She comes home, interrupting my fantasies, my plans.

I stay sitting on her couch where I’ve been motionless for the last hour, loath to touch anything in this pristine place. Everything in the room is a sign of what she has always had and what I’ve never had.

She pauses when she sees me. Her skirt is askew and ratcheted up on one side, exposing two more inches of thigh than she means to, and one bra strap is showing, a lacy blue. What is it with this girl and blue? As if her ultra-innocent eyes aren’t enough.

She fidgets and tilts her feet. “He, um, said it could take a while.”

Her inability to lie aggravates me. “You mean he said no?”

“Yes. I mean, no. It’s going to take a little time, okay? I’ll get you the money.” She can’t look at me when she begs, “Please don’t tell anyone,” then rushes past me down the hall.

Her bedroom door slams.

I feel a sadistic sense of pride. She’s in pain, and it’s because of me.

I’m winning. For the first time in eight years, I’m the villain in this story.

But I don’t have a moment to bask in my triumph, because on the heels of my victory, I’m faced with the urge to follow her.

To charge into her bedroom and lay her out like I did in my truck. To peel away her self-pity and her sweetness. To show her that everything she’s prided herself on, every good-girl piece of her that has to follow the rules, that feels the shame of not giving me what I want—it’s false, a lie. There is no truth except fear and pain. Before I’m done, she will know both of these as well as I do.

* * *

Layla has been one of my best friends since prep school. We went to college together. Amisha and I met in the pre-med program, but Layla—she wants to be a journalist. Which means asking questions is her professional skill.

“Why haven’t you been answering our calls? Who is he?”

My butt hasn’t even hit the seat across from her and already I’m on trial. “I’ve been busy.”

Amisha sits next to me and flags down a waiter. “Let her have something to drink first.”

Layla brushes her auburn curls over her shoulder. “Amisha said you’re off intensive care. Are you okay?”

I scratch my head. “I miss it, but I’ll go back in the NICU someday.” I hope.

Though I’m not sure recovery is what I’m going through right now, more like backsliding. I was distracted at work all day. Focusing on patients is harder than ever, even more than in the first month after my father died. I can’t stop thinking about that man, the one who stalked me for two weeks. The one I married. The one who’s living in my condo.

I couldn’t sleep last night. He was in the other room. On the other side of the wall.

He could’ve walked in my bedroom any time.

I didn’t lock my door.

The waiter sets waters in front of us. I take a drink and lower my head to the glass, trying to hide how my hands shake. The adrenaline, the fear from Logan now living in my condo, has become a permanent fixture in my blood. Every spare second my thoughts stray to him sitting on my couch, long legs spread, his hair hanging over his brow, almost hiding the light green eyes staring at me like he wants to melt me into nothing. And all the ways he will melt me into nothing.

It’s intoxicating.

“Penny.” Layla waves her hand in front of my face.

I blink fast and refocus on her. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”

Her brows draw together in concern and she glances at Amisha. They exchange a look that I try to ignore. Great, they’ve been talking about me behind my back. Judging me.

“I have to go.” I back out my chair.

“What? No.” Amisha pulls on my arm. “Penny, stay!” The look on her face, the look of hurt stops me more than her words.

Layla lays a hand across the table. “Tell us about this new guy.” Her voice is kind. She’s not being pushy. They’re not judging me.

The waiter comes and we order dinner. It’s a restaurant I’ve been to many times. Not my favorite, but it’s convenient for us to meet Layla here after she finishes work at the newspaper.

“How was your date?” Layla nudges.

I have no idea how I’m going to lie through this dinner. I never should’ve come. Except it’s the preferable option to going home to . . . my husband.

God, that chafes.

I can’t lie any more than I have to. Best to tell as much of the truth as I can. I reach in the small zipper pocket of my purse and slip on my new ring.

They gasp in unison.

“Is that . . . ?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Please tell me that’s . . .”

“ . . . not real, is it?”

I clear my throat to quiet them. “It’s real. We bought it yesterday.”

Even Layla’s stunned. “We?”

“Logan. That’s his name.” I stare at the diamonds glittering at me. “We got married yesterday. He moved in with me last night.”

“What!” Amisha gapes. “How long have you known him? Have you been hiding him from us?”

Layla tilts her head. “Penny, why haven’t you told us about him until now?”

“He’s from Nashville. He knew my father. He . . .” I dig for as much truth as I can find. “He’s met my brother. He knows more about my family than I do.” Most of what he knows is lies, but I don’t need to divulge that.

“Blake knows? And he’s okay with this?” Amisha asks.

Stick to the truth. “He’s not okay with it. Pretty much pushed me out of his office yesterday. But it’s not like he can stop me.”

“Is this a money thing? You get your trust fund when you’re married, right?” Layla, too perceptive. I wish I could turn off her brain. I need to find a way to stop talking or she’s going to figure out the whole thing.

I force a smile. “I’ll introduce you to him this weekend. We should all go out.” Maybe they’ll calm down if they meet him. Not likely. Logan’s even scarier close up than he is from afar. I can’t envision him ever being social and talking to people, but if he wants this charade of a marriage to look real, he’s going to have to find a way.

“But who is he?” Amisha leans on her hand. “You haven’t told us anything about him.”

“He’s a . . .” A lying, manipulative asshole who wants to ruin my life and every good memory I have, who kisses like he’s starving for sex and looks at me like he wants to eat me. “He likes camping.”

Layla laughs sarcastically. “You have so much in common.”

“He loves the beach,” I add too quickly.

“What does he do?” Amisha asks.

I have no idea. I gulp. I can’t answer and this is embarrassing.

“You don’t know.” Layla crosses her arms again. “Why did you marry him? You only met him, what? A week ago?” Her inquisitive eyes might be merely curious to some, but to me, they’re dangerous. If she figures out what’s really going on, it could ruin everything. If she and Amisha find out, they’ll want to help. And the way they’ll help is by calling the police. Which is exactly what can’t happen.

“I should get home.” I pick up my purse and stand. “But we should definitely make plans to hang out this weekend so you can meet Logan.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Wait!”

“Penny, come back!”

I don’t look back. I walk out of the restaurant, not looking at anyone, going straight to my car with a disturbing sense of relief. At least the man I’m going home to I won’t have to lie to.