“Jail?” I echo. “What was he in for?”

“Lots of things,” she admits, then closes her eyes, trying to gather her composure. She takes in a breath and opens her eyes, trying to convince me she’s okay. Her body language says otherwise. One arm is tightly wrapped around me and she’s pulling on the little pineapple charm hanging from her necklace. “Long story short, he wasn’t happy I broke up with him.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

She shrugs, forcing a smile. “I guess so. And I got these texts that freaked me out, but if primetime cable crime shows have taught me anything, it’s that you can pretty much get a facial recognition app. He saw my photo in The Times and figured out who I was, where I was, and what I was wearing.”

“He knows where you are? That’s serious, Ana. Is this guy threatening you? Maybe we could contact the police.”

“And tell them what? My ex-boyfriend told me he misses me? Trust me, they won’t see that as a threat.”

“You make it sound like you’ve been through this before.”

“I have. And it’s okay. My ex is a low-life creep and is trying to get to me. But I won’t let him. The last text—” she grabs her phone to show me —“really freaked me out for a minute. Made me feel like he was watching. Then I remembered that article mentioned how the journalist ran into ‘debut author Scarlett Levine’ at a restaurant in New York City.”

“That’s still fucked up,” I say slowly. She’s withholding some big details, and I’m not satisfied. This asshole is upsetting her more than she’s admitting to. He had to do some pretty messed up shit to have that kind of effect on her. She didn’t hear me come into the house. Or call her name. Or walk into the kitchen. When I saw her there by the table, eyes closed and hands shaking, it was as if her mind checked out and she was mentally going through whatever hell he put her through all over again.

I want to crush his bones for hurting her.

“It is, but I’m okay. He’s not here. You’re here, though. How did the rest of the meeting go?”

I can tell she’s putting up a front, and I want so fucking bad to be the one to tear down her walls. I want to tell her she’s safe with me, that I’d never let anyone lay a finger on her. I want her to know how much I care, and how much it’s killing me to know she’s going to leave in a few hours.

But I shouldn’t.

It’ll be a mistake if she trusts me and puts her fragile heart in my hands. It’ll only be a matter of time before I break it. Not on purpose, no, I could never do anything to hurt someone as beautiful as Ana. But that’s what happens when I let my emotions run the show.

I fuck up.

I can’t fuck up. Not with her. Not when she’s already been hurt before. She needs someone who can heal her, not hurt her. And that person isn’t me.

“The meeting went fine. A pain in the ass, but fine in the end. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m a little embarrassed you saw me freaking out over nothing, but I’m good.”

“Ana,” I say. “This guy is messing with you. This isn’t nothing.”

“If I told you it was nothing new that wouldn’t help, would it?”

“No.” I run my fingers down her arm. Every muscle in her body is tense. I hate that she’s guarded, that she’s hiding this and dealing with it on her own. I want to help her through it. Talk about it. Be there for her. Bottling feelings up inside doesn’t bode well for anyone. I have some great first-hand knowledge on how that goes. “If he recently got released from prison and is already harassing you, the police should be contacted. Is he on any sort of probation that you’re aware of?”

Fear flashes behind her green eyes. It’s only there for a second, but I saw it and no matter how much she insists she’s fine, I know she’s not.

She’s fucking terrified.

What the hell did this guy do to her?

“His uncle is a judge, so he got off easy. That’s America for you though, right?” She laughs, but it’s strained and higher pitched than normal. My chest tightens against the words that fight to come out. The words that will form the sentences that will tell her how I really feel. Confessing everything to her right this very moment is all wrong. All out of place. Yet seeing her like this, broken and scared but holding herself together with such grace, is making me realize just how fucking special she is. She told me she was named after Wonder Woman and wants to be a hero too. She’s not fighting crime or stopping bullets, but she’s strong. Brave. Courageous.

I won’t meet a woman like Ana ever again.

She’ll meet many men better than me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and the two words sound lame as soon as they come out of my mouth. Of course I’m sorry. Anyone with even a portion of a soul would be sorry someone was treated like shit to the point an arrest was made.

She opens her mouth to protest, but sighs instead. “Thanks,” she says quietly and lets her hand slip off my shoulder. She drops it down and links her fingers through mine. I bend my elbow up, bringing her hand to my face so I can kiss her fingers.

“This guy lives in your hometown?”

“No. The next one over.”

“He’s still close. And if he’s sending you threats while you’re all the way out here, being closer to him is dangerous. My experience with ex-criminals is limited to crime fiction, but I do believe it to be true that vengeance is on the top of a lot of lists when someone gets out of jail. He could come after you.”

“I guess so,” she whispers.

“I don’t want to scare you. But I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

I look into her green eyes, fighting back the urge to bare it all to her. To tell her to stay. For one more night. One more week. Until things settle. Until we know she’s safe, that this loser really isn’t following her.

Or waiting for her to return.

But I don’t say anything at all.

“Don’t worry. I’ll stay at my mom’s for a while, and she has a lot of dogs that bark when people so much as look at the house. She’ll cook for me and do my laundry while I’m there, which means more writing time for me. I need to get this book done on time or my editor will be all over me.” She bites her lip and smiles. “Won’t you?”

She’s purposely shifting gears to get off the subject of her past. I can’t blame her. I don’t like to talk about mine either. As much as I want to strip her naked and fuck her so hard she’s screaming my name, I can’t.

I’m too fucking concerned to be distracted by her body. She’s not just a hook-up. She’s not just a friend with benefits. I like her, but I know it’s more than that.

I’m falling for her.