“DOES THIS HAPPEN OFTEN?” I ask when we reach the highway. Sutter’s truck rumbles along an open stretch of pavement, the surroundings getting darker and darker as we grow farther removed from the city. “You having to pick up Tucker?”

“Depends.” His hand tightens at the top of the steering wheel. “What’s your definition of often?”

“Have you ever thought about being his guardian or something? So he could live with you?”

“All the time.” He pauses, like he’s lost in his own head for a moment. “It’s not as simple as it seems. Dad won’t let him go because Tucker’s his key to milking the system.”

“Ugh. I’m so sorry. That must be so frustrating for you. I never had any siblings growing up, but I was really close to my cousin, Maritza, and being the older one, I was always protective of her. I can’t imagine wanting to help someone and feeling so powerless.”

Sutter says nothing, and a solid minute of silence passes between us before he messes with the radio, tunes into a classic rock station, and settles the volume on low.

Aerosmith’s Love in an Elevator croons through the speakers, and Sutter takes an exit that leads us to another highway.

I want to ask him more about his childhood, why he’s never mentioned his mother. There are layers to him. I can tell. And I’ve barely broken through the first one.

Maybe if I knew more about him and about his past, it could explain his hot-and-cold antics, his distance and guarded personality.

“So no brothers or sisters?” he asks out of nowhere a few miles later.

“Nope. Only child,” I say.

“So they spoiled the hell out of you.” He states it like it’s an undisputed fact.

“Not at all.” If he only knew. “They made me work for things. I had a job the day I turned sixteen. And growing up, when all my friends would have six-figure birthday parties with celebrity guest appearances, mine would be in Gram’s backyard with close friends and family. Maybe a face painter or balloon animal guy, but nothing extravagant. My parents definitely live in their own little bubble and trust me, they know how to vacation like a couple of filthy rich Americans, but they’re not flashy people. They’re not obnoxious.”

“That’s … that’s actually refreshing to hear.”

“You’re shocked.”

He turns to me, but only for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I am.”

I glance out the passenger window and realize out here, I can see every single star against a canvas of night, like everything is suddenly becoming clearer.

“Can I ask you something?” I turn his way and he shrugs. “Where’s your mom? Why doesn’t she have your brother?”

His full lips merge and his nostrils flare, and I immediately regret asking.

“Gone.”

Folding my hands in my lap, I stay quiet. I don’t pry. If that’s all he wants to give me, then I won’t push it. It’s none of my business, even if the nagging curiosity in me is screaming to ask more questions.

“She left when Tuck was two,” he volunteers. “Just up and left. Didn’t want to be a mom anymore, I guess. Or it was just too hard with Tuck not being able to hear and trying to teach him sign language while trying to learn it herself. Who knows. Anyway, she was working at a bank. Had a client who came in all the time. He asked her out. He had money. He was her ticket out. And she took it and ran with it.”

“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.” Some quick math tells me he would’ve been about fifteen when his mom left.

“Yeah, well, she’s a horrible person. We’re all better off without her.” He checks his rearview mirror as a car approaches and passes us.

I try to picture a teenage Sutter. I try to imagine the deep abandonment she threaded into his young heart by walking out on them, his father taking to the bottle to cope, Sutter taking over the raising of Tucker and learning sign language, and having no support system of any kind, at least not in his immediate family.

No wonder he’s so coldhearted.

We only feel what we’ve been taught to feel.

Sutter slows as we approach an intersection ahead with a blinking yellow light and a sign that says, “Welcome to Valle del Sol.” Three minutes later, he pulls into a small trailer court, parking outside a pale blue trailer with a small, junk-covered wooden porch on the side.

“Stay in here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Sutter leaves me with that before climbing out.

As I watch him go inside like some fearless hero in an action movie doing what needs to be done because no one else can, my body is flooded with a strange warmth. I don’t know what it means. And I don’t know if I want to know what it means.

Even if his kisses are fire and his touch is dynamite and he’s starting to grow on me the more I peel back those layers … I don’t suspect he’d ever let me in. His heart is too damaged. Wrapped in scar tissue and padlocked for good measure.

Less than five minutes later, Sutter and his little brother emerge, a backpack slung over Tucker’s left shoulder. His eyes lift and meet mine from the other side of the windshield and he gives a small wave.

The ride home is quiet, but my thoughts are loud.

It’s late when we get home, almost midnight, and I head upstairs to change and find Murphy. When I get back, I see the two brothers having a silent conversation in the living room. Tucker sighs, hands on his hips, as his big brother signs something about sleeping on the couch.

Tucker signs back that the couch gave him a backache last time. Sutter tells him to man up. Tucker’s movements are harder, his expression pinched. He really doesn’t want to sleep on the couch.

“He can have my bed,” I intervene. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Sutter tells me. “He’s slept on the couch a hundred times before.”

I know it’s not my place, but I can’t help myself. “He had a rough night and if he needs a good night’s rest, I’m more than happy to give up my bed.”

Sutter pinches the bridge of his nose before rubbing his eyes.

We’re all exhausted.

“Please?” Tucker signs to his brother.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sutter says.

“Obviously.” Murphy squirms out of my arms, and I let him down, following after he scampers to the back door. When I come back a few minutes later, Tucker is gone—in my room, I assume—and Sutter is sitting on the sofa.

Alone.

And in the dark.

“You okay?” I ask.

He’s hunched over, elbows on the tops of his thighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Releasing a breath, he leans back and directs his tired eyes my way.

“Yeah,” he says.

I have a feeling that’s all I’m going to get from him, but I’m okay with that. The man’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t owe anyone an all-access pass to the deepest corners of his mind.

Taking a seat beside him, I breathe in the scent of the leather sofa and the faintest hint of his warm aftershave from his afternoon shower.

The tingle on my lips comes next. Out of nowhere. But I ignore it.

Or at least I try to.

He hasn’t so much as hinted about making a move on me, but all of a sudden my heart is banging around in my chest and my mouth is dry and my palms are damp.

I haven’t the slightest idea what’s happening right now.

“You don’t have to sleep down here tonight,” Sutter says a beat later. “Take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“No,” I say. “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t give up my bed just so I could take yours.”

“If you want a kink in your neck tomorrow, that’s on you.” He rises. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, and don’t come asking for a massage.”

“What makes you think I’d ask you for a massage?” I give a half-laugh, peering up at him through my lashes. “You barely look at me half the time and every time you touch me, you act like you’re disgusted with your lack of self-control afterwards.”

Our gazes hold for what feels like an eternity before he finally speaks.

“I screw things up,” he says with a sigh. “That’s what I do. I’m not the kind of guy you have any business getting attached to. When I’m being an asshole, trust me, I have your best interests in mind.”

“How valiant of you.” I roll my eyes, smile fading.

“But I still think you should come upstairs,” he adds, and I swear I see the tiniest glint in his hazel eyes.

My heart ricochets, this time harder, and while the voice in my head is screaming, begging, and pleading for me to stay firmly planted right here on his cognac sofa, the burn between my legs and ache on my mouth is impossible to ignore.

I suppose you don’t have to like someone to have sex with them.

“You do, do you?” I lean back, crossing my legs and pretending I have no intention of giving in. If he wants this, he’s going to have to work a little bit harder.

Men never appreciate anything unless they have to work for it.

“I don’t know,” I say, forcing a yawn, “I’m kind of tired.”

“Tired my ass.” Without warning, Sutter reaches for my hand, taking it in his and pulling me to a standing position.

I suck in a startled breath. “Oh. Hi.”

His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t smirk or wink or smile. And when his steely stare lands on my mouth, I know what’s going to happen next.

It starts with his fingers beneath my chin, aligning our mouths at the perfect angle. Next, his hand slides along the side of my neck until his fingers are buried in the hair at the nape of my neck. He breathes me in. My heart threatens to explode in my chest. I lick my lips, swallow, and brace myself …

… for a kiss that doesn’t happen.

Sutter steps away, his eyes moving past my shoulders. When I turn, I spot Tucker standing at the base of the stairs.

Shit.

The two of them exchange a wordless conversation, and a second later, Tucker heads to the kitchen for a snack and a glass of milk.

“Go upstairs.” Sutter leans in and speaks against my ear, voice low despite the fact that no one else can technically hear us. “I’m not done with you yet.”

I bite a half-smile and linger, debating whether or not to indulge his wishes. But it doesn’t take long for me to accept the fact that I want this release as much as he does.

“Fine,” I say. “But only because I want to. Not because you’re telling me to.”

Turning, I make my way upstairs, my hand slicking along the wooden banister as I climb the steps, and then I turn left at the top, heading into his room.

His bed is neatly made, the corners tucked military-style, and one of his closet doors is half-open, lending a peek at his color-coded shirt collection.

I’ve always heard that people who grew up in chaotic, dysfunctional families with no real order sometimes grew up to have Type-A tendencies. It makes them feel like they have some kind of control over their life, even if it’s the small stuff.

Climbing beneath the covers, I fluff the pillow behind me and wait …

… and wait …

… and wait.

I fight the threat of sleep, but it’s a battle I know won’t be won unless Sutter gets his fine ass in here in the next two minutes.

But he doesn’t come.

And sleep is the victor.

I come to in a pitch-black abyss. The unfamiliar covers around my body mixed with the warmth of another body beside me throw me off, and in my half-asleep stupor, I pull in a wheezy, startled breath and sit straight up.

“Melrose ...” Sutter’s groggy voice is followed by the reach of his arm, and before I realize what’s going on, he’s pulling me against his smooth, bare chest, cradling me in his heat.

Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s being so endearing because he, too, is half asleep?

“Sutter,” I begin to say, but he shushes me and gives me a tight squeeze.

“Go back to sleep.”

I don’t know when he finally came to bed, but the alarm clock across the room reads four o’clock in the morning. The weight of Murphy on my feet is an added surprise.

I can’t believe he let him sleep in bed with us.

Here I thought he hated dogs and generally most things with beating hearts and the ability to feel.

Lying in the dark, in Sutter’s arms, I begin to come to with each gentle rise and fall of his chest, trying to wrap my head around how unnatural this should feel ... and why it doesn’t.

I watch him until the sun comes up—and I quite enjoy it because it’s not something I get to do all that often. He’d give me all kind of shit if he caught me ogling him so shamelessly. He’s ridiculously, unfairly handsome with his chiseled cheekbones, full lips, and the kind of naturally proportional nose that would make an A-lister jealous. I’d run my fingers through his soft, sandy hair and brush the strands away from his forehead if I knew it wouldn’t wake him.

But it hits me after a while, that I’m wasting my time indulging in the idea that we would ever be right for one another.

Not on this planet. Not in this lifetime.

We butt heads about everything.

We’re both too opinionated for our own good.

We can’t have a civil conversation to save our lives ninety-nine percent of the time.

I creep out of bed and scoop my dog under my arm, slow and careful so as not to wake Sutter, and then I head downstairs to make breakfast.

It’s weird, this tit-for-tat kindness thing we have going on, but I can’t let myself read into it. He told me himself, he screws things up. He’s an asshole. I have no business getting attached.

But it’s the strangest thing … the more time I spend with Sutter, the less I think about Nick. The less I look forward to his phone calls and text messages and seeing him again—at least not in the giddy, schoolgirl crush kind of way.

Trekking downstairs, I let my dog outside and rummage through the cupboards until I find a box of Hungry Jack blueberry pancake mix. When I turn to locate a mixing bowl from a shelf beneath the counter, I spot Tucker standing at the threshold between the living room and kitchen.

“Good morning,” he signs, all smiles.

“Good morning,” I sign back. “Hungry?”

He nods.

I point to the pancake box, and he nods faster before taking a seat at the table.

From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me as I cook for him, as if I’m some famous chef in a five star restaurant and every move I make is fascinating and awe-inspiring.

It makes me think he’s not used to this, and my chest burns at the thought of him never knowing what it’s like to have someone make you breakfast. Obviously, I don’t know what his home life is like, but based on what little information I have about their father, I don’t imagine he’s the type to wake at the crack of dawn on the weekends and scramble some eggs or break out the waffle iron for his kid.

I plate a short stack of blueberry pancakes a moment later and bring them to a wide-eyed, grinning Tucker Alcott.

A second later, I turn back to the stove to start a fresh batch, and I find Sutter standing in the kitchen entry, studying me in a way that he never has before.

And the craziest thing happens—my heart skips a beat.