STELLA

So, apparently he’s rich.

And by all accounts, he seems to be a genuinely good guy. When I told him as much, my heart was fluttering out of my chest. I did my best to hide it though. I don’t want him to know how I feel until I’m certain there’s at least a possibility he could feel the same way. That’s just how I roll. You know, the whole protected heart thing. I’m one of those girls, despite what people may think when they hear about what I do for a living.

I turn on the lights as I make my way into my apartment and plop my purse onto one of the tall barstools that sits in the center of my kitchen, throwing my coat and stripped-off sweater on top. I’m beat, and I’m starting to feel the familiar sensation of soreness in my legs. I usually get a little sore after a long night of dancing. Making my way through the kitchen, I pull down a glass and pour myself some red wine, then take a slow swig, relishing in the taste and relaxation.

Then, carrying the glass with me, I grab a novel and draw myself a hot bath. As I slip into the steaming water, I try to let everything from last night drift away. The close call, the anxiety surrounding it. The wine is helping with that. I lean my head back against the edge of the tub, resting my neck on a cushy rolled up towel. I want to think good thoughts right now, not ones of fear and danger.

I bring my hand to the front of my neck, to the area where one of the thugs had made to grab before Cohen stepped in. What would have happened here, if Cohen hadn’t been there?

So much for happy thoughts. I take another drink and scoot further into the water.

The possibility of quitting my job is a happy thought. I suspected Cohen had money because of his car, but I had no clue that he had that kind of money, and never in a million years would I have imagined that he’d offer such a thing out of the blue.

Cohen, a man I’ve only known for a few days. Been out on only one date with– actually, was that even a date? An early morning McDonald’s run we were practically forced into due to the club’s closing, sitting in a parking lot and eating ice cream and burgers out of a car. No. That was definitely not a date, even in the loosest sense of the term.

About an hour ago he dropped me back at my car, where we’d left it at the club, and we drove out together, eventually parting ways without another word.

But before I left him, he gave me his address and his phone number. He told me to call or stop by the next night so we can finish sorting things out. That is, if I decide to take him up on his offer. It’s a good enough plan, but I still haven’t agreed to anything, and I’m not sure that I will.

The whole money thing isn’t like me. As soon as he brought it up, I knew I probably wouldn’t go through with it, despite how undeniably tempting it was. I’m not the kind of person who can accept someone else’s handouts. I don’t have it in me, the same way that he doesn’t have it in him to fit in with the strip club crowd. It’s not a part of me, and it’s not something that can be faked.

I finish the glass of wine, tossing the last drop back, and when the water temperature starts to drop I get out and get myself ready for bed. I pull the stuffed animals off my bed in order to make my way under the sheets. Yes, I still sleep with stuffed animals, and no, I’m not ashamed, although I get that at my age it’s a pretty unique thing to do. And it can make for some interesting conversation if I should ever bring a guy home with me some night. If being the key word. I give one, my oldest teddy bear, a kiss on the nose before placing it on a nearby chair.

The few remaining cold weather birds we still have hanging around are starting to chirp. I hear them through my window as I lay my head down on my pillow, breathing in the sweet smells of peppermint and lavender emitting from the essential oil diffuser in the corner of my room. The sun will be up soon. I bundle my arms under the pillow, supporting my chin, and fight against closing my eyes. I want to see him again. I don’t want to see him for his money, or his car, or the fact that he’s incredibly good looking and smells delicious. Sorry, Lorelei. Smells sexy. All those things are great, don’t get me wrong. But there is more to him than that… something kind and attractive and potentially wonderful, and it’s that part of him that I want to see again.

I roll onto my back, my eyes still wide open in the half-darkness that’s now lighting my room.

He’s a night owl. Why, I wonder. One thing I learned during my studies in psychology is that very few people’s brains are that programmed for such a reversed sleep schedule unless they give it a good, forceful reason to be. Like me, with my job. My job pulls the night owl trait out of me, tooth and nail. I roll onto my side. It’s a given that there’s more to Cohen than meets the eye, so I don’t even know why I’m trying to figure it out on my own. He will have to help me with that.

Even apart from that, I have a lot to think about. If I accept his offer, that means I’ll have to give my notice of resignation to Mama May within the next day or two. And I know she won’t be happy, because I’m one of her best dancers. And Lorelei… Lorelei is a whole different story. She’ll require some explaining to. She’ll be working on her own from now on, at least until they can find someone to replace me. She won’t let me go without a fight.

My thoughts continue to swirl until they finally land back around and rest on Cohen.

I’m used to men throwing themselves all over me, both on stage and off, but it’s different with him. When I’m with him, the fact that I’m a stripper doesn’t seem to exist. In his eyes, I’m a normal person, as worthy of his attention as anyone else, and perhaps a bit more so. I saw it in the way he looked at me in the club, and I saw it in the way he pulled me away from those thugs, how the thought of participating in their evil acts so obviously didn’t even register in his mind – only the thoughts of vengeance, and me. He’s one hell of a sexy mystery, and I’ve never felt so intrigued.

Finally, I close my eyes. I pull the covers up to my chin and bundle them up with my fists, creating a warm cocoon of safety around my aching body, my lame attempt at somehow feeling someone else here with me. I fade into darkness to the sound of the birds.

I spend the following day wasting a few hours in the office, lazing through the necessities. When I return home, I busy myself with cleaning and organizing – my number one hobby when I’m not on the pole. Which, I think as I carefully dust around an outdated Christmas figurine that I never got around to putting away last month, makes my life incredibly lame. As lame as it is, I get through all of it the morning without giving much thought to Cohen, and for that, I’m impressed with myself.

When the afternoon starts to disappear, I messily stuff my cleaning supplies back under the sink and clap my hands. A clean apartment always makes me feel better, but I know what’s going on here. I’m avoiding shit, and I’d been trying to pull that wool over my own eyes. I’ve been avoiding noticing that I’m avoiding something. How messed up. I should already know what I’m going to tell Cohen, but thanks to these successful attempts at keeping myself too busy to think, I have no idea what’s going to happen when I go over there in a few hours.

I did manage to make up my mind to visit him instead of calling him, so at least I came that far. I figure if I’m going to turn down such a generous offer, the least I can do is show him the grace of doing it in person.

I quickly change out of the messy sweats I was wearing for cleaning and slip on a pair of leggings and a long, warm sweater. It’s the sweater my mother gifted me a few Christmases ago, and I almost forgot about it until I rummaged through my closet just now. A few tosses aside of some clothes here and there, and there it was, folded neatly on a back shelf, just waiting to comfort me with memories. I lift the sleeves up to my nose, breathing in the scent, wishing it still smelled like her. Of course, it doesn’t. It’s been sitting far too long and has taken on the musty, stale scent of the back of my closet. I throw my hands down.

My mother is in Florida with the rest of my family, and we haven’t seen each other in a year. At first, we tried to visit every few months, then twice a year and then we settled into a pattern of once a year. But this year, my work got in the way. I simply didn’t have the time to make the trip from Connecticut to Florida, even for a few days. It broke my heart, but the work I do isn’t exactly portable, and I have deadlines. I can only hope things will be different next year, but in my world, there are no guarantees.

As a last-ditch effort at making myself presentable, I spray on a dash of perfume, then head out. In the car, I use my phone to pull up Cohen’s address and plug it into my GPS. My car is nowhere near as nice as his, I notice as I wiggle back in the uncomfortable seat. It’s about seven years old, racked up with miles, and the faux leather trim is starting to peel around the edges. That’s not to mention the most disturbing thing of all – it’s yellow. As in, taxi cab yellow. This is the car I bought at the beginning of my freshman year of college. It goes without saying that I’m well overdue for an upgrade, but there’s been too much chaos lately, and my mind couldn’t register the fact that I should be embarrassed about my car in front of Cohen, especially when compared to his. There also just so happened to be so much else on my mind at the time. You know, potentially big, life-changing offers involving quitting my side job.

I set my phone down in the center console as the female voice spouts out directions. Cohen doesn’t live far from me, but his house is in an area I’ve never been before, and as I drive further and further through the unfamiliar winding roads, I can see why. The houses are huge.

I expected that, of course, given what I now know about him. But I didn’t expect anything like this. All the homes are big, but when I see Cohen’s address in gold numbers against a brick entryway, I stop. His house is the biggest. It’s completely gated on all sides, and I can only see the house itself by trailing my eyes up the long, winding driveway that sits behind the closed security gate. There, sitting on the top of a hill, is a huge white mansion. Its outside lights are on at the moment, giving the house and its entire exterior a warm, hazy glow, as though the entire house is illuminated to be the obvious focal point of the city.

I release my foot off the brake and my car rattles slowly up to the security gate. I’m confused at first, as there’s no obvious way to get through, and I pick up my phone to call Cohen to let him know I’m here. Then I drop the phone back down. There’s movement coming from a behind a patch of trees, and a man in a security uniform approaches my car. I can see it now, how he emerged from a small, tucked away booth. It’s not lit up, so it wasn’t obvious before.

He taps on my window before I roll it down.

“Hello,” I say, somewhat awkwardly. “I’m here to see Cohen. Er– Mr. Thatcher.” Thank goodness I remembered his last name. My mind can be slippery like that, and I’m not so sure Mr. Security Man here would have been impressed.

The man is dressed in a black suit and tie, and he has a clipboard in his hand. “Can I say that he’s expecting you?”

I nod. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

He gives me a brief once-over, leaning down to peer past me into my car, and says, “Wait here.” Then he walks away.

The thought of seeing Cohen again is bringing back that familiar feeling of butterflies in my stomach. Now I’m wishing I’d taken the time to dress better, or at least stick on a pair of earrings or something. I remembered to use some perfume, though, so at least I have that going for me.

From here, I can hear the security guard talking into a phone. I can’t tell if he’s talking to Cohen, but I hear a few of his brief words: “Yes. She is. Okay, sir. Goodbye.”

At the sound of “goodbye,” I snap back to attention and shift my eyes away from him so he won’t catch on to the fact that I’ve been trying to listen in. He returns, this time without his clipboard and with a friendlier look on his face.

“You can go ahead,” he says.

“Okay. Um, where should I–” Before I can finish asking where I’m supposed to park, he’s already left. He didn’t hear a word I said.

I grip the steering wheel and drive through the slowly opening gate. My car works hard to propel itself up the incline, and when I reach the very top of the tall drive, I park wherever seems to make the most sense, which just so happens to be right next to the staircase leading up to the main entryway. I don’t want to be imposing, and who knows who else I might run into in there who might think something of my parking job, but this seems to be the best spot.

I take a deep breath and head toward the stairs. This part of the driveway consists of white gravel, and it crunches beneath each of my steps, causing me to thank myself for not wearing heels.

The blinds are still open on some of the windows, and various lights shine from inside the house. A fireplace glows in the corner of what looks to be a living room, but I can’t see any movement.

I raise my hand to the door, knuckles ready. Just as I’m about to knock, the door opens for me. Cohen swings it on its hinges and then he’s there, standing a few feet in front of me. A splash of warm air hits my face when it wafts out of his home.

“Hey,” I say. He’s even more beautiful than I remember.

“Hey there.” He steps aside, ushering me in. “Come in.” I do, and after he closes the door behind me, he says, “It’s cold out there.”

“It sure is.” I rub my hands together for warmth.

The inside of Cohen Thatcher’s house is exactly as I expected – it’s bright and open, huge, of course, with a large, sparkling chandelier above our heads and a winding central staircase as the focal point. The floor is made of slick black and white patterned granite. He offers to take my purse off my shoulder.

“How many fireplaces do you have?” I ask curiously, because you know in a house like this, there’s most definitely more than one. I let him take my purse, shrugging my shoulders as he also helps with my coat.

“Nine.”

My eyes grow wide. “Nine?”

He smiles in return and sets my things on a round table in the middle of the entryway, next to a huge vase full of red and white flowers. “By last count.”

I get it. A joke, of course. “How do you take care of nine fireplaces?” If there are nine fireplaces, I can only imagine how many rooms this place holds. I bite my tongue. He’s probably thinking, Poor little Stella. Such a simpleton. She doesn’t realize that in a house like this, I don’t take care of anything.

He shrugs. “It’s not that hard as long as you pay people to keep up with it.”

Well, I was right, but at least he said it nicely.

“I used to have live-in help,” he goes on, “and it was easier then. But now all I do is have someone come once a week. Come on.” He touches the back of my shoulder and guides me to the room to our left, one that’s off of the main foyer, the one with the warm glow of the lit fire.

It’s cozy in here, the theme seeming to be one of rich, dark brown leather. All the walls are detailed with shiny brown wood, matching the color of the thick leather sofas. A row of windows covers one side of the wall, leading out to the expansive covered deck at the front of the house.

I sit on the sofa that’s facing those windows, setting my hands comfortably in front of me.

“I don’t mean to make this seem so formal,” Cohen says as he takes a seat on the sofa across from me. “I’d rather you think of this as a visit between friends than anything close to a professional financial arrangement.”

Between friends. So that’s all he thinks of me? It’s only been a few days, yes, but that right there is confirmation that I better stuff my feelings away. I give a light smile. “It’s fine.”

He leans back, sinking deeply into the leather, and lifts his arm onto the spine of the couch. “I assume you had a chance to think about what I offered?”

I swallow, preparing to speak. This is a pretty serious thing we’re talking about. Giving someone such a large amount of money is no small matter, but Cohen is kind of acting like it is. His words are business-like, but at the same time, I can tell that this isn’t that big of a big deal to him. He’d prefer that I say yes, of course, but it wouldn’t be the end of his world if I turn him down. He’s doing this only for my sake, to be kind. He doesn’t need to. He’s doing it to rescue me yet again – only this time, it’s not quite life or death.

“I did.” I look down at my clasped hands. I don’t know how to say this; plus, it’s easier to speak on tough subjects when I’m not distracted by his good looks. I close my eyes. When I open them again a second later, I say, “I decided not to do it. I mean– not to accept your money, at least.”

He doesn’t react. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I am going to quit dancing. Because you were right, it’s too dangerous, and I think that’s some pretty good advice that I should take. And what happened the other day…” I shake my head, my hair moving around my face. “I can’t keep going after that. I mean, I can, but I know that I shouldn’t.”

He’s watching me intently.

My words are uncertain now that I’m holding his piercing gaze, but I manage to finish slowly. “So I’m not going to.”

And that’s that. I did it. He knows that I don’t want his money. I clasp my hands together in my lap once more.

I expect him to press me further, to ask if I’ll be okay doing that, if I’ll be able to make ends meet. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks down and a tiny smile cracks at the corner of his mouth. Then he clears his throat, pulls his arm down from the back of the sofa, and leans forward toward me. From here, the soft, yellow-gold glow of the fireplace illuminates the side of his face. It brings out the lighter tones of his eyes, a detail which hits me in the gut as he looks deep into my own. He gives a relaxed shake of his head. “Okay. It sounds like you have this all planned out.”

I sit up straighter. “I do. I had enough time to think about it.”

There’s more he wants to say; I can feel it as he continues to watch me, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands holding each other as though mirroring mine. So why isn’t he saying it?

He sits up again and rubs his palms against his pants. “Well then–”

Oh, no. I know what he’s doing. He’s about to show me out.

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would go to a strip club,” I say suddenly. The words were a desperate attempt to keep the conversation flowing, and they escaped me without thought of consequence. I feel like hitting myself.

He pauses, looking at me with that same, now familiar half-smile of his.

“I mean…”

“I know what you meant.”

“I know you already admitted that it doesn’t fit you, and I agreed, but it’s just so obvious now.”

“It’s obvious? How?”

I look around. “Well, this is high class. You’re high class.”

He laughs. “High class men don’t go to strip clubs?”

“No, of course they do. That’s not what I mean.” I wait for him to step in, to explain my own thoughts for me as he seems to be so genuinely good at doing. But he doesn’t. He lets me finish. “I just mean that you’re… classy. Classy is very different from high class.”

His hands are still unmoving from where he’d placed them on his knees, ready to get up.

“Oh, God,” I say as I realize how ridiculous I must sound. “Please take that as a compliment.”

His gaze hasn’t broken mine this whole time, and it doesn’t now. “I’m pretty sure that’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”

That leaves me speechless, but something else suddenly catches my attention. Something is moving behind Cohen. I shift to the side to get a closer look over his shoulder. Snowflakes. It’s snowing, and as I watch for a moment, they quickly become larger and begin to fall more heavily. They’ve already formed a thick coating on the ground and my car.

Cohen turns to see what I’m looking at. “I didn’t know it was supposed to snow tonight,” he says. He doesn’t seem too concerned.

Me, on the other hand? I’m a different story. I can’t stand driving in the snow. Like, I really, really hate it. It gives me anxiety.

He turns back to me. “I should have asked earlier, but would you like a drink?” He thumbs in the direction of this room’s exit, no doubt toward one of the dozens of rooms in this place. “I have a full bar. Whatever you want.”

“No, thanks. I don’t drink.” At this point, even despite all that I now know about him, I still expect him to react with shock, because who’s ever heard of a stripper who doesn’t drink?

But he doesn’t bat an eye. He stands and excuses himself, I’m sure to help himself to one.

The crackle of the fire increases in the quiet now that he’s gone. I get up and walk to the set of full-length windows, then cross my arms when I feel the slightest cold draft seeping through the edges. The snow has picked up, and there’s already a good three inches out there. If I’m going to have a chance at getting out of here, I’d better leave now.

Just as the thought crosses my mind, a wind gust blows a flurry of powdery snow against the window, blinding me.

I sigh. This could be bad.

I make my way around the room, taking in the décor, which I can only assume to be Cohen’s, but knowing that with the amount of money he has, he more than likely hired someone to decorate it for him. I’d be better off not assuming like I did when I first arrived, thinking he might actually maintain his own mansion.

A painting of a man on a horse hangs on an otherwise empty wall, and if I look close enough I can see the actual texture of the paint strokes. I extend a finger to touch them, as inviting as they are, but pull my hand back. If the painting is genuine, I’m sure touching wouldn’t be appreciated. I have to remember to act like I’m in a museum in this place.

When I make it to the mantle above the fireplace, I stop. Another vase of flowers sits in the center, but off its sides are bunches of picture frames. They’re full of smiling faces, all of people I don’t know, but one of them includes Cohen. It’s the last one in the line, and it looks to be a picture from many years ago, judging by how young he looks. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old when it was taken. I’m sure it’s him though. He has the same blue eyes, the same dark hair and the same strong, distinct jawline. He’s posing with a group of three others, two of which are adults, who I can only assume to be his parents, and one is a young girl, who must be his sister. They’re standing together in front of a shoreline on a sunny day, all of them dressed in their swimsuits, and the picture is a lighthearted one – the girl is smiling sweetly, but Cohen has one arm absently wrapped around her shoulders, the other raised and curled to jokingly show off his muscles, his nose scrunched at the camera.

I smile.

“So,” comes a deep voice from behind me, “do I need to worry about you shanking me?”

I turn at the sound. Cohen is holding two mugs in his hands, their contents steaming.

He approaches me and then stops, taking a quick look past me, glancing at the picture and then back to me. He offers me the mug with that same knowing half-grin on his face. “Sorry,” he says, changing the unspoken subject. “I know you don’t like that word.”

I smile. He’s not really sorry. “I never said I don’t like it. I said it was strange.” The smell of hot cocoa fills my nose. It’s hot and fresh, sprinkled with fluffy white marshmallows and topped with a drizzle of chocolate. It’s obviously homemade. I inhale the rich chocolate scent and wrap my fingers around the cup.

He takes a sip then stuffs one of his hands in his pocket. “From classy to strange in such a short amount of time.”

I take a drink, too, and then roll my eyes. “And no, you don’t have to work about me shanking you. I really only worry about carrying my knife on me when I’m working.” I pause to second guess what I’m saying, then smile. “That’s not say you shouldn’t watch yourself.”

He raises his drink a bit. “Fair enough.”

I bring his attention back to the picture. “Is this you?”

“Yep.”

“And those are your parents?”

He nods, coming closer. “And that’s my sister, Olivia.”

I lean in again, taking more of her in now that I know who she is. “Are you guys close?”

“My sister and I are pretty close. My mom died shortly after this picture was taken, and my dad passed a few years ago.” He brings the drink back to his mouth and walks away.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s alright. I’ve moved on as well as I could. And you didn’t know.” He looks out at the snow. “We’d better get you out of here soon if you’re going to have a chance at making it home.”

I step next to him. I anxiously watch the snow fall over the rim of my cup. “Oh shit,” I say while it continues to pour down. “It looks worse.”

Snow has built up in the driveway. It’s at least five or six inches now and already covering the bottoms of my car doors. I clutch the cup tighter. I do not want to drive home in this. Beyond that, I actually don’t know if I can. Call me a wimp if you want to, but I’ve had too many close calls in the snow and ice to not be freaked about it.

That’s what I have to tell him. I look up at Cohen. “I don’t know if I can.”

He appears confused. He looks back out the windows, then back to me once more. “It is a lot of snow. You want to stay here?”

I don’t know what I want. How can I stay here? I have nothing but what I brought with me in my purse, which is only a few of the barest essentials. I don’t even have anything to wear to bed. I might have a toothbrush, which, along with that razor, is one of the essentials of dancing. Still, I think as I watch that evil white fluff fully engulf my car, there’s no way I can do this. Do that. All that’s going on out there? Nope. I can’t do it.

“I don’t know,” I answer, my mouth growing dry. “Can I?”

“Well, I guess if you need to. Of course you can.”

I’m learning a lot about Cohen. For instance, that he can be hard to read. A lot of times he’s honest and playful, almost flirty with me; but other times, when it comes to important things, like our financial arrangement or me staying the night at his place, he keeps himself tucked away, and I can’t tell whether he’s pleased or displeased or completely indifferent. Maybe it’s the businessman in him.

Sensing my hesitation, he repeats, “Of course you can stay here.” He sets his mug down on a nearby side table. He silently offers to take mine, and I hand it over. “Come with me. I’ll get you set up.”

“Thanks,” I say as I follow closely. “You probably think I’m strange, but I’ve just had bad experiences in the snow.”

He gives me a cocky grin over his shoulder. “We’re both strange, then.”

Cohen gives me a mini tour of his home. It’s miniature because there’s no way he could have shown me to every room without it taking about an hour. I count thirteen rooms, each just as elaborately decorated and immaculate as the last, before he stops at a closed door.

He pushes on the brass doorknob and holds the door open for me. “Here we go,” he says.

I walk past him and then stop, my head scanning the beautiful setup. In this room sits a king-sized bed that’s graced by a tall, pillared bedframe. That bed faces a tall, white marble fireplace, and on top of that mantle is a huge flat-screen TV. The floor is dark hardwood, and there’s an oversized rug positioned underneath the bed.

I move to the other end of the room. Cohen follows. In this corner is another door, one that wasn’t visible when we first came in. I open it to find a full bathroom. The shower mimics the bright white marble of the fireplace, and behind the glass are several gigantic shower heads. Everything is squeaky clean.

“Are you serious?”

Cohen comes up behind me, smiling. “It’s all yours.”

I turn around, positive he can spot my look of appreciation.

“For tonight, at least.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Cohen. This really helps me. Like I said, I have this… funny thing with driving in snow.”

“I can tell.” He rocks back on his heels. “Anyway,” he moves away, disappearing out the door for only a moment. When he returns, he’s carrying a pile of crisp, white towels. “Here’s some fresh towels, just in case there aren’t any in the linen closet.” He pauses and I take the towels from him. “I didn’t realize it until just now, but I haven’t had any guests in a long time.”

It feels like he’s waiting for me to say something. I set the towels next to the sink.

He continues, “So I’m sorry if anything’s missing.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I look around, finally noticing the chandelier above me. It’s almost as big as the one in the entryway downstairs. “How could I not be?”

“I’ll bring you some extra clothes, then. A tee shirt or something for you to sleep in.”

I smile at him. “That would be great.”

With that, he leaves me again. I make my way back into the bedroom, and I look up here, too, taking in the incredibly high ceiling. There’s no chandelier here like there was in the bathroom. Instead, there’s a ceiling fan. I walk to the group of switches by the door and flick them up and down, trying them out to see which ones control what. When I find the one that controls the fan, it begins to spin and whir, and its blades move massive, refreshing amounts of cool air.

I take a deep breath as the air spins around me. The breeze invades me and I close my eyes, feeling rejuvenated at the newness of this all already. A free night in a mansion, alone with Cohen Thatcher might just be better than any vacation.

Although truthfully, the biggest reason I feel such a load lifted from me is the fact that I’m no longer attached to that side job of mine. Stripping takes a lot out of you, and I’m just glad I managed to get out before it took everything. Even if that does mean money will be tight for a while.

Cohen reappears, pulling my attention back to reality and to him. “Here you go.” He sets a folded pair of clothes down at the foot of the bed.

I reach out for them, ready to lift them up and examine them superficially. In doing so, my hand brushes against his in the briefest of moments. We both pause. The skin of his hand is warm, much warmer than my always-cold hands, but it’s incredibly rough. I always thought you could tell a lot about people by their hands, and Cohen’s tell me he’s a man who hasn’t always had it so easy in life.

He looks at me as I look at him, our eye locking, and then he pulls away and walks back to the door.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” he says with one of those hands on the doorknob. “I’ll be just down the hall.”

He leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.

I brush my fingertips across what he’s left me – a comfy, oversized gray tee shirt and a pair of workout pants, no doubt both of which are his. I should pick up the pants in this moment, hold them against me to see if there’s any chance that they might fit, but I don’t.

I didn’t even have a chance to thank him one more time.

I get over it pretty quickly.

I’m spending the night in the guy’s house, after all – sorry, not house… mansion – and he’ll be here when I wake up in the morning.

At least, he should be. That would be the case with any other normal person, but we’re talking about Cohen Thatcher here, a man of many mysteries, and we’re also talking about me. And by now, I know better than to assume.

I try not to assume things about anyone to lessen my chances of being taken by surprise. Cohen is a multi-millionaire businessman, I’m sure he could have super important work to attend to. Maybe he’ll be called in and won’t be here in the morning. It’s possible.

In the bathroom, I pull off my clothes and undo my bra. I’ve moved my Uggs to the side, lining them up against the wall, and I uncurl my fingers. I look into my hand at the shiny silver switchblade that I just pulled out of my sock. I unfold it and carefully touch my finger to the blade, testing its sharpness. It’s sharp alright. I’m pretty sure I could use this as a razor right now, if I really wanted to. The fact that it’s sharp as a razor doesn’t surprise me, either; I’m good about taking care of it and keeping it in its best shape.

I snap the blade closed and then slip it down into my Uggs, making sure it’s pushed all the way in at the toe so it’s completely concealed.

Then I run some water over my face and slip on Cohen’s tee shirt. The henley fabric is cool and soft, and I give myself a soothing hug before climbing into bed.

This is the life, I think as the cold silk sheets slide over my bare legs, eventually covering my panties and lower back in similar coolness when I roll onto my stomach.

The bed is so comfortable that before I even know what hit me, I’m fast asleep.

It isn’t long after I’ve drifted off that I’m awakened by a noise.

I sit up, the now-warm silk sheets sliding off the top half of me. I hold my breath so I can listen into the darkness. I could have sworn I heard something in my sleep – and surely something must have woken me, right? – but now I’m not so sure it was anything real. Maybe it was a dream.

I’m about to settle back into the comfort of sleep when I hear something again. It’s a loud moan, deep and nonsensical, and it only lasts for a split second before it’s gone.

I sit up again, this time quickly with my hands holding the bed on either side of me.

What the hell was that? It sounded like it came from outside my door, from somewhere in the hall.

I grab my phone off the bedside table. I don’t have my charger with me, so it only has forty percent left, but so be it. I need this thing right now.

I click on the phone’s flashlight and the room is instantly lit up. I take a quick swipe around with the phone. Nothing is out of the ordinary in here, so that means I was right. It must have come from out there, somewhere in the hall.

I pull down on the doorknob and peer out into the hall. I look both ways but see nothing. It’s empty, but I’m surprised to find that it’s not pitch black. It’s very lightly lit by a few small lights here and there that Cohen must have left on.

Still needing the light from my phone, I venture out. I wrap one arm around myself. It’s chilly out here, almost as if there’s a window open somewhere nearby, but I can’t see one.

I think I hear another sound, this time coming from opposite the direction I’m heading. It was a creaking sound. I turn, flashing my light in the general direction, but there’s nothing there.

Great. Just great. Moans and creaks in the middle of the night in this dim, chilly, old unfamiliar mansion. What the fuck is next?

Whether or not that creak was just my mind playing tricks on me, there’s no way I can go back to sleep now without discovering the source of those moans, which I now know for a fact that I heard.

Quickly, I try to remember – did Cohen say anyone else was staying here? No, he simply said he hasn’t had guests in a long time. Still, does that mean he lives alone? Just because he didn’t introduce me to anyone, doesn’t mean no one else is here. I should have asked. Damn.

I’ll be down the hall, he’d said.

That seems like the most worthwhile direction to take, then. It just sucks that down the hall happens to be a long, dark, and creepy path to take. I start walking, my phone held out in front of me, illuminating the way. I wish I knew where the light switches were in this place.

After braving it a few tentative feet, another moan cries out. This time it’s strained, as though the person is trying to say something, but can’t, and is in some kind of battle to get the words out.

Oh, God. Maybe someone is being hurt.

That thought drives me on, and I hurry now, eventually making it to the end of the hall, where I find a door straight in front of me.

This must be the master bedroom.

I slowly lean close until my ear is pressed against the thick, mahogany-scented wood.

I don’t hear anything.

I lightly tap on the door, my knuckles making a deep, echoing thud. “Cohen?”

There’s no answer. I take hold of the doorknob and test it, expecting it to be locked. I’m surprised to find that it isn’t; it pops open with only the slightest amount of pressure.

I poke my head through the crack of the door. “Cohen?” I say again, this time a little louder.

Still, there’s no response.

It’s darker in here than it was in the hall, but it’s obvious now where that cold draft was coming from. One of the panels of the window next to his bed has blown open, and it’s swinging freely, a small amount of snow already gathering inside the room.

Still not having identified the dark figure who’s laying in the bed, I rush over to the window and push it closed, securing it with a latch in the middle.

My hands are wet from the snow that’s come in and iced around the window, so I rub them dry against my shirt. Then I turn around. The body in the bed hasn’t moved since I’ve been in here.

I try to hide my light from whoever it is. If the sounds did come from this room, they’ve stopped now. At least I closed the window.

Before I can sneak back out the door, another moan comes from the direction of the bed. I snap my head around. Now the body is moving, slightly twisting under the covers.

I turn off my light and approach the bed, setting my phone down on the nightstand next to the bed. From here, I can see dark hair resting against a pillow. I move to the other side, and that’s when I see that it’s definitely Cohen.

He appears to be in a deep sleep, but his face is pained, his brows knitted together as though he’s in some kind of deep thought. His legs randomly twitch every few seconds. It’s pretty obvious that he’s having a nightmare.

I place a hand on his shoulder and give him a gentle shake. “Cohen.”

Nothing but another moan. Then more struggling. Despite how cold it still is in here, beads of sweat appear on his forehead.

“Cohen. Wake up.” I shake him a little harder.

Suddenly, my shakes produce the desired result. He shoots up, panting and drenched in sweat. We connect for a moment, but his eyes are glassy and I can see that he’s only half there. I freeze, moving my hands away. He grabs me by my shoulders and throws me down on the bed. He clutches me a little too hard, pinning me down against the mattress.

I scream. I instinctively reach down to my ankle, grasping for a blade that isn’t there.

The sound of my scream seems to snap him back to reality. I watch as his breathing continues to pulse, his bare chest expanding in and out. He looks me over. Until just now, when I reached for my weapon and found it to be missing, I didn’t realize that I’d forgotten to put on the pair of sweatpants he gave me, not to mention my socks and Uggs, which would have enabled me to hide it.

I look down at my body. I’m wearing nothing more than the tee shirt that he gave me, which doesn’t provide much coverage for anything down below.

He releases me. “Stella?” he says, moving back. He looks confused and exhausted, both mentally and physically. He’s wearing nothing but a loose pair of sweat pants, and standing in front of me now, his fit, sweaty body heaves up and down as he tries to catch his breath. Then he looks down at those sweatpants, as though he’s examining them, and runs his palms over the fabric.

He’s even more fit than I thought he’d be. His entire body is toned, and as his ribs expand and contract the muscles of his six pack ripple in the light breaking through the window.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks, still in the process of catching his breath. “The room is almost pitch black. I had no idea who you were. I could have–”

I shake my head, still in shock about what just happened. “What?”

He almost yells, “I’m trying to say I could have seriously hurt you.”

I bite my lower lip. “I heard something when I was in bed. It woke me up, and I thought it was coming from your room. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I look up at him, but he’s waiting for me to continue.

“It turns out I was right. You were… moaning and making noise and tossing around. And,” I lift my arm, pointing to the window, “your window was wide open. It was freezing in here. I’m surprised you’re not showing symptoms of hypothermia or something.”

He looks down, moving his feet away from a small amount of snow. He nods. “Yeah. I keep that window open on purpose.”

I stare at him, confused.

He sighs. “Although usually when I leave it open it’s not snowing out. I guess that wasn’t such a good idea.” He gets a hand towel from his bathroom and wipes the melting snow off the floor and windowsill.

“Can I ask why?”

“Why what?” He’s not looking at me. He must still be a little thrown by everything.

“Why you leave the window open in the middle of winter.”

He tosses the wet towel in the direction of a laundry basket. It lands on the side of the basket and stays there, barely hanging on.

“It keeps me cool.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Cool or cold?”

Cohen just looks at me.

“I mean, it’s about forty degrees in here.” Speaking of, I look around for something to keep me warm. The only thing I find is the comforter from Cohen’s bed. It’s under me, so I rise and pull it around my shoulders, then sit back down.

“Yeah, well. When you toss and turn all night it can feel pretty good.”

I don’t say anything. I allow Cohen the time to collect his thoughts. After a while, though, I feel it might be better to leave, so I let the comforter slip from my shoulders. I’m about to stand when he takes a seat next to me on the bed.

“It was a nightmare.” He clears his throat and says again, more confidently, “What you saw? That was a nightmare. One of many.”

“I figured, but it must have been some nightmare. What was it about?”

He doesn’t answer, so it’s pretty obvious that he has something to hide. I don’t read into it any further, though. So far, Cohen has been nothing but honest with me, and if he has a reason to not be totally straightforward right now, I’m sure it’s a good one.

I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them up to my chest. “I’m pretty sure nightmares are normal.”

He looks into the distance and replies, “Yeah. They can be.”

I place a hand on his shoulder, my intention for it to be nothing more than a reassuring gesture. But when I feel him, it brings me back to when he touched me for the very first time, that night in the cold alley with the fire alarm blaring in the distance. Me, surrounded by danger, and Cohen, the only one who I can now trust to step in and pull me away from it. From now on, I’ll always associate that touch of his with a feeling of raw male protection and strength. And that intoxicates me.

He notices my reaction to the touch. Of course he does.

He looks down at my hand and says, “What are you doing?” His voice is gravely and it sends shivers through my spine.

He gets me, like he always does, and it only takes a second for my thoughts to register in his mind. He submits and places a likewise sympathetic hand on my bare leg, his intention as innocent as mine first was.

I lift my face to his, trying to say something, but when our eyes meet, the words disappear. That’s okay. It feels as though none need to be said anyway.

He curls an arm around my waist.

I lean into his magnetic warmth, my head coming to rest against his chest.

The next time I look at him, this time to force some kind of words out, he locks his eyes on my lips and brings his to mine. My mind draws the moment out in slow motion, until I’m left watching him in anticipation. I can practically taste those lips before they arrive.

His lips are flushed from what he’s just been through, as is the rest of his body, and they warm mine as he kisses me. He cups the back of my head with his palm and together we fall into the bed.

As he rubs his thumb across my cheek, any remaining sensations of cold wash away. He runs that same hand from my face down my body, eventually to the top of my panties and then below them, resting at the top of my thigh.

We kiss until we can’t anymore, pulling back at the same time to save the remaining kisses for later with an unspoken promise that we both understand. Cohen sighs into my mouth as he touches my smooth upper leg. I wrap one leg around him and take in the ripples of his muscles on his perfect chest.

I give him a warm smile and a soft, crooked grin grows on face in response. I’ve never felt as safe as I do now, being held in the strong arms of this man who’s proven in more ways that on that he will protect me.

Suddenly, while I’m watching, that grin of his starts to fade away. Something dark passes behind his eyes, closing them off from me.

Just like that, I’ve lost him. He pushes himself away from me.

I sit up, confused.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “You should get out of here, Stella.” He stands and grabs a shirt that’s hanging from one of his open dresser drawers.

I don’t respond. I can’t believe what he just said.

“This isn’t good for you,” he says as he puts the shirt on.

My mouth hangs open. “What?” I say in an exhaled breath. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not.”

And I can tell that he’s not. He’s trying to keep his back to me as he puts his shirt on, and from where I am I can see the muscles of his jaw tense. He’s dead serious.

“Okay, you’re serious. But… why? What are you talking about?”

He stands in front of the window before finally turning back to me to speak. “Come on, Stella. You’re smart. You know what I mean. I’m trying to tell you that I’m not any good for you.”

I shake my head. “You’re wrong. You might just be the only thing that’s good for me in my entire train wreck of a life.”

He huffs his disapproval and glances at me out of the corner of his eyes, his look giving the impression that he’s the all-knowing authority when it comes to train wrecks of a life. He says, “Your life isn’t a train wreck.”

I rise up on my knees. “How would you know? You won’t let me get anywhere close to you.”

“And there’s a good reason for that.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me, Cohen? What’s the deal with you?”

“What’s the deal with me?” he almost growls. He stops to calm himself before continuing, “What do you mean?”

I’m not ashamed of what I said. I didn’t say it to be mean or confrontational, and Cohen knows that. I said it to get more out of him, to keep him talking about it, because whatever it is, that is how we heal – and he knows that, too. I’d say it again if I had the chance.

“I mean,” I answer, “what’s your problem? What’s with the nightmares, and what’s with turning me away even though we both know you and I want this, and what the hell is with the mystery man you keep trying to be?”

He shakes his head. “I sure as hell don’t try to be mysterious. I helped you that night because it was the right thing to do, and that’s the only reason.” He breathes heavily again.

I pause. “Is it?” I might as well press him; we’ve come this far.

He doesn’t answer. He’s giving me nothing but more silence, mystery and non-answers.

I sit back on my ankles. It’s obvious that Cohen isn’t the kind of guy who will let me get anywhere with anything that resembles hostility, so I need to take a different approach. “I want to help you, Cohen,” I say softly.

The wind whips outside the closed window. The snow that’s keeping me here is showing no sign of letting up.

“I wouldn’t ever judge you,” I finish, the words so meaningful they exhaust me.

He lowers his head. “I know you wouldn’t.” He turns back to the window. “But you don’t want to hear about it.”

“What?”

“I said,” he looks at me, “you don’t want that on you.”

He’s wrong. I do want it, whatever it is. I want it because I want him, and I know that with a person automatically comes all their fears, their baggage, their deepest, darkest secrets... their nightmares. I want it because I know that with all that also comes the best of them.

But I don’t have the guts to say that out loud.

“Well,” he continues, his mind working to predict me, “even if you do, I don’t want that for you.”

I try to hide my anxious breath. When it feels like everything has been said and done, I stand.

It breaks my heart that this might be the end of Cohen Thatcher for me. It doesn’t appear that he wants me here. At least, he definitely doesn’t want any kind of romantic relationship at the moment, and a friendship between us wouldn’t work because of what just happened here. Love is a thin red line. When it’s crossed, there’s usually no going back.

I pull the door shut behind me and dread that fact that I’m leaving him. He probably won’t get any more sleep tonight, although I have a feeling that has more to do with those nightmares than anything that just happened between him and I.

Of course, I could be wrong.