This guy is too damn much. The sting of hives creeping up my spine warn me to stay far away. Peaches would never lead me astray. Hell, it was her who offered me my first job while I was still living in the shelter.

But this sexy, cocky, confident man walking next to me is something else. I’m used to people staring at me or even tossing out sideways comments, but he’s over the top more.

“Haven’t walked a girl home since junior high.” He tries to strike up a conversation.

He has no idea how closed off I am to the world and how I’ll never open up to anyone, him included. Not even the gallons of sexiness he oozes could tempt me.

“I have a pretty sick ride back at home. I usually pull it out when I want to get in pants. My game is a bit weak tonight.”

He does the unthinkable. I’m not sure if it’s the stray piece of hair that’s fallen from his pony, the masculine scent wafting off him, or the fact he’s downright funny as hell. I burst into laughter imagining him as a young boy walking older girls home or him selling me on his car.

“She laughs.” He stops mid-stride studying me. “Let me hit you with some Rico Suave shit.”

“Stop.” I clutch my belly with my free hand that’s sore from laughing.

I can’t remember the last time genuine laughter escaped me. It’s an odd sensation and liberating at the same time.

“Why stop? You’re beautiful when you laugh.” He brushes away a stray hair stuck to the side of my cheek.

“You are very weird…” Shit, I don’t even know his name.

“Hart Richards, man of your wild dreams, number one in your heart, and…”

“Whoa, stallion. Got it.”

We continue walking, and it seems he won the game of talking since he has me immersed deep in conversation.

“You’re fucking incredible up on the stage.”

That makes my cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Thank you.”

“You belong on the big stage that’s for sure.”

“Oh no.” I wave him off. “I just like to sing that’s all.”

“I hate country music,” he blurts out randomly.

For some strange reason, it too makes me laugh. Most men would act like they’re the George Jones of country music to appease me in hopes of getting down my pants.

“What do you like?”

“Good ol’ rock and roll.”

“Like butt rock?” I ask.

“Damn, she laughs and makes jokes. You, Savannah Ray, are going to make an excellent piece of ass one day.”

“Not likely.”

The insecurities and deep-seated monsters threaten to creep out. I’ve run for the majority of my life. When a threat reared its ugly head, I was gone and have never stopped. It was the love of music that made me stay here, and Peaches.

We reach my door all too soon. I find it odd that I’m sorrowful to be parting ways with him.

“How do you know Peaches?” I finally ask him.

“She’s my aunt.”

I gasp then cover my mouth. “Your mom is…”

He cuts me off before I have the chance to finish. “Yes, dying.”

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant.” I shake my head to convince him. “I love her. Peaches invites me over every Sunday night for dinner, but I haven’t made it the last few months.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Everything falls together putting together the jumbled up puzzle. He’s Hart, her little boy, the one Peaches’ sister talks about all the time. There can only be one reason he’s home. I know why he left and how hard it’s been for his mother not to call him back home.

“That old alley cat must really like you because she doesn’t just let anyone in her house.”

“Yes.” I swallow down the thick lump of pride in my throat. “She’s helped me in more ways than one.”

Hart tucks his hands in his pockets, steps back with a shy look, and grins. It’s the first time I’ve seen this man vulnerable tonight. His mask of all jackass has been wiped away, and I don’t like it. He’s processing real life shit, his reality, and the pain is visible.

“Sounds like I’ll be seeing you tomorrow night then.” He begins stepping backward toward the street. “I’d ask for a goodnight kiss, but guessing we aren’t at that stage yet even though I’m fucking Prince Charming.”

“You are right. Not even close.”

“Harsh, Vannie, harsh.” He covers his heart while stepping back slowly.

I should throw a dog a bone, but don’t quite have that confidence yet, no matter how nice of a man he is or who his aunt is. He knows where my apartment is and that’s enough. He doesn’t need to know the exact number.

“Why Peaches?”

“Eh?” He tilts his head.

“Why do you call her Peaches? Heard you started it.”

“Just a part of the charm, babe.”

I shake my head not able to fight the stupid grin on my face and then mumble, “Something like that it seems.”

“I’ll buy dinner tomorrow,” he hollers since he’s practically across the street now.

It takes me a moment to catch onto the joke, and I only smile before entering the apartment building. Typically my footsteps are heavy going up the stairs, but not tonight. Hart is funny, and it sure felt good to laugh again. A genuine and honest laugh that bubbles up from the inside. A foreign concept.

My apartment is nothing to brag about, but it’s my home. The first home I’ve had in years. A bed, clean water, and a working toilet are all it takes for me to be happy. After living on the run for years, making the streets my bed, this is a mansion in comparison.

The hot water billowing out of the shower begins to steam up the tiny bathroom. It’s my signal to strip bare. The scars on my body are my kryptonite. The permanent and nasty reminders of my past that I never look at or feel. My fingertips are always covered with a washcloth when showering. Full body mirrors don’t exist in my house, and my eyes never glance down. Out of sight, out of mind, locking the memories away forever.

Shuddering while running my fingertip up my bare arm, I find myself smiling with small explosions of happiness coursing through me. But it will never be enough for me to look down at my abdomen. Never.