“Knock knock,” I called, elbowing my way through my parents’ front door. I was lugging a slow cooker full of creamed corn. All I wanted tonight was some good food and some relaxing time with my family so I could forget about the clusterfuck that was my life.

My father and I had gradually made a tentative peace. In all honesty, I only had so much anger to go around. And right now, Connelly was sucking it all up quicker than I could manufacture it.

“Back here,” my mother called from the kitchen.

Every other weekend we gathered around my parent’s table for a home-cooked meal and catch up conversation. I wasn’t keen on catching anyone up on my current status. I didn’t want to tell Mom and June about my problems at work. I sure as hell couldn’t tell Dad about the night of debauchery earlier this week that ended with his wife and two daughters behind bars. And there was no way I’d talk to any of them about Bowie. The less I said that man’s name, the better. I didn’t need any connections between me and him or else Connelly would have my badge.

I would talk about my cats, I decided. Cats were cute. Funny. A safe topic of conversation.

The kitchen smelled like pot roast and horseradish, and my stomach growled in anticipation.

June was frowning down at the carrots she was dicing with surgical precision, and my mother was pouring wine. “Want a glass?” she offered.

My stomach lurched, this week’s hangover still fresh in my memory. “No, thanks. I’m still—”

Dad strolled into the kitchen and pressed a kiss to my mom’s cheek. “Smells good in here,” he said, popping the top on a beer and grabbing the spaghetti squash halves out of the refrigerator. My father’s contribution to the dinner table was always something grilled. Burgers. Portobellos. Vegetables.

He was an expert outdoor cooker. But put him in the kitchen and he couldn’t work the can opener.

“Y’all want to set the table?” Mom asked, shoving plates at me and utensils at June.

“I’m busy dicing,” June said.

“You gave me an extra,” I told Mom.

“Hmm?” Mom hummed, looking extra innocent. “Oh, we have another guest coming.”

Ugh. I’d been looking forward to family time. You know, burp after the meal, make inappropriate jokes about cutting cheese family time. I couldn’t do that around non-family.

In a snit, I doled out the plates around the lace-covered table. It must be some town bigwig to rate an actual tablecloth, I noted. That made me even more mad at the mystery guest. I must have one bad case of the karma the way things were going this week.

The doorbell rang.

“Cass, can you get that?” Mom called.

Reluctantly, I headed to the front door, masking my disappointment with a polite expression. Until I realized who was on the other side.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” I hissed.

Bowie peered at me over an ostentatious bouquet of dahlias—my mother’s favorite. “I was invited,” he said, stepping across the threshold and dropping a kiss on my cheek as if it were the most normal thing in the word.

I stood there staring at the empty doorway wondering what I’d done in a past life that had been so terrible.

“Bowie!” My mom squealed. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

“Good to see you, son,” Dad said, poking his head in from the back deck.

“Why is he here?” June asked, coming up behind me with a stack of cloth napkins.

“Good question.”

Bowie was here to ruin my life. With my parents’ blessing.

“I think you’re so sweet to give poor Johnny Johnson the responsibility,” my traitor mother was cooing. “I mean, that boy just can’t catch a break in life.”

I pushed a potato around my plate and pretended not to listen.

“Cassidy, don’t you think Bowie does a great job at the school?” Mom prodded.

I stabbed the potato with my fork. “Yeah. Great.”

“How’s the baseball team shapin’ up for next season?” my dad asked him.

Bowie swallowed his bite of pot roast. “Real good. Should see the semi-finals,” he predicted. “Mrs. Tucker, this roast is delicious.”

I made a gagging noise. I couldn’t help it. My parents had set me up. Now, I had to add my mother to the Pissed Off At list. Was it too much to ask for people to stop pissing me off all the time?

Bowie reached over and stroked the base of my neck. I dropped my fork with a clatter at his touch.

“Can I go watch SportsCenter?” June asked, bored and annoyed with the social requirements of the evening.

“No,” Mom the Traitor said firmly. “Don’t you want to join in the conversation?”

June stuck her chin out like she was going to throw a hissy fit and then relented. My sister never threw hissy fits. “Fine. Bowie, you had an impressive batting average in high school and you excelled at pitching.” She sounded like a robot trying to give a compliment. I was going to give that robot a talking-to about sisterly loyalty.

“Thanks, Juney,” Bowie said, hiding his smile.

“Now, can I go watch TV?” June asked.

“Bowie, would you like another beer?” my dad asked, getting up from the table. My father who damn well knew what Connelly was threatening me with had willingly brought this man to my table. Okay, his table. But I was sitting at it.

“No, sir. One’s good enough for me,” Bowie said.

“One’s good enough for me,” I mimicked under my breath. He was always such a damn Boy Scout.

“What’s that, Cass?” Bowie asked sweetly.

“Can I talk to you outside?” I snapped.

“Me?” June asked. “It’s cold. And I’d rather watch TV.”

“Not you. You,” I said, drilling a finger into Bowie’s shoulder.

I didn’t wait to see if he’d follow. I pushed my way outside onto the deck off the kitchen. It was dark now and cold, but my seething anger kept me warm.

“Cass, honey, you’re gonna freeze to death out here,” Bowie said, sliding the door closed behind him.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

He took me in his arms and pulled me up against his chest. “There, that’s better,” he said, whispering against my hair.

I hated how much better it was. He was so warm and steady. Dang it. Teenage Cassidy would have melted into a puddle over this. But I was Late-Twenties Cassidy, and she was made of sterner stuff.

“Bowie,” I said, in a warning tone. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m showing you how nice it would be if we were together.”

“What are you talking about?”

We were swaying side to side as if slow dancing to music that no one else could hear.

“All we have is a past of what-ifs. I’m trying to show you what it’ll be like if you’ll just say yes.”

“Dinner with my parents?” I asked.

“I’m showing you how well I get on with my future in-laws.”

I stepped on his foot.

“You aren’t letting me catch my breath,” I told him. “And you sure as hell aren’t taking my concerns about being connected to you seriously!”

He pulled back a bit to look at me. “I know it’s not fair. I know I’m pressuring you after years of nothing but space. And I know it seems like I’m asking you to choose me over your job. But that’s not the case. I haven’t proven myself yet. All I’m asking is for a chance to prove that I will be good to you. That I’ll be the partner in life you want. That I won’t let you down.”

“How?” I asked stubbornly. “How can I give you your shot and still keep my job? How can we date and not have the entire town know every damn thing?” How can I trust you?

“Same way your Dad doesn’t know we host secret town meetings. We may be a town of blabbermouths, but we know when to keep our mouths shut. You think anyone here feels any loyalty to that clown Connelly?”

I shook my head. “It’s too big of a risk. He’s throwing accusations at me like impeding an investigation.”

“What if we keep it secret?” Bowie asked.

“How in the hell would we do that?” It was ridiculous. Appalling. And yet…

“We live in the same house,” he said with that boyish grin. “I think we can come up with a way to make it work. I’m asking for a chance, not a choice. Not yet. I’d never ask you to give up your career, Cass. I hope you know that.”

His gray eyes were earnest, and Late-Twenties Cassidy was dumb enough to believe him.

“Why is everything such a mess right now?” I demanded. “Why doesn’t anything make sense?”

“I’ll tell you one thing that does make sense,” Bowie said, lowering his lips to mine.

Oh, Lordy. That sparked a fire in me all right. My cheeks were cold, and my mouth was being consumed by flames. I didn’t have the ability to do anything but kiss him back. I pressed myself up against him, and he held me tight as we ravaged each other’s mouths.

It was too much. And not enough.

I could feel a pulse between my legs as he hardened against my stomach.

My feelings for him were so complicated. But one thing was always crystal clear. I wanted Bowie naked and sweating and growling my name in my ear. Could I give myself that and not lose anything? My job? My heart?

His hands skimmed down my sides, stroking over the curves of my breasts.

“I want you, Cass. Let me prove to you that I’m right for you. Let me.” His thumbs skimmed over my nipples that were already fritzing out from the cold and the kiss.

I shivered against him. “Damn it all to hell, Bowie.”

“Do you want pie or can I have your pieces? I want to try eating my feelings again.” June asked from the back door.