my insides.

“So you’re saying I have to go out with you in order for you to recommend my application be approved?”

He glanced over my shoulder toward the closed door before his seedy gaze returned to me. “Call it a business exchange.”

“You can’t . . . that isn’t legal.” I was floundering, looking behind me to the closed door. Praying by some miracle someone was standing there and could vouch for this insanity.

Because he was out of his mind.

“I’m merely asking for a meeting, Ms. Dayne.” His intentions were so much more than a meeting.

And I wondered how many meetings this vile man had held over his client’s heads. No doubt, I wasn’t the first.

Stunned, I climbed to my feet. Memories of Aaron ripped through my head. The manipulation. I would never allow it again. “You are unbelievable. I would rather work every hour for the rest of my life to save the money to reopen my grandmother’s restaurant than degrade myself with you.”

He rocked back in that massive chair that was almost as big as his head. “All I asked for was proof of how much you wanted this loan, Ms. Dayne. I have no idea what you’re insinuating.”

I sneered. “And you are nothing but a liar. For the record, I want that loan more than anything. I’d just rather die than let you touch me.”

Wrenching open the door, I flew out into the hall. Fury rose to the top of the tangle of emotions he had me in, my instincts kicking in.

Timothy Roth had messed with the wrong girl.

I was going right around this obstacle. Deviating course. Going straight to the top and reporting him.

I would see to it that Timothy Roth would never manipulate another woman sitting in his office again.

* * *

It was late Friday afternoon when there was a knock at my door. A shiver of nerves rocked through me, but I forced them down, refusing the insecurities that kept trying to creep back into my consciousness.

I crossed the living room and peered into the peephole, frowning when I could only make out the arm of a man wearing a dress shirt.

Warily, I unlocked the door and cracked it open, a crest of unease washing over me.

Unease that hadn’t been in vain.

I should have listened to my gut.

Just like my gramma had always told me.

I tried to slam the door shut when I saw the angry, twisted features of the man looming on the other side.

It was the same second I hit a wall of fear.

Or maybe I toppled headfirst into a vat of it.

Because it swallowed me. Saturating every inch. Every cell. Every fiber.

Screaming, I turned my back to the door and planted my feet against the floor. I pushed back as hard as I could.

“I already called the police. They’re on their way.”

Lies. Lies I prayed would break through his derangement. Because I’d been right. Timothy Roth was insane. Just in an entirely different way than I’d ever imagined.

Blood sloshed in my ears and terror slogged through my veins.

A steady thwump, thwump, thwump.

Liquid metal.

Heavy.

Too much.

Panic and fear.

No. No. No.

The threat did nothing to deter him. The door banged open an inch before I was bearing down again. With all my might. With all the fight I had in me. The latch so close to catching.

His voice seeped like venom through the crack he made. “You fucking bitch. You fucking bitch whore. I’ll kill you for what you did. I know it was you. You ruined my life, you stupid bitch, and you are going to pay.”

Fingers were in the frame, forcing it open.

Adrenaline and anguish. I screamed with them as I shifted a fraction. I rammed into the door with my shoulder.

I gave it everything I had.

The pain of it nearly split me in two.

But sometimes wills and physical strength were two different things.

Because he kicked the door, sending it crashing against the interior wall.

I flew to the floor.

Tim pushed his way inside, a menace that cast a shadow on my grandmother’s house as he stepped toward me. I slid back across the floor, the bare skin of my thigh chaffing against the carpet.

Sobbing.

Hating that I couldn’t stop the terror from taking hold.

Hating the words that fumbled from my mouth.

That I pled.

That I begged.

“Please. No. Oh, God, please, I’ll do anything.”

Anything.

Because it was the brutal truth of the horrible matter.

I wouldn’t rather die than let Timothy Roth touch me.