Never trust a man who drinks Cabernet Sauvignon.

That’s always been my rule and it's never steered me wrong. Cabernet Sauvignon is for men who have certain ideas about themselves, but not a damn bit of what it takes to back them up.

All slick and shiny on the outside. Inside, it’s just empty promises and pointlessness.

No dreams. No heart. No grit. No soul.

Nothing like the man who set an impossibly alpha standard for every date I'll ever have. Right after he finished playing kickball with my heart. After the day that ended us, the one I swore I'd never fixate on again.

Welcome to my life in present day SoCal.

I’m not sure I’m going to find what I’m looking for out here in the plastic Ken-doll lineup of L.A. hotties, but I know Mr. New Money isn’t it. Not by a Tinder mile.

I’m not sure why I gave him a chance once he ordered his Cab with that shallow, overconfident smirk.

Maybe it was those blue eyes.

Empty as a bottomed-out glass. But they reminded me too much of someone I keep reaching for even though he’s forever out of my grasp.

Mr. New Money would’ve been easy, but I don’t do easy. I need more.

Although I wouldn’t mind Mr. New Money’s sleek Mercedes to come cruising by and rescue me, right now.

Half a block. Just half a freaking block around the corner from Skofé’s Wine Bar to my place, and I still managed to break a heel.

That’s the kind of luck I have.

Kenna Burke, human black cat.

At least it’s not Friday the 13th, or I'd be cursed double.

It’s a choice between walking barefoot on beat up L.A. sidewalks or limping along in one broken heel.

I choose limping – and regret it by the time I make it up the stairs to my apartment. I kick my shoes off with a little extra spite for the broken one, sending it rocketing across the entryway, and step forward. My aching foot comes down on something cool; an envelope. I pick it up and flip it over.

My name's on the front, neatly handwritten. Landlord’s letterhead logo in the upper left corner.

Oh, crap.

Just another thing I don’t want to open tonight.

I need something to fortify. Wasn't that the whole reason I went out, anyway? Not to meet some Cabernet-swigging wannabe Casanova.

I’ve been ignoring an email from my publisher all day. Subject line? “Re: His Royal Nuisance.”

Pinch me. I sent the manuscript in over two months ago. Normally I get a response back within weeks. The silence has been deafening, and I’m afraid the email will be damning.

If I’m going to author-hell, I'll do it on a five dollar bottle of pink Moscato.

Never trust a girl who drinks Barefoot Cellars, either.

She’s usually broke and chases her wine with straight up bad luck.

I drop myself on the barstool in front of the kitchen island, pour a glass, and toss it down. Courage comes in pink fizzy form.

I close my eyes, letting the tingles go to my head until everything feels a little floaty. Sweet distance. That’s what I need. That muting layer of mild intoxication that makes everything feel just a little farther away, and a little less likely to stab me in the heart.

Okay. Now for the envelope.

I slit the top with my fingernail, so not in the mood to care about my manicure. The single sheet of paper spilling out is obviously a form letter. The blue ink swoop of my landlord’s name gives it away. So does what’s supposed to look like a signature, but is obviously a rubber stamp smacked on by a tired secretary. A number in the middle of the top paragraph jumps out at me.

Two thousand dollars.

That’s what they want to charge me for rent, starting in two weeks.

I can barely manage the eighteen hundred I'm paying now for an overpriced shoebox of a one-bedroom walk-up.

“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself, the grim realization setting in. Two thousand will push me from living on ramen to living in the cardboard box the ramen was packed in.

Defeat hovers over me like a guillotine waiting to drop, but that thread’s not snapping just yet. There’s still hope in the email.

All I need is a solid advance for His Royal Nuisance and I’ll be able to handle the rent hike. At least long enough to keep from having to move again after the fifth rent adjustment in two years.

I top off my glass, take a sip for bravery, unlock my phone, and swipe the email notification.

And immediately feel my throat close shut at those horrid first words, “We regret to inform you…”

Those bastards don’t regret anything at all. Not when they go on to list a litany of my faults, calling the book rushed with flat, unrealistic characters, incoherent sex, and zero chemistry.

I guess it’s not enough to stick the dagger in my gut.

They have to twist it, too.

Mission accomplished because I can't even breathe.

Yes, I know I forced the book. But I thought I’d been doing this long enough that I had it in the bag and could at least rely on experience to push me through.

I haven’t been shot down like this since I was a baby author sending my first query letters. Another brutal sign I’m off my game.

Mojo, lost. Everything’s a disaster, and that disaster’s name is McKenna Burke.

I’m ready to chuck my phone across the room when it buzzes in my palm. My brother’s name pops up on the screen with the same cheesy cheerful selfie grin I’d set for his icon.

Steve, not now. Bad, bad timing.

I almost hang up. My head throbs, my heart hurts, and I don’t know if I can stand someone else being happy right now while I'm so miserable. But I could use a little human connection, too, and one way or another...

Steve always makes things right.

I take another swig of Moscato, this time straight from the bottle, then wipe my mouth with a gasp and tap to answer the call.

“Hello?” It falls from my lips by reflex, when my mouth feels numb and my head is whirling.

“Hey, sis,” Steve says. Perky as ever. With the way I feel right now, it’s like being dead and hearing voices from the living. “Did you get my email?”

“Email? What?” I blink vacantly, and pull my phone away for a second. Oh, hell. There’s like...ten other emails I’d ignored, including one from Steve with the subject “Gamma’s birthday.” But he’s still talking, this tinny voice coming from the speaker, as I put my phone to my ear again. “Sorry, sorry, just looking now. I just saw it and haven’t had a chance to open it. Sorry.”

“No biggie! I was just asking about the card.”

“Card?”

“Gamma’s turning ninety, remember?”

“Oh...”

Ninety. Oh God. Oh hell, I...I completely forgot, and ninety’s the big one. Ninety’s the one where you know you won’t have them for another decade, but you hope anyway and celebrate like it’s not all downhill and scary from there. I'd wanted to pick out something really nice for Gamma’s ninetieth, and yet I’ve been so wrapped up in my own mess that I completely forgot.

Add bad granddaughter to my growing list of faults, too.

“Sorry,” I mumble, and the next thing I know the counter is blurry in front of me and my nostrils are burning and I can’t make heads or tails of anything when everything inside me is constricting. “I’m sorry, I-I –”

And that’s when the tears hit.

Snotty, sniffly, ugly-cry tears, slamming into me like a sledgehammer and coming out on a coughing sob. I cover my mouth, trying to whimper another apology, but all that spills out is these wretched, awful sounds. Steve makes a panicked noise.

“Kenna? McKenna, what’s wrong? It's – Jesus, sis. It’s just a card. You didn't murder anybody, don't worry, I’ll pick one out for you if that'll help –”

“Steve, it’s n-not th-tha...”

“Then what's going down, baby sister?” His voice softens. Calming. Soothing. “C’mon, Kenna. Talk to me. Let it out.”

I take several breaths, quick and deep, trying to get myself under control until I’m not stammering and hitching with every word.

“Everything, Steve.” I croak out finally. “My publisher just rejected my latest novel. My rent’s going up. I can’t meet a single man who isn’t like some creepy carbon copy of Ryan Seacrest. I’m so cursed I might as well be a black cat, and my life is shit. It’s just shit and I don’t know what to do.”

The last part is a wail that makes even me cringe, but Steve takes it all in stride. He always does.

He’s older than me by a few years, almost thirty, but with his bright cheer you’d think he was the younger one. He’s like a Labrador or Golden Retriever or something. Just scratch behind his ears and his world is all good. And if you're hurt, he comes running.

“You’re not cursed,” he says with more confidence than I could ever muster. “You’re going to be fine. Everyone has bad streaks. The important thing is to make a plan and get through it. You’re great at planning, remember?”

“Right. Just fabulous. The last time I planned a family vacation, we ended up sleeping in a stable in Nepal. With goats. Remember?”

“That was an AirBnB mixup, not yours.” He laughs. “Look, sis, you need to recharge your batteries before you write your next book. So why not stop worrying about rent and get away to the beach?”

I snort. “Sure, I have beach money lying around. I’ll just live on my wealthy rich kid trust fund for a few months.”

“Okay, smartass,” he teases gently. “But I’m serious. I know a place you can hang out. Look, it’s just a few hours north of L.A., like twenty minutes north of the bay in Sausalito. You can drive there in less than a day. An old friend has this place on the beach where you can stay in the guest house rent free.”

I tilt my head, eyeballing the bottle of Moscato. It’s calling me, but I’m trying to resist its lure. It won't help me. Steve, on the other hand...

“No such thing as rent free,” I tell him. “Where's the catch?”

“Nah, no catch. Friends helping friends, that’s all. You remember Landon, right? My best friend? How we were always over at his place when Mom and Dad were traveling?”

I remember.

I remember hard enough to drop a stone on my heart, and the bottle of Moscato’s suddenly in my hand like a woman dying of thirst while I take a deep swig.

Holy hell, Landon Strauss. I could live ten more lifetimes and I'd never, ever forget that name.

“Nope!” I say as soon as I swallow. “Sorry, Steve, but no.”

Landon Strauss isn't someone I need to be around. He’s just a dark memory.

But wasn't it that memory of blue eyes and how starry-eyed he made me feel that led to a completely foolish decision tonight?

Once upon a time, I had the worst crush on Landon Strauss. More than a crush, actually.

I was crazy mad in love with him, and how he’d spin me all around until I was ecstatic and floating, the next I was small and awkward and ready to crawl in a hole and die.

I don’t want that feeling back. The nerd next door, glasses and all. Annoying baby sister tagging along everywhere.

I'm also not ready to revisit that unspeakable, unholy thing that happened the day my crush on Landon ended. That stupid, dark, soul shocking thing that transformed him into someone else right before my eyes.

Not just no. Hell no!

I’ve grown into myself and I’m now McKenna Burke, successful romance author.

But to Landon, I’ll always be that annoying child who stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, and uncovered secrets I never should've seen the day I picked up his damn journal when he wasn't looking.

I’ll always be the girl who knows something damning I can never believe, but that could ruin him if I ever opened my mouth.

He hates me. And I should hate him.

And he sure as hell won’t want me living on his property anytime this century.

“Kenna? Why not? What's the big deal?” Steve asks, pulling me back from my memory-misted past and into my wine-fogged present. “Hey, it’s not like he’s going to invade your fortress of solitude or anything. You’ll have plenty of free writing time. He won’t even be there most of the time.”

“Why not?”

“His security company’s really taking off. He's a busy dude. Enguard, remember? That's the name. So, he’s away on jobs most of the time. He’s had a few beach bums and prowlers squatting on his property, I guess, and he said he needs to take care of the cats and make sure kids don't mess around. Really, you’d be doing him a favor. Keep an eye on the place, do a little writing, and soak up the beach without paying a dime of rent. No big scary neighbors from the past up in your space.”

I make a noncommittal sound under my breath.

I can’t possibly be considering this, but I have to admit, it does sound tempting. Life rent-free, a place to get my head together, away from the too-familiar rush of L.A.

If it’s possible to get cabin fever from an entire city, I’ve got it.

Still, it's Landon.

“What do you say, sis?” Steve presses.

I sigh. “Give me time. I'll think about it, okay? It’s not really as easy as packing up and taking off. Let's talk later.”

Except it is that easy, if I want it to be, I realize as I hang up the phone.

It’s exactly that easy.

It’s not like I haven’t done it before, only this time I’d be doing it without hungry landlords nipping at my heels. Hell, half my stuff is still in boxes from the last move. I never bothered unpacking because I didn't feel secure.

I can’t possibly be considering this. But the opportunity is too good to ignore, and maybe...

Maybe I need closure.

Maybe he does, too.

I owe Landon an apology, at least. A few words to clear the air. I can tell him I’m sorry, purify the bad blood between us, promise him I’ve kept his secrets, be an adult and hope he’s willing to be one, too.

As I go to bed, I tell myself I'm not doing anything on heartbreak and cheap wine.

But by morning, I’ve already left notice for my landlord that I’m terminating my lease, and I’ll be back in thirty days for my things.

The next thing I know, I’m packing.

Sun, sand, and some time alone to screw my head on straight.

All I have to do is write the perfect book, and I’ll be back in the game and able to take care of myself again. It’s not like, if things go wrong with me and Landon, I have to deal with him very much.

Okay. Okay, I tell myself as I stuff a sports bra and yoga pants into a duffel bag.

Let’s do this.

No hesitations, and no regrets.

I'm going to get over Landon and everything dark in my life, or else.

I’m really not into animal cruelty, but right now, I’m ready to skin a cat.

That's because one just dropped down paws-first on my sore, bruised stomach. Among their other talents, cats are experts at concentrating all their weight onto one paw and then drilling it down into you like they’re trying to puncture through to an exit wound. And one of those sweet little assholes – Velvet or Mews, I’ve only had them two months and I can’t tell them apart – is currently doing a Russian army march right over the freshly purpled bruises I picked up during a rough night.

Whoever said love is pain was clearly a cat owner.

The cat on my stomach meows. Loudly.

Mews, then. A fitting name if there ever was one.

I groan, but don’t open my eyes just yet. I’ve got a headache from hell I was hoping to sleep off. Just five more minutes for the first time in what feels like years.

Cats, however, don’t really care about my beauty sleep. Or my blood pressure.

They care that I have opposable thumbs and can work a can opener, and the fact that I’m not doing so right this second.

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Fine,” I mumble into my palm. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”

Actually, I don’t move.

A soft, velvety forehead butts against the back of my hand, followed by a rusty-sounding purr. Even if I’m ready to string the little monster up, I can’t stop myself from scratching between his ears. He closes his eyes in sheer delight and thrusts against my fingers.

This is how they get you. Food for love.

Don’t think for half a second this fuzzy little jerk means it.

A thump and weight pressing on the end of the bed tells me I have about five seconds before Mews has a dance partner on my aching body. It’s that more than anything that gets me to roll out of bed, pausing to stroke between Velvet’s ears before dragging a robe on against the faint, wet morning chill blowing in off the ocean. Downstairs the sun is bright through the kitchen windows, scraping at my bleary eyes.

Coffee. I need a strong, paint-stripping cup.

And then it’s back to business as usual.

I'm still shaking off my 'fun' from the night before. A Mayor's campaign downtown brought us in, extra security for their fundraiser. The rabble rousers who showed up made good on their promise to make a scene after tensions flared. One of the assholes broke the police line, managed to land a blow to my gut and another to my jaw, before I had him by the throat and on the ground, holding him until the cops took over.

I remember why I don't like politics, even when it pays.

I leave a pot to brew and dump out a couple fresh tins of foul smelling food in the monsters’ bowls. Grain-free or something, but it’s just meaty and heavy and enough to make me retreat while they shove their faces in with hungry, messy sounds.

At least they’re easily pleased.

Wish I could say the same for the fucksticks jerking me around lately.

A few of said fucksticks whine nasally from my voicemail as I plop my phone on the counter and set it to play back on speaker while I do something about breakfast. Both voicemails are pure bullshit, and both are from agents of the same client.

Milah Holly. The next big starlet manufactured by a Hollywood sound studio and fed the lyrics they’ve decided will be the voice of a generation. She’s high-profile. Big money. A good contract.

And she’s driving me out of my mind, when the job hasn’t even started yet.

These voicemails alone are full of scheduling issues. I might start working for Milah in a few days, or in a few weeks.

I don’t know. She doesn’t know. No one knows, and I halfway think they need to hire someone to get their shit straight long before they hire a security firm.

But I can’t afford to let this slip through my fingers. It's too big an opportunity for Enguard.

Ever since I turned over my old man's company, Crown Security, to Dallas Reese – grade A asshole, son of dad's former and currently incarcerated partner, Reg Reese, and the jackass who’s been playing a one-up game with me since we were fucking twelve – I need every leg up I can get to keep my own company thriving.

Enguard’s seen rapid growth and won a solid piece of the market, but if I let my guard down too long, then Dallas and Crown Security will swoop right in and snatch Milah – plus the prestige this contract nets me – right out under my nose.

I sigh, once again adjusting the dates in my phone’s calendar, and settle to pour a cup of strong black brew. As I set the carafe down, though, a hint of motion flashes in the corner of my eye, out of place among the gently wafting trees framing the house.

I glance out the window. Someone’s skulking around the beach house again.

Fuck. I bet it’s those goddamned kids again, or someone casing the place for a possible break-in.

I’ve had enough.

Slamming the carafe back into the brewer, I stomp to the door, yanking it open. I’ve got to get the drop on them this time.

Before they’ve seen me coming, and run off before I catch their faces on my phone, or collar them before calling the cops. This isn’t the kind of security I do, chasing down idiots on my property, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my skills to make sure they get what they deserve for trespassing and potentially breaking and entering.

I duck into the trees, staying out of sight, and take off at a ground-eating run.

I hurt all the fuck over, but I don’t care.

I’m pissed, thoroughly sick of this, and pure rage and adrenaline are pumping enough endorphins to numb the bruises and devour my pain. I don’t even stop when a branch catches my robe and rips it half-off, the belt coming loose and the robe falling down one arm.

I'm past caring if these assholes get an earful and an eyeful.

I come bursting out of the trees like a juggernaut, barreling toward the front door. Before I lay a hand on it, though, it snaps open – and a petite figure steps out.

At first I don’t recognize her. Not when this slim, leggy young woman is nothing like the awkward little thing with huge frames who used to followed me around like a lost puppy.

McKenna.

Kenna Burke.

Reb.

Standing there all poised and prim and sexy as hell, her green eyes wide and startled behind the kind of librarian glasses that make you wonder what she’d look like with all that chestnut hair pulled free from its tail and rippling around her face and shoulders.

Fuck. Again.

Even though she’s clearly surprised, poised like a faun ready to bolt, she’s still completely put together and gorgeous in a pair of slim jeans and a loose, pretty silk tank top that clings to her in ways that promise things those dreamy eyes can’t quite follow through on. Kenna’s always been a bit of a dreamer, lost in the stars, and she's wearing that look right now.

Almost like she’s seeing other worlds when she looks right through me.

And I’m standing here half-naked with my robe torn up, leaves in my hair, cock practically falling half out of my boxers. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it a second later.

This is off to a great fucking start.

We’re just staring at each other for what seems like forever. Her lips stay slightly parted like she still wants to say something, but the shock tore the words from that glistening pink mouth.

I’m no better, breathing hard from running, standing here with my jaw hanging like a damn fool. For a minute I’m teleported back five years ago, and all this anger comes boiling up inside me again. I haven't seen her up close like this since the day I cursed her name.

Not since little Reb became the only other human on the planet to know what I was planning.

I don’t know what to do. That's rare.

I’m sure as hell not going to unload on her just yet. Not when she’s already mumbling something like an apology, a nervous strain in her soft, low words.

I can’t even look at her.

I can’t fucking have her here.

So I turn my back on her, dragging my phone from the pocket of my loose robe and pulling the terrycloth up to belt it securely around my body again.

This is Steve's fault. No mistake. When my best friend said he had the perfect person in mind to handle the house, I had no idea he’d gone this fucking loco, sending Kenna here as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

I’m already pulling his number up in my contacts, ignoring the faint, flustered sounds behind me.

First, I'm going to murder Steve.

And then I’m going to send McKenna Burke packing. Right back where she came from.

This wasn’t how I wanted our reunion to go.

I thought I’d have time to prepare for something a bit more formal in a setting where there were appropriate social rules and conventions to keep this from blowing up in my face.

Like a brunch on the patio or something. Objects between us to create proper distance and remind us to be polite, instead of stabbing at each other with words and butter knives and possibly a breakfast fork or two.

Instead, I have this. This insanity.

This behemoth of a man charging out of the trees at me like freaking Tarzan, half-naked and his eyes lit up with crackling electric blue storms.

He’s thicker than I remember. All corded muscle bulking out his frame. Writhing with more tattoos than I remember. He looks like the devil himself with his chin bearded and scruffy, and nothing like the boy I’d once idolized.

That boy sure as hell hadn’t been this much of an asshole.

He’s practically in a tantrum, giving me his back and snarling under his breath as he stabs at his phone and then waits, this bristling mess of raw male energy and thorny irritation. I’d bet what little is left in my bank account that he’s calling my brother.

If I could, I’d double that bet when the call ends without picking up. He just growls and tries it again.

I sigh, hands on my hips.

Sure, Landon caught me off guard, but this is ridiculous. He could have at least tried to be civil, instead of treating me like unwanted trash.

Does he expect those fierce glares to make me afraid of him?

Does he think I'm the same little girl who'll be disarmed with that look?

Like hell.

He hasn’t managed to frighten me away yet, and I’ve seen him at his worst.

Known him at his darkest, and his most depraved.

I march right up to him and take a firm grip on one of his shoulders. Obviously, I can't budge a titan as large as Landon, but at least he won't ignore me.

And he doesn’t. Ignore me, that is.

He whirls around so quick it makes my heart stumble, and jerks back until I’m no longer touching him. He’s in full beast mode, upper lip curled in something between a snarl and a sneer, his glare cutting into me.

I lift my chin, pride more than anything making me brave. “The word you’re looking for,” I bite off, “is ‘hello.’”

The word he gives me instead? “Fuck.”

And then he says, “Are you out of your mind? What was Steve thinking, sending you here?” Those brilliant blue eyes narrow. “Or was this your idea?”

I scowl. “It wasn’t. Steve was trying to do you a favor, if you'd let him.”

“A favor,” he scoffs. “Like sending you here is helping me gain anything besides a headache. You can’t be here, Kenna. It’s absolutely ridiculous. You and I, we don’t –”

“Don’t what?” I demand. Anger, right now, is easier than the ball of hurt knotting in my chest.

He goes still. There’s something strange in his eyes, before they ice over and he looks at me oddly, remotely, distantly. More standoffish than I ever could've expected.

“Just don't,” he says, as if that’s the final verdict.

He’s written me off with a snap of his tongue. Not even a chance to talk things out.

I’m not the little girl I was back then, but all he sees is a nuisance sent to disrupt his orderly life and expose his secrets. But if I’m not that little girl anymore…

Then I’m not afraid of him anymore, either.

Not like I was then.

Back when his Dad died.

Overnight, Landon became a different person. A person I didn’t recognize. A person who terrified me, terrorized me, and ran me off with a promise never to come back.

Well, I’m back now. And I didn't show up just to go full circle.

Yes, it’s his property. His place. His life.

He’s the one who needs me – this glorified housesitter-catsitter thing I signed up for. If I have to, I’ll go crash on Steve’s couch and leave Landon to deal with his problems on his own.

“Now look,” I say firmly. “If you’re done with your little roid rage explosion, how about we try talking about this like two rational adults?” I square my shoulders. “It’s just a job. I didn’t come here to screw up your life, Landon. And I didn’t come here to dig into old wounds. I’m helping you, you’re paying me with room and board, and since you’ll be gone soon, we don’t even have to see each other. All I need is a week or two to handle my affairs. By the time you get back, I’ll be ready to leave.”

It’s a tight timeline. Two weeks to produce a novel, instead of a month?

Ugh. But maybe the pressure will light a spark under me. If anything, it’ll just give me more incentive to get it done so I can get away from this asshole as soon as possible.

I let Landon Strauss break my heart once.

I won’t do it again.

He’s still watching me with that same measured look. Assessing every second.

I feel like I’m suddenly in hostile territory, and he’s sizing me up as the enemy. Like he's back in his military days and I’m just another obstacle to overcome with tactical assessment and a little strategic finesse. But just as quickly that look fades, leaving him looking almost bewildered, and then annoyed.

He grunts something under his breath, then looks away, staring across the sand to where choppy waves have turned to lead under the storm blowing in, the sky all steel and silver-shot lightning.

There’s something dark in his eyes.

Something haunted.

Something damaged.

The boy I knew doesn’t live in this hardened, scarred beast. Not anymore.

Landon's fists clench. He drops his phone into his bathrobe pocket.

“I’ll think,” he mutters, a drawling rasp darkening his sultry, deep voice.

Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone on the beach. The first mist of storm spray washes in, kissing my cheeks in cool beads that feel like the tears of the little girl I refuse to ever be again. Not for him.

I don’t know what kind of mess I’ve gotten myself into, but it’s already hurting like hell.

I almost want to laugh, give my throat something bitter and jagged. Whatever it takes to dislodge the lump forming there.

God, I really can’t control anything in my life, can I? Not even one confrontation with a wild man who still holds the map to all the wounded places in my heart.

I’ve never been in control of anything. Why should this be different?

Because I want it to be. Just this once.

Because my heart feels like it’s cracking, splintering in two, going back to a dreadful place I swore I'd left behind.

But this time, there's a difference: I’ve gotten pretty damned good at taping it back together.

Somehow, I’m not surprised Steve’s still not picking up his phone.

He may be a complete prick for putting me in this position, but he’s got a sense of self-preservation.

It’s been hours. At least a dozen phone calls.

Half a dozen voicemails before I quit wasting my voice and just hit redial until I got sick of it, chucked my phone across the desk, and settled back in my chair to stare out my office window.

I’ve been watching her all day, catching hints and flashes. Glimpses of her moving through the windows. A ghost I thought I'd chased away years ago, who shouldn't even be here.

She's not quite the same, true. This Kenna is older, more collected. That awkward young thing blossomed into an adult with that first entirely enticing, entirely maddening blush of new womanhood clinging to her like some heady perfume the second I got in her face.

Too bad the little things about her body language are too much the same. Still familiar enough to jolt me, until all day I’ve been out of sorts, close to making mistakes every time someone on my crew checks in with me about setup for the Milah job.

Skylar, my lead and logistics manager, tells me the singer wants us helping her entire entourage of stuck-up groupies. Whatever, I say, as long as Milah Holly understands we're security and not their damn servants. Skylar drops off as soon as she catches the edge in my tone.

The one Reb put there without trying.

Fuck. This isn’t going to work.

She’s already got me off my game, detached from my job, and I hate it.

I hate how grown-up she looks.

How her eyes, behind her sleeker, thinner glasses, are still the same clear, liquid green that seems to expect something more from me. Hate how it's the same pool I could lose myself in too long. Hate how one phone call from Milah’s manager, later, tells me I have no choice but to rely on Kenna when Milah needs me in Sonoma by Saturday afternoon, and it’s Friday now.

I fucking hate everything about this. About her. And about the demanding brat signing my next six figure check.

I've tried to come up with a work around all day, but it’s just not happening. I’m backed into a corner, and I can’t even get my head around what’s happening now.

Not when I keep remembering. Reliving what happened years ago – on the day I truly met the girl who shouldn’t be here tormenting me.

Sometimes, teenagers can be complete and utter pricks.

That’s the first thing I think when I see her crying. I barely know her; she’s just a shadow who hangs around my best friend now and then, someone I vaguely identify as his little sister, McKenna. Kenna, right?

I probably shouldn’t even be talking to her. I’m eighteen, close to graduating, and she’s this dorky fourteen-year-old freshman.

But she looks almost afraid of me. I find her out behind the bleachers on the football field after school, sobbing her eyes out. Like someone hurt her and she thinks I’ve come to deliver the killing blow.

Something about that look makes me want to fix it, even if I’m not the one who fucked it up. It's not my business, true, but for some screwed up reason I want to make it mine.

She’s curled on the grass, leaning against a post. I sit down on the other side and rest my back against the wood. That way she doesn’t have to feel like I’m looking at her, judging her.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask.

“No!” she forces out, sniffling, her voice thick.

“Okay. Whenever you're ready, I'm here.”

For some reason, that sets her off crying again. I just wait and listen.

Sometimes people just need someone to be there with them when they’re sad, but I hope I’m not embarrassing her and making it worse. Thankfully after a while there comes another sniffle, and her breathing sounds easier.

“Sorry, it's just...” she mumbles. “Thanks. I guess.”

I look over my shoulder. She’s taken her tear-streaked glasses off to reveal the largest, widest green eyes I’ve ever seen, swimming and nearly glowing with their wet sheen. She’s busy stretching her bulky, ill-fitted shirt out of shape trying to clean her lenses before she darts a quick glance toward me, then reddens and looks away.

“Not here to make fun of you,” I say. “It’s okay to talk. Really.”

I think she'll clam up again, when she lowers her eyes to her suddenly motionless hands. But she lets out a lifeless shrug and whispers bitterly, “Just boys being boys. Assholes, I mean. And I’m an easy target.”

“Did someone hurt you?”

“No. Maybe?” Another shrug. “Just my feelings. Jonah McMillan thought it would be funny to –” Her voice hitches as if she’ll breakdown again, then smooths as she clears her throat and continues with a touch of stiff pride. “He pretended to invite me to Homecoming. Big fancy fake letter and everything. And when I went to ask him if it was a joke or something...”

“He humiliated you,” I guess, a slight growl curdling my voice. “Like a fuckstick with nothing better to do..”

“In front of half the girls in my class!” she finishes with a touch of ferocity, her eyes sparking. “God. I tried to say I knew it was a joke, a stupid one, but he was too busy telling everyone how pathetic I was...thinking he’d ever go out with me. Like I’d be interested in him.”

“Real cute,” I offer, an awkward attempt to get her to laugh. It works, even if it’s just a kind of quick throaty hurting chuckle hidden behind a pinched smile.

“He’s an asshole, is what he is,” she counters, but a bruised smile lingers on her lips. Slowly fading. “I just…I don't even know. Now, they’re all calling me Princess. Like I think I’m too full of myself when they’re actually all too good for me.”

“Princess?” I curl my upper lip. “Like you're somebody’s yappy fucking purse dog? That’s a shit name. And they’re shit people. Here, I’ve got a better name for you.” I stroke my chin, wondering if I should really put it out there like this.

She eyes me warily. “…what is it?”

“Rebel,” I say, and grin. “Let's make it 'reb' for short. That's what you look like to me, telling these kids where they can stick it. And I bet that's what you'd like to be.”

Her eyes widen. Her blush returns. I eye her a second longer, deciding she’s kinda cute in a weird dorky little sister way. Of course, freshmen aren't something I'd be caught dead messing with – especially when she's Steve's own flesh and blood.

“Hmph,” she says faintly, tilting her head. “I don’t know. I'm not really that much of a rebel.”

“Bull. You saw through their crap, yeah? You’re too smart for this high school circlejerk, and too good for Jonah McMillan. He’s a limp-dick bully who probably gets off on hurting girls. You did the right thing serving up what he deserved. The world's full of dudes like him.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Great. I'm glad I have so much to look forward to.”

“Just telling the truth.” And if that's what I'm really doing, it makes me weirdly happy when she lets out this embarrassed little laugh, looking at me, then looking away again, bringing a hand up to scrub at her tear-streaked face.

“Hey. Look. I’ve been through four years at this shithole school. I'll tell you right now that if you try to be someone you’re not, it’s just gonna chew you up and spit you out in pieces on the other side. So forget being royalty. Be the rebel you are. This smart, gorgeous girl with rocking glasses. You’ll have so many boys begging for you they’ll be lined up the whole west coast to Seattle, babe.”

I’ve never seen someone blush so red in my life, right up to the tip of her pert little upturned nose. She ducks her head, tucking her loose, frizzy hair behind her ear.

“You’re just saying that because you’re Steve’s friend. Trying to make me feel better.”

“Wrong. I’m saying it because I mean it, Reb.” I reach over and ruffle her hair. “C’mon. Your bro will kill me if I don’t give you a ride home.”

I have no idea, when I offer my hand to help her up, what I’ve done on this day.

I’ve earned a friend, an admirer – and made one of the worst mistakes of my life. I have no idea, on this sunlit afternoon, that one day my life will go to hell when my father's mistakes get him killed, and there’s nothing left for me but bitterness, but pain...

And the vicious disappointment of pushing her away.

Something is chewing on my fingers.

I’m dreaming about Gremlins, the old horror-comedy movie. In the dream, one of them is chewing on my fingers. Its teeth are sharp, its mouth wet and slimy, and its breath smells familiarly foul. Just like that awful, meaty cat food.

Velvet.

Goddamn. I wake up groggy.

Velvet’s still chewing on my fingers, standing on the desk gnawing at me like I’m a human chew toy. Mews is prowling around restlessly, letting out his typical high demanding yowls while bumping up against the chair.

Yawning, I push myself upright, pulling my hand free from Velvet’s mouth and wiping my fingers on my thigh. I fell asleep in my chair. I couldn't have been out long enough for them to start screaming for their dinner, though.

I see why when I glance out the window. Toward the burning orange glow of sunset over the ocean.

Except that glow isn’t the sunset.

It’s fire, licking up out of the windows of the beach house, curling against wood turned black by flames, giving off sooty streams of smoke that plume into the sky.

The beach house glows like the mouth of hell roared open against the early nighttime darkness, a raw ember of crackling death.

My mouth dries. My heart stops. My stomach ices over, and before I can stop myself, I spring up, bolting for the door with only one thing on my mind.

Kenna.