I should be exhausted after our second round of sex, but for some reason I’m wide awake afterwards. Luckily, Cas seems like he isn’t in any hurry to go to sleep, either. We fall into an easy rhythm of conversation, catching up with what we’ve each been doing for the past few years — as though we’re not lying in bed naked next to one another after two rounds of mind-blowing sex.

I tell him about going back to school for a second year of college, and then dropping out again. What I don’t tell him is why. That after I’d discovered I was pregnant, I made it through the school year, and even Noah’s birth, but in the end I couldn’t make it all work financially with a baby on a full-time student’s budget.

I feel a twinge of guilt and nerves as I tell him all this. Part of me is both hoping and dreading that he’ll put two and two together and figure out that Noah is his. I should tell him, I know. Now that Cas has actually met Noah, I feel like I have to tell him. But how do you do that? How do you tell a guy, “Hey, by the way, that kid running around with deep brown eyes and a shock of brown hair? Yeah, he’s yours. Sorry I forgot to tell you at the time.”

The fact is, I agonized about whether to tell Cas about Noah throughout the entire pregnancy. But I didn’t want him to think I was trying to rope him into a relationship. And I didn’t want Noah to have a father who didn’t want him. In the end, I told myself that I could love my son enough for two parents. But it was easier to believe that when he was a baby. Now that he’s older, I know Noah is starting to miss having a father. And now that I’m back in Tanner Springs, it’s even harder to figure out how to navigate all this.

Especially since here I am back in Cas’s bed.

“Hey,” Cas is saying, as he begins to twine a lock of my hair around his finger. “What’s with the hair, by the way?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Why did you dye it?”

Oh. I’ve been coloring my hair for a while now. Long enough that I forgot Cas hasn’t ever seen me as a brunette before. “I don’t know,” I shrug. “I guess… I thought people would take me more seriously as a brunette. You’d be surprised how many people seem to believe the ‘dumb blonde’ thing.”

“Huh.” He’s quiet for a moment.

“What?” Now I’m self-conscious. Reaching up to touch my head, I ask, “Does it look bad?”

“No, no. Not at all.” He looks at me. “It looks good, actually. It’s hot. But…” For a couple of seconds he looks like he’s trying to decide what to say. Finally, he murmurs, “I get that it’s just hair, Jen. Women dye their hair all the time. But… don’t cover yourself up, okay?” His face is serious. “You don’t need to hide from anyone. Be yourself.”

Anger flashes through me. I hate when guys tell women how to dress, or how much makeup they should have on, or how to do their hair. It happens to me all the damn time. I open my mouth to tell Cas to go to hell, but then I close it again.

Because as pissed off as part of me is that he thinks he should get to tell me what to do with my hair…

He’s right.

I dye my hair precisely to cover myself up. To hide the part of me that does nothing but screw things up. To look more serious, more capable.

But for the first time, I realize that I’m not hiding myself from other people. I’m hiding myself from myself.

And somehow, Cas Watkins saw right through me.

I’m not about to let him know that, though.

“What about you?” I challenge. “You’re hiding behind that big bad biker thing.” I’m trying to rile him up — suddenly I want him to be angry with me — but he just laughs.

“I’m not hiding anything, Jen.” He lifts his head to grin suggestively at me. “What you see is what you get. And you’ve seen pretty much everything.”

I blush. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” I wave my hands around. “You’re Big, Bad, mysterious Ghost Watkins, Sergeant at Arms for the Lords of Carnage. You’re trying to tell me that’s not something you use to keep the world at a distance?”

He shrugs. Clearly, I’m not getting under his skin as much as I want to. “Not more than anyone else,” he says calmly. “The club’s a brotherhood. I’m not hiding from anything.”

I snort. “I don’t buy it.”

“What would I be hiding?” he asks, raising his hands wide.

“I don’t know. You tell me,” I say. “I mean, I barely know anything about you. How would I know what you’re hiding?”

“What do you mean?” He frowns, genuinely perplexed. “We’ve known each other for years.”

“Yeah, but… what do we really know about each other?” I persist.

“I know what makes you scream,” he says reaching for me.

“Stop!” I bat him away. “I’m serious.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “What do you want to know?”

“Ummm…” I sit for a few seconds, thinking. “Okay. Cats or dogs?”

“What?” He’s confused.

“Which do you like better?” I explain. “Cats or dogs?”

“Oh.” He cocks his head at me. The smirk on his face tells me he’s considering whether to play this silly game with me. Finally, he relents. “Dogs. You?”

“Both,” I say. “With a slight preference for dogs. Okay, now your turn.”

“Are we seriously doing this?” he complains, but I’m not having it.

“Yes. Your turn. Go.”

He sighs dramatically. “Okay. Uh. Day or night?”

“Hm. Day,” I smile. “I love the sunshine on my face. You?”

“Night,” he grins, reaching out to stroke my breast. I shiver, but push him away. “Pizza or hamburgers?”

“You have to choose between pizza and hamburgers?” I ask.

“This is your game,” he reminds me.

“Pizza. As long as I can have different flavors.” I specify. “Okay, my turn.” I think for a second. “Leather or lace?”

“What? On me?” He starts laughing.

“No, silly. On women.” I shrug my shoulders. “Like, do you like women who wear jeans and leather, or more frilly, girly stuff?”

“Whatever you’re wearing is good with me,” he growls. “Right now I’m partial to naked.”

“Focus,” I say. “Oh, here’s a good one. Movies or books?”

“Books,” he replies firmly.

“Seriously?”

“What?” he protests. “You think I can’t read?”

“No, no, it’s just… a little hard to imagine you reading.” I admit, eyeing him curiously. “What’s your favorite book?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo,” he replies instantly. “My granddad gave it to me when I was a kid. I still have it. And you’ve asked like three questions in a row.”

“Okay, sorry. Your turn.”

He looks at me for a few seconds, thinking. Then finally: “Regret something you have done, or regret something you haven’t done?”

Whoa. I thought this was just a stupid game. But once again, it’s like somehow Cas has just reached inside my head.

Regretting things has become almost a religion for me. I’ve made so many stupid mistakes in my life so far. Sometimes I think making mistakes is all I’m good at.

I almost just give him a flippant answer so we can move on. But instead, I can’t help but turn Cas’s question over in my head. I think about my fling with him all those years ago. It’s a fling I regretted almost instantly. But it gave me Noah. I can’t regret that, no matter what.

I don’t know what’s going on between Cas and me, now, either. It might end up blowing up in my face. But if I’m honest with myself? I can’t regret this, either, no matter what happens.

The one thing I really, really regret as I sit here right now, though? That I never told Cas about Noah. That I’m going to have to do it eventually, and it’s probably going to be way worse because I didn’t do it when I should have.

“I’d rather regret something I had done,” I finally choke out.

“Me, too,” he breathes, bending toward me. He kisses me, deeply, and then for the third time in a night — just like our first night together — we come together, crying out our passion in the dark.

Afterwards, we lie panting next to each other.

“I sure as hell don’t regret that,” Cas murmurs.

I burst out laughing.