Friday afternoon after my office hours and poetry class, I catch a bus to meet Claire for a late lunch in Fremont. The weather is frigid but clear, another storm not due until Sunday.

When I arrive at our favorite artsy café, Tullamore, it’s slammed, no tables or chairs in sight. I don’t see Claire, so I head outside to call her. She answers on the first ring.

“I’m on the back patio. The heaters are on so it’s habitable. Is the wait still long?”

I make my way back inside to join the line. “It's not bad. Keep the table. What do you want?”

She rattles off an order and we hang up. The line moves quickly, the staff efficient as always. Before five minutes pass, I’m at the counter.

“Hi, what can I get you?” asks a slim, lovely brunette with amazing curls. She looks familiar, but I can’t place where I know her from.

“Two large lattes and two turkey-avocado sandwiches, please.”

“Sure thing.” She jots down the order and shouts at the barista, who nods. “Anything else?”

“Nope, thanks.” As she takes my money, I can’t help asking, “Do we know each other?”

She gives me a searching look, then visibly brightens. “You’re Allison’s sister, right? Sorry, I forgot your name.”

It clicks when I spy her name tag. Rose. “I think we met at Allison’s last year. I’m Iris.”

“That’s right, we’re the flower girls!” she says, grinning. She glances meaningfully over my shoulder. “I’d totally chat, but the line is getting out of hand again.”

“Oops, sorry.” Blushing, I grab the table placard she’s offering and move away from the register.

“Great to see you, Iris!”

“You, too!” I call, then head down the hallway and outside.

Claire looks up from a book, smile faltering as she sees me. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m just super awkward in public.”

She laughs. “You just described every grad student I know.”

I share her laughter. “True story. What are you reading?” With a sheepish grin, she shows me the cover. My mouth drops. “‘When a Cowboy Comes Calling’? Are you serious with this right now?”

She snorts and tosses the trashy romance to the table. “It’s your fault. I finally saw the light and ended things with Monty. Now I’m in lust with Griffen.” Her expression becomes vulnerable. “He’s a good guy, right?”

“Yes,” I say honestly. “He’s respectful, hardworking, and his GPA is higher than mine. He’s also funny, kind, and hello, he’s a real-life cowboy.”

She grins in relief. “Okay. Well, I guess I’m moving to Texas next year.”

We’re still giggling when our food and drinks arrive. Surprisingly, they’re delivered by Rose.

“Hey, Iris, sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier,” she says, smiling sweetly. “My brain is totally on the fritz. I’ve, uh, developed a thing about people asking if they know me.”

Although I don’t actually know her outside our one meeting and through random intel from Allison, another vague memory surfaces.

“Oh, are you still, um, dealing with fallout from that…” I rack my brain and can’t for the life of me remember.

Rose grins. “I gotta say, it’s pretty awesome you have no idea.”

Claire coughs over the words, “Breaking Giants.”

At mention of the wildly popular band, a lightbulb flashes. “Oh—right.”

Rose laughs, but it’s impossible to miss the sadness that clouds her eyes. Glancing between Claire and me, she asks softly, “Have you ever met someone who just… fits you? Only there’s twenty million obstacles in the way?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Her eyes narrow on me, her voice lowering with sudden intensity. “Whatever you do, don’t sleep with him, Iris. Unless he’s ready to be the man you need. I mean it. Worst seven-hour mistake ever.”

Words fail me, so I just nod.

Claire chokes softly on her coffee. “Seven hours?” she squeaks.

Rose looks away, smiling faintly, but her eyes stay sad. After a moment, she shakes her head and stands. “God, I’m such a downer. Sorry ladies.” Bending, she gives me an unexpected kiss on the cheek. “Nice to see you, Iris. You should call Allison more. I know you’re step-siblings and whatnot, but she loves you.”

With a wave, she disappears inside.

Claire whistles softly. “I have no idea if she was talking about Matt Sullivan or Julian Ashburn, but seven hours? How could seven hours with one of them be a mistake?”

“I don’t know,” I say, while privately, thinking of Beckett, I admit, Very easily.

Like the man has ESP, my phone buzzes on the table. I look down, read the text, then close my eyes. I’ve been ignoring his calls and all emails except ones pertaining to class.

You’re backing out, aren’t you?

“Who was that?” asks Claire.

I take an unsteady breath. “No one.”

* * *

A house party is exactly where I don’t want to be on a Friday night. Especially this Friday. But Griffen invited Claire, and she begged me to be the third wheel. The prospect of doing homework alone in my room while fighting the urge to call Beckett is dismal enough that I don’t complain. Not out loud, at least.

The crowd is mostly grad students, and they mesh for a humorous blend of nearly incomprehensible, high-brow conversations and scandalous antics. Techno music blares from huge speakers in the cleared out living room, and at least twenty bodies are gyrating beneath a tired disco ball. Women cluster together with flirting eyes, while men make asses of themselves to score the hottest dance partner.

I’m sitting on a plastic folding chair near the front door, and my greatest enjoyment in the last hour has been the cold gusts of air every time it opens. That, and the flask in my hand.

Claire disappeared twenty minutes ago with Griffen. I’m just drunk enough to be jealous. Griffen is so nice, and he’s clearly a steady, capable man. One who wants to date. Learn about his partner. Maybe, eventually, think about long term.

Basically the opposite of James Beckett.

“Iris?”

I look up and recognize Kirk. “How’s it going?” I yell over the music.

“Good, good. I’m surprised to see you here!” He bobs his head, hips jerking to the beat. Off-rhythm, unfortunately. Bending down, he yells in the direction of my ear, “Wanna dance?”

I lean back so his beer breath doesn’t make me gag. “No, thanks! Bad knee!”

“Ah, that sucks,” he says, gaze bouncing around nervously. He drags his free hand through brown hair very much in need of a trim.

Ashamed of my critical thoughts, I point to the empty chair next to me. “Sit down!”

He blinks in surprise, then smiles like I just offered to kiss him. Dropping his lanky body beside me, I immediately regret my decision. He smells like a bottle of cheap cologne.

I’m too old for this shit.

Leaning toward me again, he asks, “So, what’s it like being Beckett’s TA? He scares the crap out of me! Have you read his books? He’s brilliant!”

I muster a smile. “He’s a tyrant, but yeah, he’s a great writer.”

“Has he hit on you yet? I heard that’s his thing. I saw him last week coming out of his office with some woman.” He laughs loudly. “She was tore up from the floor up, if you know what I mean!”

My stomach turns. “Dear God,” I mutter, sending the plea to the spinning disco ball. With a meaningful glance at my watch, I stand up and point toward the back of the house. “I’m going to find my friend. Nice talking to you, Kirk!”

Too drunk to notice the brush off, he bobs his head amicably. “See you Wednesday!”

I walk through the living room with its miniature orgy and into the packed kitchen. On the other side of an island filled with half-empty bottles of booze, I see Claire with her tongue down Griffen’s throat.

Raising my flask in silent salute, I drain its contents. Beside me, a man lifts a bottle of vodka in my direction. “Refill?” he asks, grinning.

“Nope, thanks.” Although I’m not adverse to the idea of more alcohol, at parties such as this one I never drink anything from bottles I don’t personally see opened.

Within seconds, someone else offers me another drink, this time from an unmarked red cup. I shake my head and quickly head back the way I came, then straight out the front door. As soon as it closes behind me, I feel better. And worse, because Griffen was my ride home.

“Iris, is that you?” asks Meredith the Statuesque, coming up the front steps with two girlfriends in toe.

“It’s me,” I agree, sitting heavily on the top step.

Meredith sends her friends inside and perches beside me. “You okay?”

I laugh, then realize I sound like a lunatic. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. Just boy problems.”

She rolls her eyes skyward. “I hear that. What’s going on?”

I shrug. “He wants a physical-only sort of thing, and I’m not sure I can handle it.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “Do you have feelings for him?”

“Define feelings,” I say morosely. “I can tell you he makes me crazy. Most of the time I don’t know whether to slap him or kiss him.”

Meredith grins. “Sounds passionate. Have you slept with him?”

The odd magic of college parties, I muse, is having frankly intimate conversations with almost-strangers. “Nope. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll get attached. He’s…” I shrug, “pretty amazing.”

She nudges my shoulder with hers. “I guess you have to decide if your fear of the unknown is greater than your desire to be close to him.”

I blink at her as the words sink through me, stirring up a dangerous conviction. My desire to be close to James Beckett.

“I really wish you hadn’t said that,” I finally say.

She frowns. “Why?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and she laughs, standing. With a final squeeze of my shoulder, she says, “Good luck, buttercup,” and heads inside.

Chin up, buttercup. Come out swinging.

Fate or accident, Meredith’s words trigger memory of my brother’s voice. I have no idea what it portends, but I scroll through the contacts on my phone with new determination. I find Beckett and hit Send.

It rings three times.

“Iris?” A pause. “Where are you?”

I tell him the nearest cross street. “Come get me, James.”

He draws a breath. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I hang up, send a text to Claire letting her know I found a ride, and make my way down the street to the corner. It’s dark and cold, my wool coat barely sufficient to keep the chill from my bones.

As the minutes pass, my nerve falters countless times. I wish I had more alcohol—I wish I wasn’t so buzzed. I wish I had on nicer underwear, a lace bra. Perfume.

Did I shave my legs this morning?

“Oh fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my cold face with my hands.

Just as I reach peak anxiety, a car pulls up in front of me. The driver’s door opens and closes. Before I even look, I know it’s him. I can feel him getting closer like an asteroid on collision course.

“Iris, look at me.”

I lower my hands. Beckett scans my face, then his gaze flickers to the flask peeking from my coat pocket.

“You’ve been drinking,” he says mildly.

“Yes. Bourbon.”

His lips curl. “I’m either impressed or disappointed, hard to say.” A hesitation. “Shall I take you home?”

Fire surges in my blood. “Do you want me or not?”

He takes a step toward me, fingers sliding under my jaw to lift my face. “More than anything in memory, yes. But I’m not sure how I feel about you being drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I’m Scottish.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Before I can form a coherent response, he sobers, lips still curved as his gaze locks on my face. Then even the smile fades, and all I’m left with is the emotion burning in his eyes. It’s a little scary, and so, so sexy.

The next thing I know, his arms are around my waist, yanking me onto my tiptoes. His hot, soft lips find mine, the scruff on his jaw teasing my chin and cheeks. I moan in gratitude and relief, wrapping my arms tightly around his shoulders. We feed from each other like every touch of our tongues is the first and last.

I soak in his heat and taste, my body burning, all pain gone. Disjointed thoughts tumble in my mind. Yes. I need this. Him. When I grab his hair, he groans. Hands slide from my waist to cup my ass, pulling me roughly against him. He’s already hard, a thick line of heat against my stomach.

“We need to go now,” he whispers breathlessly, “because I’m seriously considering tearing off your pants and taking you against that tree.”

“Whatever you want,” I say mindlessly. Then my remaining brain cells activate. I jerk back to stare at him. “What? Hell no.”

He laughs, thrusting lightly to tease me. “You’re too much. Come on.”

Setting me down, he opens the passenger door of a sleek BMW. I sink into the heated leather seat with a sigh of bliss.

Beckett slides behind the wheel, sending me a searing look. “Buckle up.”

I do, and as he pulls away from the curb, I impulsively grab his right hand and draw it into my lap. Bewitched by his nearness, driven by a confidence I’ve never before possessed, I lift my hips and guide him between my open legs. His jaw clenches, fingers curling possessively.

“I can feel your heat,” he hisses, gaze slashing to me. “God, Iris, I need to be inside you.”

“Eyes on the road,” I murmur. My fingers atop his, I rock lightly against the heel of his hand.

“Bloody hell,” he gasps.

My body completely given over to sensation, I let go of my final inhibitions. Head falling back, eyes closing, I relish every rising swell of pleasure.

Our perfect rhythm never falters, and when he whispers, “That’s it, ah fuck, Iris, you’re so beautiful,” dense, sparkling energy coalesces at the base of my spine.

“Don’t stop. James… Oh—”

I climax with a shudder, catching my cry with my hands.

The car jerks to a stop and I open my eyes. We’re parked in the driveway of a beautiful two-story home, white with dark trim, set behind a small, lush front yard.

I have no recollection of the journey. “Where are we?”

“Wallingford.” He tears off his seatbelt and races around the car to my door. Wrenching it open, he growls, “Out, now.”

Giggling, I unbuckle my seatbelt and take his hand, then yelp as he yanks me off my feet into his arms. Our faces close, I read the soft wonder in his eyes.

“Tell me that just happened.”

I nip lightly at his lower lip. “Yes, I got off on your hand with all my clothes on. You’re just that good.”

He chuckles and kisses me hard. “Oh, pet, I haven’t even begun.”

A door slams somewhere close and a woman yells, “Who the fuck is that, James?”

The arms around me slacken. Without their support, I stumble back, my hip connecting with the open car door. I feel the pain only distantly, my mind and body suddenly, frigidly cold. At the top of the stairs leading to the picturesque porch and front door, a tall woman stands highlighted by the house lights.

“What the hell are you doing here?” asks Beckett in a tone I’ve never heard him use before. One as cold as I feel.

“Who is that?” I hear my voice ask.

He doesn’t answer, but the woman does.

“I’m his wife.”