I can tell by the quality of light outside that I’ve slept much later than usual. The theory is confirmed as I sit up—my head is stuffed with cotton, pounding in time to my heartbeat. Groaning, I swipe my phone off the nightstand and flop back down.

The first thing I see isn’t the time (10:15 AM) but a missed call and new voicemail. My lungs squeeze when I see the number. It takes me several attempts to unlock the screen and play the message.

Alex’s voice is low, tired, and oh-so-welcome. “Hey, it’s me. Why aren’t you answering your phone? It’s only eleven o’clock there.” He pauses for a playful, long-suffering sigh. “The situation with Hyacinth was worse than I thought. I fired Jackson and three-quarters of the staff. Call me back. I don’t care what time it is.”

I lower the phone, my finger hovering over the Call icon as I wait for my stomach to stop doing cartwheels.

“Thebes? You awake?” Lillian’s soft voice comes from outside my bedroom door.

I sigh in relief. “Yes, come in.” She bounds inside and jumps on my bed—dressed, caffeinated, and grinning. My jaw drops. “Begone, bodysnatcher!”

She giggles. “I’ve decided to treat today as an excuse for co-dependency.”

“As opposed to when?” I ask sweetly.

“Multiply my current habits by a thousand. First order of business: what was that lawyer’s name?”

It takes me thirty seconds to find it in the fog of my morning-brain. “Albert… uh, Delaney, I think.”

“Great! I’m going to call him and set up an appointment. Then we’re going to buy new dresses for your mother’s party on Saturday. After that, we’re going to Tulip for massages and facials. My treat.”

“Good Lord,” I groan.

She jumps off the bed. “Shower and get dressed, Thebes. We’ve got shit to do.”

I throw a pillow at her retreating back, then roll onto my stomach and burrow into the sheets and remaining pillows. Alex’s scent is faint, but still there. I should change the sheets, but don’t want to.

My phone is in my hand, and I dial his number before my nerves can catch up and paralyze me. I listen to the ringing, half-hoping it will go to voicemail.

“Thea.”

Warmth courses through me at the intimate purr of my name on his lips. Encouraged by the heightened blood flow, my mind jumps gleefully onto its hamster wheel. Tell him about the money! Tell him!

But my throat closes and I can’t. I don’t know how to explain what it means. The multifaceted pill that Lady Margaret shoved down my throat from the grave: fear, bitterness, hilarity, and (yes) relief. Too many emotions to swallow gracefully, too complicated a mix to articulate to someone who doesn’t know me.

He doesn’t know me. He won’t understand. For someone of Alex’s means, Margaret’s fortune is pocket change.

“Cat got your tongue, Ms. Sands?” He’s smiling, but I can hear the fatigue in his voice.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Hi. How are you?”

“Annoyed. Exhausted. But glad you called.” He pauses; a door closes. “What are you wearing?”

My breath catches, expels in nervous laughter. “Where are you?”

“Between interviews for a new manager. Answer the question.”

I pick at my camisole. “A turtleneck and sweatpants.”

“Liar,” he chides, “but I forgive you. How are you feeling?”

Now—I should tell him now. Instead, I say, “I’m okay. I found out the funeral is next Friday.”

“Yes, my sister told me,” he says softly. “She’ll be coming down from Los Angeles to attend.” I hear a muffled knock, then soft voices. A moment later, Alex says, “My next interview is here.”

“Okay,” I say, mostly relieved. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, I need it.” He pauses for a long moment. I hold my breath. “I’m going to call you later, and you’re going to tell me whatever it is you’re keeping from me.”

“What?” I blurt. The hamster wheel is a blur of motion. Even with three thousand miles between us, he has seen right through me. Unbelievable.

“Ms. Sands,” he growls.

“Y-yes?”

“Everything,” he says, and the word cracks like a whip.

I know he’s reminding me what he wants. Everything. But he’s not here, with his ocean eyes to peel away my defenses, his scent and heat to lure me into feeling safe.

“We’ll talk when you get back,” I say.

He sighs. “You win. But only because Lucy is glaring at me to get off the phone. I’ll call you this afternoon. Bye, Thea.”

“Bye.”

My hamster wheel pitches sideways, ejecting me off.

A half hour later, I’m showered and dressed, and as near-human as I can be prior to coffee consumption. When I reach the kitchen, I’m shocked to see breakfast waiting: a spinach and feta omelet and coffee.

I gape at Lillian. “You braved the minefields of a grocery store for me?”

She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “It’s the least I could do. I feel awful about last night, Thebes. I shouldn’t have brought up the money. It was tactless, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “We were pretty sloshed.”

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t okay, but thanks for saying that. Now eat your breakfast. I called Mr. Delaney and he cleared his morning for us. He’s in La Jolla, so whenever we’re ready, we can head up there.”

I take a deep breath, then grab her in a hug. “Thanks, Lil.”

“Eat,” she says gruffly.

I lean back with a startled laugh. “You know who you sound like?” I ask, then wince. “He called last night when I was asleep. I called him back a little bit ago.”

She sighs hugely. “Thank God! I was getting ready to put out a contract. Did you tell him what happened?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re going to tell him, right? I mean, who better to give you counsel than a billionaire?”

Anxiety flutters down my arms. “I’ll tell him,” I force out. “Just… later.”

Lillian stares at me a moment, then says, “The only reason I’m not touching that is my current groveling status.”

“I like the sound of that. Now give me food, woman.”

She giggles. “Sure thing, Ms. Sands.”

* * *

Albert Delaney is a sweet-faced man who reminds both Lillian and me of Mr. Rogers. He gives me a copy of the will in a thick envelope, then painstakingly walks me through Margaret’s portfolio, including bonds, stocks, commodities, market funds, and plain old savings accounts. He finishes the lecture by handing me the business card of the investment manager who’s been in charge of Margaret’s money for twenty-five years.

The fortune is currently in probate, a stasis wherein the will and my right to inherit are proven valid. It’s a process that can apparently take up to two years, but Mr. Delaney estimates it will be closer to eight months.

I don’t know why, exactly, but the information takes some of the weight off my shoulders. More weight comes off when he explains that he’ll be handling all court appearances and paperwork on my behalf. I don’t question him. Margaret was his client for forty years—her trust in him is enough for me.

When he asks if I’ve given any thought to the house in La Jolla, I immediately say I want to sell it and donate the proceeds to charity. To my chagrin and his embarrassment, Margaret issued an addendum for that, too. Whatever proceeds arise from the sale of the house and its valuables must either be absorbed by investments or held in trust for my children.

“Sneaky bitch,” I reconfirm, but instead of crying or laughing, I just sigh.

On the way to the car, I leave voicemails. First for Oliver and Alice, letting them know I’m alive and somewhat stable. Next for Matthew, informing him that I’m coming back to work tomorrow and there’s nothing he can say to stop me. Lastly, I phone my mother. She unfortunately answers, but I keep the conversation brief.

“Yes, I will be attending your birthday party—Yes, Lillian will be coming with me—No, I haven’t spoken to Tabitha—Oh, she’ll be there? Great.”

After that delightful exchange, Lillian drives us to a nearby mall. She coerces me into trying on twenty dresses in three different stores. I remain ambivalent, a breathing mannequin unbothered by the usual issues of hips and thighs.

“You’re in shock,” she notes, and not for the first time.

We’re in a shared dressing room. She’s wiggling into a strapless number while I stand listlessly in my underwear. “Maybe,” I concede, “but I might be having an existential crisis.”

She zips up her dress and twirls, waiting for my comment. When I just stare at her, she says, “Give yourself a break. You’re in love and in mourning at the same time.”

I nod because the sound of my voice is beginning to annoy me.

After buying the dress Lillian chooses for me—and doing my best not to flinch at the price tag—we grab a quick lunch at a mall cafe. Then we head downtown to Tulip, Lillian’s favorite spa.

My masseuse is a Frenchman whose name I don't catch. He has strong hands (not as strong as Alex’s) and exclaims delightedly over my tattoo. I try to lose myself in the pampering, but can’t stop thinking about Alex.

Is he thinking about me at all?

The clock is ticking.

Thirty-two more days.

Lillian and I have a late dinner with Adam, who foots the bill and doesn’t seem to mind me tagging along. Their sweet repartee and deference for one another are such that, by the end of the meal, I feel buoyant from being in the presence of blossoming love.

The feeling lasts until I’m alone in bed and realize Alex never called.

* * *

Going back to work on Wednesday is a relief. The tornado that Stevens warned of has hit—I’m blissfully distracted and firmly in my element. By noon, there might as well be a tattoo of a phone on the side of my head.

A plumbing issue is delaying the installation of tile and wood cladding in Hemlock’s bathrooms. The main flooring install has to be pushed back four days because of a scheduling mishap with the distributor. And finally, the wood lamella grid for the wall behind the bar won’t fit through Hemlock’s door. By some miracle, I refrain from questioning the IQs involved, grateful that, at least, the problem was identified before the grid’s scheduled delivery one week from now.

Everything else, thankfully, is on track for the opening. The custom furniture and most of the lighting is coming from back East, vendors Alex has worked with and prefers. My contacts at the companies are highly professional, sending me periodic progress reports. The delivery timelines are tight—the final week is going to be hellish—but I’m beginning to believe we’ll pull it off.

Alex doesn’t call Wednesday. Or Thursday, either. By Friday, I’m almost used to the low-grade panic attack that hits when I think of him. Lillian’s chorus of, “Call him, dummy,” is a broken record after two days.

But I don’t call. I’m not brave, not skilled or confident enough to overcome the narratives cycling endlessly in my head.

He regrets sleeping with me.

The novelty of the chase has worn off.

He suspects I’m in love with him.

He doesn’t want to encourage my feelings.

And the most insidious, illogical, and quintessentially female thought of them all: He’s found someone else.

* * *

Late Friday afternoon, I sit at my desk playing with fabrics, no longer certain of my choice for Hemlock’s window treatments. My usual design instinct is in hiding, either exhausted from overuse or punishing me for questioning it.

“The left one,” says Michael.

I look up with a frown. “You think? I don’t know. Am I going in the wrong direction altogether? Maybe plantation shutters instead?”

Michael frowns concernedly. “You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?”

“Eh, sort of.” Not really.

He leans a hip on my desk. “Why don’t you forget the colors for a while. Call it a day and come out with me tonight.”

My heart stutters, my gaze skipping over his earnest, handsome face. “Michael—”

“A drink and dinner, Thea,” he says chidingly. “I’m not proposing marriage. When was the last time you were taken out?”

I immediately think of Alex and the fact that we’ve never been on a date. Unless I count the disastrous meeting in the Lounge at the US Grant. Which I don’t. No dates, then, just mind-blowing sex and emotional complications.

“It’s been a while,” I admit, then wonder what the hell has come over me. “But, Michael, I—”

“Ms. Sands is busy tonight,” says a voice that makes me rocket to my feet.

Michael shifts aside, revealing an unfairly gorgeous Alex. His hair is a soft mess, his jaw covered in stubble. A long-sleeved, charcoal button-down perfectly contours his broad shoulders, chest, and flat stomach. Black slacks remind me instantly of what’s not beneath them.

My heart and libido both soar, then plummet as I meet his gaze. Though his expression is mild, even humored, his eyes glitter dangerously.

“Mr. Hughes,” Michael begins, glancing uncertainly at me. “I didn’t realize…” He clears his throat. “I’ll see you Monday, Thea.”

“Bye, Michael,” I murmur.

Alex turns and watches him walk to the door, which rings at his departure. We’re now alone in the office except for Alice, who’s reading a magazine behind her distant desk.

“You’re back,” I say, not moving.

Emotions boil under my skin. Longing and excitement. Annoyance and anxiety. My heart beats rapidly against my ribs, trying, it feels, to fly to him.

Searing blue eyes meet mine. “Yes,” he says shortly. “Should I have stayed away longer? I wouldn’t want to disrupt your social schedule.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

His head jerks toward the door. It takes me a few seconds to make the connection, then warm pleasure floods my chest. “Are you jealous?” I blurt.

Alex skirts around my desk, shoving my chair aside with his knee. Before I can process his intent, he grabs me around the waist and yanks me forward. By the time his lips find mine, though, I’m ready for him.

There’s no soft reunion for us, but an echo of our last kiss. Clicking teeth and bruised lips. I moan as his tongue invades, claiming and marking mine. His incredible hands slide over my back to squeeze my ass and grind me against him. I can feel him, hard and growing harder, against my stomach.

Yes. God, yes.

“Damnit,” he snarls, tearing his mouth from mine. I’m dizzy with arousal and can only blink up at him. His eyes still burn, the gold flecks dancing on a sea of blue. In a low tone, he says, “You’re mine, Thea. Do you understand what that means?”

Yes. No. “Not really,” I breathe.

“No one touches you, no one fucks you but me.”

The possessiveness makes me shiver with pleasure—and stirs the anger that’s been on simmer the last few days. I’ve had plenty of time to make a decision regarding my behavior around Alexander Hughes. Just because I feel like a needy, lovesick fool doesn’t mean I have to act like one.

I pull away from him (so I can think clearly) and glare. “You can’t seriously expect me to swoon over that caveman bullshit. You haven’t called me in days. You don’t have a claim on me, Alex.” I wave a hand through the space between us. “This affair has an expiration date.”

I try to read his expression and fail. His features are carved of stone. “It seems I’ve been remiss in expressing parameters for this affair,” he grinds out. “Am I wrong in assuming you wish to continue it?”

My burning cheeks provide an answer. Satisfaction flares in his eyes. “In that case, let’s establish some ground rules. I think I’ve made the first one clear. You’re mine until one of us wishes to end our liaison.”

I smother a flinch at the word end. “Fine,” I snap. “How about this one: when you say you’re going to call, you do.”

“Fine. And you’ll stop lying to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you!”

He takes a step closer, electrifying my personal space. “Lying by omission is still lying.”

I clench my teeth. “Fine. If I’m not allowed to see anyone else, neither are you. No Petra, Joyce, Alyssa, or whoever else you’ve got lined up in your harem.”

His brows lift. “Agreed. And you start taking birth control.”

I blink. “Wha—what for?”

“I want to feel you skin to skin. Hot, wet, and tight around me.”

Heat floods my body and I choke on my next drawn breath. “Alex,” I hiss, glancing over his shoulder toward Alice, who thankfully appears oblivious.

His lips curve, darkly amused. “Any other demands?” I shake my head slowly. All I can think about is sex with him sans condom. “Be sure to let me know if change your mind. Now, what are you not telling me?”

I swallow hard and stare across the office. Here we go.

“It has to do with Lady Margaret. She, uh, left me money. A lot of money. Well, not a lot to you, but—”

“How much?”

“Almost nineteen million dollars.”

His fingers gently tilt my chin, directing my eyes to his. “You hate it, don’t you?” he asks softly. “The idea of being accidentally wealthy?”

My skin prickles. “How do you know that?”

He traces my jaw. The light touch pools warmth in my knees, weakening them. “I know a lot about you, Thea. I know that at twenty-one you refused a trust fund that most people would sell their souls for. You work yourself to the bone, haven’t taken a vacation in five years, and are virtually estranged from your family.”

I jerk back, flushing with indignation. “A background check? When?”

“After the wedding,” he says mildly. “You fascinated me. You turned me down for a dance, had a quarrel with a Grammy-winning musician who was clearly your ex, then refused to give me your phone number. Oh, and you were wearing horrible fake pearls, were showing off that exquisite back, and annoyed the hell out of Molly.”

“She deserved it,” I mutter.

He chuckles. “I was intrigued. Even more so than I was after meeting you at the gallery.”

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay mad. (I’m trying hard not to smile, actually.) In an accusatory tone that fools neither of us, I ask, “You knew I worked here, didn’t you? When you approached Matthew?”

He cocks a brow. “Of course. But rest assured, I didn’t hire Price Architects solely for you.”

“Not solely?”

His smile turns wry. “I’m very lucky Matthew happens to be so talented.” Before I can decide how to feel about that statement, he says, “I also met your mother at the wedding. She not so delicately inquired as to my father’s marital status.”

Of course she did. “Is that so?” I deadpan.

He nods, lips twitching. “It gave me further perspective. In fact, if I hadn’t already seen your snobby bitch routine, I would have sworn you two weren’t related.”

I blink several times, then finally surrender a laugh. “You’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you?”

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

His eyes are warm with humor, but his voice… It’s so tender, my heart comes to attention. Not merely to wag her tail, either, but to roll over and expose her vulnerable belly.

I don’t try to hide my confusion, my emotional nakedness. Why bother, when he sees right through me anyway? Instead, I summon my old friend Redirection, and say, “You didn’t call me. I’m still angry about that.”

Elegant fingers curl around my neck, exerting gentle pressure. I plant my feet. “Come here, sweetheart.” The teasing command melts my resistance. I sag into his chest and soak in his warmth. As always, a potent sense of safety washes through me. Strong arms enfold me, his palm cupping the back of my head.

He drops a kiss onto my head. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He sighs. “A lot of reasons, none of them good. Why didn’t you call me?”

I feel sudden, powerful relief. “The same.”

“We’re quite a pair,” he murmurs.

“I have another stipulation,” I whisper.

“Mmm? What?”

“You take me on a real date.”

His chest vibrates with laughter. “I agree. Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I already made plans.”