“Whitney.” His voice vibrates through the strands of my hair, and into my ear like a caress drawing out a moan from my lips. His free hand, the one not laced around my waist that’s keeping me against his body, moves into my hair. His fingers comb the damp strands away from my ear, pushing my hair to my right shoulder. “God. I love you, Love.”

“Harder.” I fight the words out as he pounds into me. Sweat—his sweat from where his forehead presses against my temple, drops onto the apple of my cheek. Another moan, this time louder, escapes. I can’t control it. I know I’m supposed to be quiet, but it’s impossible.

“Mmmm.”

My voice jars me from the dream I was having.

“Mmmm.”

Wait. That isn’t my voice.

“Blake.” Ughhh. Not this again. He usually doesn’t try this hard, which suits me just fine.

“You were the one rubbing against my dick.” He paws my breasts.

Always the boobs and I don’t get it. They’re small. Not what I would consider my best feature either. I don’t see what his interest in them is. His hands on them certainly aren’t turning me on.

Then again, do they ever?

I’m still hot from my dream. The dream. The same recurring one I’ve had for a couple of years now. Little by little I’ll get more of it. I had hoped when they started occurring it meant my memories were coming back to me, but so far, no such luck.

“It’s too early. You know I’m not a morning sex person.”

I leave out that I’m not a sex person no matter the time of day; although, he’d have to be dumb not to have figured that out by now with our lack thereof. And one thing I’m certain of: Blake Lane isn’t dumb.

“Tonight. I promise.” I push on his chest. “The girls are staying at my parents, remember? We’ll have plenty of alone time then, okay?”

“And we’re going to my friend’s house after dinner at your parents, remember?” he stresses.

“Of course, Honey,” I confirm. “But after we take the girls trick-or-treating through my parents’ neighborhood,” I remind him.

He releases me, then rolls away. I sigh, thanking the Heavens above.

Sitting up in bed, I pull the sheet to my chest.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. They certainly don’t need the candy.” He walks around the foot of the bed with a disgusted look marring his pale face. He never agreed to my plan, but I’m taking them whether he joins or not.

“Because it’s fun.” I throw the sheet off then slide out of bed. I need to jump in the shower quickly before Emersyn wakes, so without continuing this conversation that’ll only lead to an argument, I jet into the bathroom.

I’ve learned with Blake, you pick your battles. And this is one I’ll deal with if needed, but usually when I’m adamant about something and walk off—leaving him no room to worm his way out—I stand a better chance of getting what I want.

* * *

“What’s bugging you?” I ask Blake as I eye him from the passenger seat of his black, Lexus SUV. His head briefly swings toward me, flashing his irritated brown eyes at me.

He’s pissed. That’s easy to tell and not uncommon these days.

“You went behind my back, Whitney.” Air rushes out through his clenched teeth. It’s dark inside his car except for the glow of the LED lights coming from the navigation system in the center of the dashboard. I can’t see his expression clearly, but I can hear the swoosh of air he makes when it exits his mouth. “You allowed her to take music lessons when you knew I specifically said no.”

“Guitar lessons,” I correct, which makes my husband inhale a deep breath of air. And before he can lash out at me, I continue. “She earned them, Blake. She made straight A’s, and it’s all she has asked for. She has wanted them for two years now. She deserves this.”

“She deserves what I say she deserves.” I gasp involuntarily at his response. My blood boils. “We’re going to table this discussion until we’re at home. I’ve had a long day at the office, and I still have to work tonight. This get-together, as you know, is at The Forsythe’s home. If I can gain Dr. Forsythe’s trust, then I can gain him as a client. Tonight is very important, Whitney. I’m asking you not to give me any more grief.”

The comeback is on the tip of my tongue itching to burst out. I want to tell him to go fuck himself more than I want to take my next breath. But I can’t do that. I have my girls to think about; as my mother loves to remind me when I bitch about my husband and our crap-ass marriage.

So instead, I close my eyes for a moment as Blake pulls up behind a black, Chevy Tahoe. When the car is in park, I open my lids, forcing a smile on my face.

When we reach the Forsythe’s front door, Blake knocks. Seconds later, it opens to reveal a man that appears to be in his mid to late thirties with sandy blond hair and light green eyes encased in dark lashes. His eyes crinkle, welcoming us into his home.

“Mr. Lane, you decided to come. I’m so glad.” The man’s smile is genuine.

“Call me Blake, please, Dr. Forsythe.”

“Okay then,” he laughs lightly before turning his gaze down to me. “You must be Blake’s beautiful, other-half. I’m Gavin.” He presents his hand in front of me, which I accept and shake.

“I’m Whitney. Thank you for inviting us.” I release his warm hand, bringing my own up to my face, tucking a strand of my dark hair back behind my ear.

“It’s a pleasure, Whitney.” He takes a step backward. “Please, come in. There are wines and appetizers in the kitchen and several coolers of beer on the back patio. Help yourselves to anything you like.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Blake chimes.

“Gavin,” The man corrects as we enter his house.

Entering the foyer, I take in the warm decor. The walls are a navy blue with a soft, eggshell trim in an off-white shade. Hung on the walls are scattered black and white portraits of people. It doesn’t take a genius to see it’s his family. From the look of it, he has two small kids—a girl and a boy. Twins I think. And his wife is stunning. They all have similar fair features.

Moving along, following the guys, we walk through the living room where Blake and Gavin stop.

“The kitchen is through there.” He points across the room to a wide opening. I take that as my cue to leave them.

The kitchen is large, with a formal dining room to one side and kitchen nook off to the other side. The walls are the same navy color from the entrance, and the trim and cabinetry match the other room as well.

I swipe a small slice of cheese from the platter on the island, placing it into my mouth as I glance around. I see several bottles of wine across from me with clear, plastic drinking cups close by. I don’t think I’m in the mood for wine, though. I enjoy a glass sometimes, but beer sounds more appealing. But I know if I decide on anything other than water or wine Blake is going to have a conniption. Ladies don’t drink beer. I can hear him now. It’s unladylike.

He and my mother are like broken records.

Fuck it.

Blake is already angry with me. What’s one more thing? The thought is almost welcoming.

Pivoting, I head for the back door that looks like it leads out to the patio. I remember Gavin telling us that’s where the beer is.

Just as I’m opening the door, I’m hit with a beautiful, soft melody. It makes me halt before stepping outside. Familiarity hits me, but I’m not sure why.

At the same time, I’m compelled to sing like I often do when it’s just Emersyn and me at home, alone.

Words I’ve never spoken fall from my lips as easily as if I’ve sung them not long ago. My eyes close involuntarily, eating up the peace and serenity I feel.

When I open my eyes when the music stops seeing everyone is staring at me. Unease creeps up my arms. I don’t like being the center of attention. In fact, I hate it.

“I’m so sorry.” I laugh. Giggle actually as my embarrassment wanes. “I have no idea where that came from?”

Where the hell did that come from?

“Love?”

My head snaps in the direction of that voice—that voice. I know that voice. It’s . . .

Our eyes meet, causing me to stumble out the door. My breath pulls in on a quick inhale. He’s beautiful, but that’s not what made me have such a reaction. I’m not even sure why I did, but my heart starts beating faster. Too fast.

I can’t stop looking at him either. It can’t be. Can it? My eyes squint, scrutinizing him.

“Oh my God!”

The shock in her voice pulls my eyes over. A few feet from the guy my eyes were locked on, stands a young woman with golden-blonde hair looking at me as though she’s just seen a ghost. She has one hand covering her mouth and the other grasping onto another man’s forearm. He’s tall. He’s big, and the arm she’s digging her nails into is covered in ink. The art is beautiful—stunning even. I’ve always admired tattoos. Maybe even wanted one, but that’s not a battle I’m willing to start.

When I look back over to the guy that called me by my middle name butterflies erupt in my belly. There is something about him, something that makes me . . . want him? It doesn’t take long for me to realize I’m attracted to the man standing in front of me. I don’t feel this way about Blake. I don’t think I ever did. Something about this stranger draws me in and it’s scaring me but exciting me all the same.

“Um—” I’m about to ask him if he knew me before the accident that erased my memory when meat-hooks grip my bicep yanking me backward.

“We’re leaving.” I don’t have to look behind me to know it was Blake. His tone was harsher than I’ve ever heard it before. It was venous hatred, but hatred toward who?

I don’t want to leave. Not because of Blake and his apparent temper tantrum, but because it feels wrong; moving from this spot feels wrong.

I make an attempt to shake his hand off me, but it’s futile. His grip is borderline hurting.

“Stop,” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder.

“Release her.”

Looking back in front of me, I see it’s him. The one that had been playing the guitar when I walked out—the man I want to reach out and touch. And I almost do. I catch myself raising my free arm but quickly drop it back to my side. He’s standing a few feet from me now.

You know him.

Maybe, but how?

My dream from this morning flickers through my mind. Is it him? That voice. I know that voice.

Could it be . . .

Anger flares across his breathtakingly, beautiful face, but he’s still just as hot. Anger doesn’t look right on him, though. It looks foreign like he doesn’t get mad very often.

“Whitney, I said we are leaving. Let’s go!” Blake ignores the guy’s demand to let my arm go.

I try to pull away again as my own anger starts to bubble up. Why is Blake acting like a dick? I want answers to my past. I’ve always wanted answers—wanted my memory to return—and something is pulling me to the stranger in front of me.

But something deep inside me tells me he isn’t a stranger at all.

His eyes flick down to where Blake’s hand is still firmly gripping me. The sight must make him more upset because his blue-green eyes darken, turning into a storm. Then his hands ball into fists at his sides. Does he wants to hit my husband?

“You should probably let her go if you know what’s best for you.” My eyes dart to the other guy, the one the blond girl was holding onto before. They’ve both walked over too. She’s back to standing next to the younger guy with the tattoos. She has the same stunned expression on her pretty face.

“Shawn.” The guitar guy warns, breathing out hard through a beautiful set of straight, white teeth.

“You’re hurting her, so you really need to do what my boyfriend says.” That was the blonde female speaking to Blake. Her expression has changed to anger too.

“Whitney.” Blake’s tone is seething.

“Blake, let go,” I demand. “How do you know me?” I question the man in front of me. His eyes instantly soften at the sound of my voice. But then they turn sad. Stricken . . .

No, don’t be sad. I don’t like sadness on him. My chest constricts, hurting. What the hell?

“I . . . Oh, Love.” He shakes his head, pain reflecting at me through those eyes.

“We’re leaving.” Blake squeezes my arm, pulling a yelp from my mouth. “I won’t tell you again.” His grip hardens.

Hatred, madness, and even disgust wash over the guitar man’s face, right in front of my eyes. He doesn’t scare me, but I may be afraid for Blake the way he’s looking at my husband. I force my feet to step forward. I want to place my palm on his chest to calm him. As I do so, something flies past the back of my head. I’m ripped from Blake’s grip and then pulled toward my left. My face plants into the hard chest of the tattooed guy.

“Shawn.” His name comes out like scold this time.

When I look up, I’m rewarded with a mischievous smile. Something flashes in my mind like I’ve seen this same look before. My insides warm, tipping me lips with a small smile.

Glancing behind me, my husband is face down on the deck. Unmoving. He’s out cold, and I don’t have one shred of sympathy for him. Why is that? Shouldn’t I?

I turn my head again to see the guy I now know as Shawn, looking sideways.

“What?” Shawn shrugs, letting go of my forearm and steadying me as he continues speaking, “You would have done the same thing had I not. Don’t tell me otherwise, brother.”

Are they brothers? Looking back and forth between them, they look nothing alike. Shawn has dirty blond hair with brown eyes. He’s about the same height as the other guy, but Shawn is bulkier whereas the guitar guy is lean. And Shawn has tats down the left side of his arm. Guitar guy has dark, maybe black hair with glowing eyes I have to look away from. Something about him stirs up feelings I don’t understand.

I shake my head, trying to clear it.

Something is going on here, and I get the feeling everyone but me knows what it is.

Why was my husband in such a rush to leave? Why did I start singing a song I’ve never heard? And who are these people that for the life of me do not feel like strangers?

So many questions are swarming around in my head wanting answers. Needing answers.

My chest is heavy. I need air. There are too many questions pressing to get out of my head.

I look to my guitar guy and do something that’s both crazy and stupid.

“I need to leave.” Panic flashes before me. “Will you get me out of here?” He exhales the breath I didn’t know he was holding, then nods as his body visibly relaxes.

I turn, looking down at Blake before stepping over him. And as I walk past, I realize I don’t care if he gets back up. What does that say about my marriage?

Hell, what does that say about me as a person?