They say a woman knows it's obvious when she's found the one.

Prince Charming isn't subtle.

She remembers every first with Mr. Right. Every second, third, and fourth.

Every beat of her own enchanted heart.

His face, his smell, the mischief dancing in his eyes that makes her all tingly and weak-kneed looking back on their wedding day, and then again many years later through the fog of love.

The lyrical cadence of his voice etches on her brain forever. His first kiss – the one that has to happen with storybook perfection – leaves the heart drumming on infinity shuffle, an echo of sweet nostalgia in her blood.

When I first saw Rex Osborne, there was none of that.

Just the roar of his old truck pulling into our lot. Two doors slamming shut. A half-second glance at him from behind while I hoisted the snow-packed shovel over my shoulder.

Another second spent staring harder. Maybe I thought his shoulders looked a little out of place in this small town.

Too big. Too broad. Too tall. Too heavy.

Too much urgency in his step.

Too much man for Split Harbor, and for me.

I heard two distant little voices at his feet, murmuring the happy nothings children do. Then the three of them disappeared inside the lodge.

It lasted all of three seconds before I tucked my head down and went back to work, scraping snow off the path. I only stopped for one more thing.

A growl rumbled in the sky, almost like thunder, totally out of place in frozen dead February.

I still don't know if I imagined it.

But I didn't imagine him.

I didn't know I'd met the man who'd ruin imagining for good, who'd tear what I thought I knew to pieces, who'd dynamite my heart, and who'd ground himself in my life's smoking crater.

Rex taught me so many things and showed me many more. Like what's real, what's undeniable, what's worth every shred of passion in two fiery souls.

Rex taught me how to live. How to love. How to hurt.

And then Rex set me free.

* * *

I tuck the shovel into the corner of the porch railings right next to the bucket of rock salt I’ll need again first thing in the morning. So far we've only gotten a light dusting of snow, but more is predicted.

No surprises. It’s winter. In Michigan.

My cheeks puff as I hold in the heavy sigh burning my lungs, wanting out. It is what it is. This is my home. My livelihood. My future.

I need to be thankful for that. All of it. And I need to be satisfied, too.

I owe Gramps big time. If not for him, Lord knows where I’d be right now. Rather than living in a lodge where people pay good money to rest, relax, and enjoy life, I might've ended up in a foster home.

Shaking off the melancholy that's been weighing heavier and heavier lately, I push open the employee entrance and remove my boots, coat, hat and mittens before sitting down on the bench to change into tennis shoes.

It'll be better when Russ returns, I tell myself. Who’d have guessed a guy could break an ankle so bad he’d need two surgeries by just stepping wrong off a ladder?

One less pair of strong hands. Which also means I’ll be shoveling a whole lot more yet this winter.

“Break time’s over.”

I glance up and crack a smile at my grandfather’s words. “Break time?”

The wrinkles around his twinkling blue eyes increase as he chuckles while walking down the narrow hallway. “I’ve been looking to hire someone to take over Russ’ duties, but –”

I laugh, interrupting him. “Everyone knows you too well, Gramps. Most who've worked for you before aren’t willing to do it again.”

“Only the lazy ones.”

“So, everyone in Northern Michigan?” I can't resist poking fun at my Gramps' impossible standards.

He scowls at me, which only makes me laugh harder. Pushing off the bench, I step closer to him and pat his upper arm. The softness my hand encounters reminds me he’s not as big and strong as he once was.

He’s run the Grand Pine Lodge for over fifty years. He'll continue until his old heart stops beating. And I’ll be right beside him. Probably after, too. This lodge has been in our family since the first building sprung up over a hundred years ago.

Like it or not, I know my destiny. My place. Some days, it's just harder to accept than others.

“I don’t mind shoveling the sidewalks. Never have and never will,” I tell him. Truth be told, it’s partly my fault that Russ broke his ankle. Fixing up the stables was my idea. A way to expand the services we offer, and hopefully increase occupancy and revenue. “Wes Owens will still plow. Just as long as Russ comes back by spring so we don’t have to hire lawn care, we’ll be fine.”

Gramps wraps an arm around my shoulder, nodding his thanks. “We make a good team, Tabby-kitten.”

“That we do, Pops.”

He scowls again, but then we both laugh. He doesn’t like being called Pops any more than I like being called Tabby-kitten. Never have liked nicknames. Tabby is close enough to a nickname all by itself, and it's all I've got. But I do love the old man, despite how ornery he can be sometimes.

“We got a late arrival,” he says, kissing my temple.

“Oh? I didn’t see a reservation.” I saw the man with two kids from a distance while I was busy shoveling, of course, but I don't say anything. Some days, we have more quick stops here looking for directions than proper guests.

“Didn’t have one. I put them in room 205. You’ll need to take something up for them to eat.”

I nod. None of this is unusual. Exceptional guest service in the middle of nowhere is our specialty, and being as small as we are, it’s not like we’re ever bursting at the seams. However, this time of year, after the holidays and before spring, we can go weeks without a single guest. “How many?”

“Three. I already told Marcy.”

“All right.” I plant a kiss on his soft and wrinkled cheek. “I’ll see to it, no problem. You head on up to bed and I’ll lock up after delivering the food.” With a grin over my shoulder as I start walking towards the kitchen door, I add, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Not if I see you first.”

The joke is almost as old as him, but I still laugh, mainly because he expects it. Life here would be nothing without reflexes, habits, and little rituals. I wait near the kitchen door until after he turns the corner that leads to the back stairs. Then I let out the sigh that was still inside me and push open the door.

Hustling around the large kitchen like it’s on fire, Marcy takes a couple single serving milk cartons out of the double-door fridge and sets them on an already full tray. She’s been with the lodge as long as I can remember, a wonderful cook. With my baking skills, we make a good team.

I lift the metal lid off the plate on the tray. “Yum, chicken salad.”

“I have a sandwich in the fridge for you, too,” Marcy says with a smile.

Skipping meals is my specialty. Comes with running the lodge, where there's never enough hours in the day to cover everything. “What would I do without you?”

“Me? Nonsense, Tabby. This place wouldn’t run without you,” she answers. “Everyone knows it. Including that grumpy old man.”

Marcy loves Gramps as much as I do, and works just as hard. “I'll clean after delivering this and then lock up.” Lifting the tray off the center island, I say, “Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight,” she says, removing the apron she wears day and night.

She has dozens of aprons, all handmade. I still don’t know when she finds the time to sew them up in her room on the third floor. Both she and Gramps have rooms up there.

In that respect, I'm lucky. I live in the cabin out back – except when I have to evacuate due to a huge group of guests rolling in. Thankfully, it doesn't happen often.

I exit the kitchen and head towards the back service stairway. The large front steps, as well as the small but serviceable elevator, are reserved for guests only. I try to tread carefully. These stairs are known to creak and I don't want to disturb the few guests we have, making my way up them and down the hall to room 205.

There, I shift the tray in order to balance it against me so I can use one hand to knock. Before that happens, the door flies open. A huge hand grabs my arm, pulling me inside the room.

I manage to keep the tray from falling, but when I meet the nasty glare of the man still clutching my arm, I dang near drop it again.

“What the hell do you want and why are you sneaking around in the hallway?”

Holy crap. Guests have rarely dumbfounded me and never scared me. Until now.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Tongue-tied? Since when?

“Well?” he snaps before my mind has a chance to force my tongue loose.

I finally take a good look at Mr. Porcupine. My heart skips a beat. If he wasn’t so scary demanding, he’d be damn near gorgeous.

“Are those cupcakes?”

“Are they for us?”

The little voices coming from across the room snap me out of my deer-in-headlights mode. My heart slides out of my throat and back down in my chest where it belongs as I turn and see two little boys. Adorable little boys dressed in red and white striped pajamas with sandy-blond hair and big blue eyes.

The same shade of blue as the man still clutching my arm. No man, at least not one with an ounce of sanity, would accost a woman in front of his kids, so I jerk my arm out of his hold and carry the tray to the table in the center of the room.

“Yes, they're cupcakes, and they're yours.” My nerves are settling. Teasingly, I add, “But only if you like chocolate.”

“We do!” they sing in unison.

Twins. Identical, and with those eyes, the man could never deny parentage. Thankful my mind works again, I turn to their papa, whose scowl could rival Gramps any day of the week. Slowly exhaling my relief, because I know grumpy men far too well, I say, “I wasn’t sneaking. I was busy bringing you something to eat. Your sons are obviously hungry.”

His piercing blue eyes practically burn holes through me, but I hold my own. He’s mad, that’s a given, but there's something deeper in those eyes. Fear almost.

Odd.

What would scare a man like him? He’s over six feet tall, buff, and certainly not a weakling. His jawline looks strong pinched tight, built like it's made for kicking butt and kissing girls stupid. And the rest of him...sweet baby Jesus. The longer I stare, the harder it is believing there's such a bastard stuffed in this Adonis. I rub my arm, hoping it won't bruise tomorrow from my grabby mystery man.

“Can we have one, Daddy?”

“Please?”

I bite my tongue to keep from answering. We've had enough kids at the lodge to teach me a thing or two. Whether I like it or not, it’s never my place to get between a guest and their children.

Cagey, like a trapped beast, he walks towards the table, keeping his eyes on me. I don’t move, not even a step when he stops close enough to lift the lid off the plate of sandwiches. I'm not about to let him know he’s frightened me, but I do get a whiff of his cologne. That has me biting the inside of my cheek. Damn if he doesn’t smell as good as he looks.

Another suspicious look from his haunting eyes breaks the spell.

Clinging to the good sense God gave me, I say, “Again, sir, I wasn’t sneaking around. I’m not trying to poison you, either. Whenever guests check in after meal time, we provide them with an evening snack.” He doesn't look convinced. “Try it. Simple. Delicious. Yummy.”

He doesn’t respond, but picks up half a sandwich and takes a bite before nodding to the boys.

You're welcome, jerk, I think to myself. Some people.

The boys each take a cupcake and as they peel back the paper holders, I open the two cartons of milk and insert the straws Marcy included on the tray.

Then I pour him a cup of tea, using the hot water provided. “I can make you coffee if you’d prefer. It's instant, but it's not half bad.”

“No, this is fine.”

He’s still grumpy, but his voice has lost some of its growl.

I hand each of the boys a milk carton, who both have pink frosting mustaches by now. “My name's Tabby.”

“My name's Adam.”

“I’m Chase, and daddy...” The second sweet boy pauses, his eyes going big as he looks at his father.

“Rex,” he growls. My sinfully handsome porcupine has a normal name. Small relief.

“Well, I’m happy to meet you, Adam and Chase.” I purposefully don’t extend my welcome to Grumpy. “I hope you’ll have fun here at the Grand Pine Lodge.”

“Do you live here?” the one I think is Adam asks.

“Yes, I do, and I work here, too. So, if there's anything you need, just ask.”

“Like more cupcakes?” Chase asks hopefully.

My first instinct is to say yes, but I hold back. “That would be up to your father...”

His eyes, as cold as ever, are on me. Not my face, but my sweater. It might be because it’s the same color of pink as the frosting on the cupcakes and his sons' faces, but I doubt that.

Chills criss-cross my spine. My poor battered heart beats faster. It's like he can see right through the heavy wool. My nipples tingle, harden, adding to my shame.

Why? I’ve been hit on by men three times my age and boys alike, but I’ve never had this reaction.

“I think one’s enough,” he says. “You each eat a sandwich now and drink your milk.”

I grab the menu off the tray before my mind, and body, reacts to how kind and gentle he suddenly sounds. “How long will you be staying?”

He picks up the tea and drinks it down before answering. “Just a few days.”

“Well, here’s the menu for the next three days. You can either have your meals delivered to your room or eat in the dining room. We’re small, so the meal times are also listed, however, we can provide sandwiches and other items all day.”

“And cupcakes?” Adam beams like the sun.

I can’t help but smile. I used to dream of having children as adorable as these two, but it'll never happen. Reality and the roots I've laid down here go deep. I'll have to just enjoy the kids who visit the lodge. There aren’t many men out there willing to give up their lives in order to help manage a place in the middle of nowhere. The few who might think they're willing would soon change their minds. This is a twenty-four hour, three-hundred and sixty-five day job, that also includes one very grumpy old man. My life has no place for children.

Besides, this is a small town. Split Harbor's dating pool isn't exactly extensive or quality. One very lucky lady already landed the resident billionaire a couple years ago.

“More cupcakes?” Chase echoes.

Touching the tip of Adam’s nose, I say, “Some days it’s cookies.”

“I love cookies!” Chase yells.

“I like cupcakes more,” Adam says.

“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to make both, won’t I? Cookies and cupcakes. I like staying busy.” I wink at them before turning back to their father and hand him the menu. As he takes it, I get another whiff of that amazing cologne mingled with his scent. It’s faint, but intoxicating and very good at making heat swirl deep inside me. The sandwich must have done him some good because he’s no longer scowling. He’s no longer quite as scary. His hair is darker than the boys, but I imagine when he was young it was just as sandy blond as Adam and Chase’s. He was probably as adorable as they are, too.

“Where are you from?” I'm pulling my mind back where it belongs.

He sets the menu down on the dresser. “We’ll be eating in our room, but aren’t fussy. Whatever gets brought up will be fine. Along with coffee and milk. The earlier, the better.”

I get the hint. It’s none of my business where he’s from. His clothes, jeans and a flannel shirt, could be worn in the city or country, but his accent reminds me of Russ, who is very proud of being born and raised in Chicagoland.

I should leave, but for some reason, it's hard peeling my eyes off him. I’m intrigued. Curious to know where his wife is, the boys' mother, but can’t simply blurt it out.

He’s staring back, harder than before, which has my insides tingling again in ways it shouldn’t. Ridiculous.

“Well, Cupcake,” he says slowly. It takes me a second to realize he means me. “You going to stand there all night, or let us finish eating in peace?”

Fine, whatever. I deserve that. He is a guest, after all.

Still, I’m irritated. And know I need to leave before saying something that will really piss him off. “I’m going,” I say, “but the name’s Tabby. I'd appreciate it if you'd –”

“Short for Tabitha?”

“No. Just Tabby.” I cringe a little more than I usually do, giving up my nickname masquerading as a name.

He gives me one more solid toe-to-head stare that has me holding by breath before he whips around. “Let me get the door, Cupcake.”

Nicknames. They shouldn’t irritate me the way they do, but I can’t help it.

Not when everyone always assumes Tabby is a nickname. It’s the only thing my father ever gave me – whoever he was. One among many boyfriends who came calling on mom. My throat thickens slightly as I glance towards Adam and Chase. Those two boys don’t know how lucky they are. Neither does their jackass father. I give them a small wave, walking out the door that’s being held open impatiently by daddy's huge hand.

“Goodnight, Rex,” I say, simply because he's a guest. A jerk, but a guest nonetheless, and we can’t afford to lose customers in the winter. Not even a giant asshole.

He merely shuts the door.

I huff out a breath, and though I’d like to take a moment and lean against the wall to catch my bearings, I need space pronto, so make a beeline for the stairs.

Once I’m in the hallway safely downstairs, I place a hand on the wall, taking a few deep breaths. I’ve never had a man affect me like Rex. For no apparent reason, too.

It's so perplexing anger mingles with the heat he's left in my blood. Okay, so most women would be intrigued by six feet of mystery and muscle, especially one that freakin' sexy. But it doesn't explain why I'm coming undone for a Neanderthal who just wiped his feet on my back.

Annoyed, I push myself off the wall and head for the front desk. There, I move the mouse to wake up the computer and type in the password. The main screen appears.

Rex Osborne. Blue Chevy pick-up. No license plate number listed.

No, of course not. Gramps thinks that’s a silly question even though I've warned him it might be important for security. Paid cash for two nights.

I log out and walk to the front door. Tall, dark, and sometimes handsome strangers are nothing new to the lodge. Insta-fascination I really shouldn't be experiencing is.

Maybe it's because our other handsome strangers come here to unwind, relieve the stress in their lives. Not this one. The man upstairs was wound tighter than a drum, and the blue pick-up backed up so it’s practically hidden beneath the trees confirms something tickling at the back of my mind since he accused me of sneaking around outside 205.

Rex Osborne is hiding something. Or maybe, he’s hiding from someone.

Either way, I want to know more. After locking the front door and turning down all the lights, and checking the kitchen, where I also leave a note for Marcy, I put on my coat and leave through the employee entrance. Rather than taking the shoveled pathway to my cabin, I walk around the lodge, to the far end of the parking lot. I'm able to get a better look at his truck from here.

Illinois plates. I knew it.

I stay hidden behind the curtain so she can’t see me. She’s already looked up at the window twice, as if sensing she was being watched, or she might just be that nosy – something that'll get her into more trouble than she’d ever bargain for.

Cupcake. I’d called her that out of defense, needing to keep my distance. Distance from everything and everyone.

Especially soft spoken girls who look as delicious as their dessert namesake. Her with the scorned looks lodged in her honey-hazel eyes. Her with the dark chocolate hair warning me it'd feel like velvet on my fingers. Her with the hips, the legs, the ass that's divine, hopelessly hidden behind her Ms. Average outfit.

Shit. I catch myself hard and shake my head, remembering she's one more problem I don't need.

How the fuck did I end up in this predicament? By fucking, that’s how. At least at the beginning.

Of all the men in the world, all the one-night stands, I’m the one who's getting royally fucked long after the fun ended. As my anger churns harder and hotter inside my guts, guilt rises to meet it. Cupcake has already walked away from the truck, back around the lodge, so I move away from the window. Stopping near the foot of one of the double beds, I stare at my twin boys

They're sleeping soundly. So innocent, so good, they almost take the edge off old mistakes.

Yeah, they came out of that one-night stand causing the present woes, too. I don’t regret that. Never will.

It’s ever screwing the bitch who bore them I regret. Should've known six years ago when I met her she was more trouble than any man needed. She’d been hot, sexy, and all over me. I'd had a hard week laying custom shingles on the roof of a frigging Senator's mansion.

I was ready to get drunk and wet my dick. We barely made it out of the bar. I fucked her in the front seat of my work truck parked in the alley. Afterwards, we’d gone back inside and partied some more, then we both left without another word.

Typical party at a watering hole on Chicago’s rust belt. I never planned on seeing her again. Nine months later, when I was served the papers about submitting a blood sample, I'd long since forgotten her name. Until reading the second page of the court document, where our history was described, vividly.

I'm no deadbeat. I gave a paternity sample, accepted the DNA results, and agreed in court we'd share visitation to Adam and Chase. Limited and supervised visitations for her. Nelia claimed she hadn’t known how to get a hold of me before the boys were born. An obvious lie. The name of my construction company, T-Rex Builders, was on the side of every work truck. Any number of people from the bar that night could've told her who I was, how to contact me.

She knew what she was doing from the start. Never attempted to get a hold of me to see the twins she abandoned, just thought I’d hand over child support, and lots of it, on a monthly basis.

She’d been dead wrong.

In more ways than one. Too fucking many to count.

And now she's dead.

Only saving grace about that is Adam and Chase didn’t even know who she was. When, if ever, they heard about her death, they wouldn’t mourn. Mommy is something they hear in fairy tales, not a fact of life.

Call me a cold-hearted bastard, but it's a small relief. Both that my sons won’t suffer her loss, and that she’s permanently out of our lives. She wasn't any type of mother to the boys the past five years, nor would she have ever changed. Didn’t have it in her.

Raising kids takes heart, and Cornelia Hawkins didn’t have a loving bone in her body, or the slightest clue what it took to be a mom.

Hell, Cupcake's already shown more affection towards the boys than Nelia ever did. Tabby, as she prefers to be called – the very reason I’ll keep calling her Cupcake – may never know how badly Adam and Chase needed those chocolate treats tonight.

Not only had they been as hungry as me, and that was a damn good sandwich, the boys needed an ounce of kindness. Two weeks of driving around, spending nights in sleazy hotels and eating greasy drive-thru burgers, was taking its toll on all of us.

If Adam hadn’t had to pee, and I hadn't pulled off on a side road to give him some privacy, I’d have never seen the faded sign advertising this place.

Grand Pine Lodge: A secluded hidden gem.

That’s what the sign said, and that's exactly what we need. Sanctuary. A couple days off the road to wrap my head around what’s happened, and what I can do about it next.

Because I’m not spending the rest of my life in jail for murder.

Fucking bitch. I knew what she was doing, but sure as hell hadn’t expected this outcome.

Worst part is, I'm not the one who killed her.

I run my hands through my hair, scratching at my scalp. It itches like hell from not being washed good and proper in a couple days. The other hotels were too run down, too caked in dirt, I'd barely had time to run my head through the sink.

This place is old, but it's actually clean. Time for a real shower. Then a good night’s sleep. I’ll be clearer headed in the morning, able to think things through.

I grab the duffel bag I purchased in some dinky roadside town and head for the bathroom.

The shower helps. Bed's comfortable, too. So I let my mind wander free while I'm waiting to fall asleep. Even crack a grin as the Cupcake's face forms in my mind. That pink sweater hugged her in all the right places, didn't it? And those eyes...they're not really hazel. I remember more.

A brownish-green with specks of gold that sparked hellfire at times. Especially when I’d asked if she was going to stand there invading our space all night. Her long hair was thick and dark brown, pulled back in a ponytail, making her look even younger. So did the way she hadn’t worn makeup. She hadn’t needed any. There was a natural beauty to her. A grace, almost. Something I haven’t seen in a woman in ages.

Chicago's full of girls with hair as colorful as rainbows and decked in cosmetics. Plenty of them are pretty, some teetering towards beautiful, but there's something about Cupcake’s naturalness that takes my mind off everything else. At least briefly.

Or maybe it's her attitude. I’d startled her, frightened her even, but the moment she’d seen the boys, she’d turned friendly and kind. Sweet as the name I've given her. That stirs up more than it ought to. Makes me wish things were different for Chase and Adam.

Hell, I wish that for myself. If Nelia was more like Cupcake, life would be pretty damn good right now. I wouldn't be in this mess. I'd be home, probably with something pink and delicious to come home to.

I like that thought, insane as it is. I drift off imagining the boys enjoying their colorful frosted cupcakes all over again.

* * *

My lungs are on fire, my breathing ragged, coming in gasps that hurt going out as much as the air burns going in. I grab my head as the spinning slows and the faint sunshine coming in the window confirms I’m not in a penthouse apartment, standing over Nelia’s dead body.

Sweat pours down my neck and my hands shake as I tell myself it was only a dream. A fucking nightmare that I’ve already lived through and will continue to. Have to for Adam and Chase.

A knock at the door makes me realize that's why it ended. In the dream, Aiden had knocked on the door. That’s not what happened in real life. He’d come at me like the crazy drugged up shit-hole of a man he’d been. I’m not sorry that fucker’s dead either. Never will be.

The knock sounds again. Now, wide awake, the idea Cupcake could be outside my door has me tossing aside the covers. I grab a pair of jeans out of the duffel bag. “Coming.”

Without bothering to zip or snap the jeans I shove my legs through, I open the door. The gray-haired old man who checked us in last evening stands there with a grimace. I can't tell if it's a frown or a smile.

“Tabby’s note said you wanted breakfast early,” the man said. “If she made a mistake, I can bring it back later.”

“No,” I answer. “No mistake. Thanks.” I open the door wide enough to take the tray. “The boys are still sleeping, so I’ll grab it.” They're always starving when they wake up. As he hands me the tray, I say, “Hold on, though, I’ll get the one from last night.”

I set the tray on the table, find the one from last night, and carry it to the door. The man was hard to read, but knowing I can’t afford anymore enemies, I say, “Thanks, the boys enjoyed the cupcakes.”

“Tabby will be glad to hear it. I'll give her your compliments. You need something, just push one on the phone. That rings the front desk.”

I nod and close the door, then give myself permission to crack a smile. The phone system in the place is as horribly outdated as everything else here. Damned if I care, it's not a dump like some of the other roadside motels we’ve stayed in the past two weeks. The lodge is clean and well maintained, just old.

The building must date back to the 1950s, maybe earlier. Being the carpenter I am, I'd noticed all that when we’d checked in. The place has solid bones, and with the way it’s been kept up, it could stand for another century.

By the time I turn around, still trying to gauge how ancient this place really is, Adam and Chase are up. They're sitting on their bed, scratching their mops of tousled hair. Whether the sound of voices or the smell of food roused them, I have no idea.

“Hungry?”

“Yeahhhh!”

“Shhh,” I say, even though it’s too late. Their shout has my ears ringing, let alone any poor souls in the rooms next door. “Other people are probably still sleeping. Don't be rude, boys.”

“Sorry,” they say, once again at the same time.

It's uncanny, but deep down, I love it. They do most everything at the same time. They're like any kids making innocent mistakes as they grow, but they'll never need to apologize for who they are. “It’s okay,” I say softly. “Come on and eat.”

“Are there cupcakes?”

I smile and rub each of their heads before reaching down to remove the cloth covering the tray. “Most people don’t have cupcakes for breakf…” My words fade away. Besides three plates covered with domed metal lids, there are cartons of milk, a pot of coffee with a single cup, and three pink frosted cupcakes on the tray.

I can’t help but chuckle. “I guess we aren’t most people, are we?”

“Nope,” the boys say while climbing onto the chairs.

“Are we going home today?” Chase asks.

“No, not today.” Not ever is what I really mean.

“Yippie!”

They eat the cupcakes first and I let them. It's no great sin when I feed them right most days. The scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and hash browns fill me up. Damn good. I sit back to drink my coffee while the boys devour their smaller portion of the same breakfast I just had.

It's not long before I'm pouring myself a second cup. Hot and black, just how I like it. A sinking feeling gels the food in my stomach as I watch them eat.

I have to figure out what to do. These two need me. Will need me for years to come.

Since freeing them from the penthouse apartment, we’ve bounced around Illinois, Iowa and Wisconsin, zigzagging from ATM to ATM, drawing out my daily limit. If only I’d had the foresight to up that amount. I have enough money for us to live on for years in the bank, but hadn’t thought about upping the amount. Worse, knowing the transactions left a trail anyone could follow, I pitched the card out the window over the side of a bridge and headed for Canada.

What choice did I have – money or demons in hot pursuit?

We could jump in the truck right now and make it to the border in a few hours, but that's just as risky as it was yesterday. I’d have to show my ID to cross the border. I don't know who's watching or what the Chicago press is saying back home.

Hunkering down would be the best bet, let things cool off till I can contact my lawyer. Granted, Justin was a business lawyer, not a criminal one, but he’ll know someone who can help.

While the boys are finishing up, I dig the tablet out of my duffel bag and turn it on. I’d bought it along with clothes, duffel bags, and a cart full of other essentials the day after leaving Chicago, using a credit card which I then flushed down the toilet in the men’s room of the gas station after using it to fill the truck's tank.

My grandfather’s old truck is a gas hog, but reliable. I took it out of the pole shed on his property, where it’s been parked since grandpa died ten years ago, and where I left mine. My cousin lives on the farm now, and probably won’t go in the shed until summer. Hopefully. If he does, I hope he sees the note I left behind. It simply says I’d borrowed it. John takes the truck out on the roads every summer, just to keep it in running order, so I knew it'd take us wherever we needed to go, about as untraceable as we could get. Which is exactly what we needed and why I threw my phone in the back of a shipping truck with Florida license plates at a gas station.

Fucking-A. What a mess.

After punching in the internet password written on a slip of paper and taped to the front of the phone book on the desk, I search hotels, resorts, and all sorts of other lodging options along the Canadian border for an hour or more. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but I do know my options are crap. I only have a couple of grand, tops, in my billfold. Spending three hundred a night isn’t feasible. This place, the Grand Pine Lodge, doesn't even have its own website. The price is very reasonable, too.

What I need is a job. Income. Enough money so I can pay our room and board here, saving my cash for when we have to leave. The dollar stretches a bit further over the border, but only if I've got plenty to stretch.

It's far from my biggest worry, too. The Stone Syndicate won’t stop looking. They know where Nelia’s money came from, and they know who killed Aiden.

They know my fucking name, who my kids are, and every sacred stretch of Chicago soil I ever frequented. We can't stop for long. We have to keep moving.

“Dad, there’s a horse out there,” Adam says, breaking my quiet panic.

“Can we go look at it?” Chase asks.

“Or ride it?” Adam pipes in.

They're getting restless. I've kept them busy getting dressed, combing their hair and brushing their teeth, all on their own, which takes ample time considering they're only five.

“Sure,” I say, suppressing a sigh. “Fresh air will do us all good, I suppose.” It’ll give me time to look around, too, maybe see if there's a back road out of this place. Valuable info I may need if the time to leave comes sooner than I think. “Get your coats on, and don’t forget your mittens.”

“They’re gloves, Dad,” Chase corrects.

“Right, don’t forget your gloves.” I smile. Nelia may have given them half their genes, but they've got my looks and brains. My focus.

Small blessings. Can't fathom what the hell I'd do right now without them.

It's only a little after seven and the hotel is pin-drop quiet, so I tap my lips with a finger as we walk down the stairs. Their hushed giggles make me shake my head. This is how they’ve been since we left. Following my commands without questions, acting like the entire thing is one huge adventure.

Technically, it is. Just not the joyous kind they think.

I open the door and close it again behind us as quick as possible. The boys can't hold back their shouts of freedom any longer as they tear across the wide front porch and down the stairs.

Whoever does the shoveling around here must get up early. The porch, steps, and sidewalks are clear from last night's snow, as well as a wide pathway to the barn that's a good hundred yards off to the east side of the lodge. Shoveling that much wouldn’t have been easy. A good two inches fell, the wet, heavy kind that makes good snow balls, snow forts, and snowmen. The boys run on toward the barn, stopping to scoop up a handful every now and again.

I scanned the area, looking for signs of trouble, or anything out of the ordinary. Whoever shovels, must not also plow because there aren't any tracks in the parking lot. It's still got my truck and the two other SUVs that were there last night.

Nearly deserted. That'll do fine.

As satisfied as I can be given the circumstances, I follow the boys, catching up with them on the backside of the barn, where they're crouched down looking between the two bottom rails of the fence at the two shaggy looking horses.

“Can we go in there, Dad?” Adam asks.

“No.”

Just then a door on the barn near the fence opens and I take a double look at who comes strolling out.

Cupcake. She must love pink. I didn’t know they made canvas work coats in that shade. Her hair is in another ponytail and a thick head band covers her ears. Pink again.

My morning wood is back with a vengeance, straining against my denim.

“Well, good morning!” she says to the boys, never once looking at me. “What brings you early risers out here?”

“We saw the horses,” Chase says.

“Can we pet them?” Adam asks.

“And ride them?” Chase grins.

“These two are too old to ride anymore,” she says softly, “but you can pet them, if it’s all right with your father.”

The boys look up at me, hope sparking in their eyes. So does she, which makes my heart thud oddly.

It's got to be the stress. I've had women since Nelia, yeah, but always kept them at a distance, far from me and the boys. I'm never getting burned like that again. But fuck, I’m not a monk, and a woman as attractive as Cupcake has the bewitching ability to turn me hard in a heartbeat.

“Can we, Dad?”

I turn to them and nod.

“You’ll have to come through the barn.” She points to the side of the building. “The door I shoveled a path to.”

Testing my hearing, I ask, “You shoveled the path?”

“Yes.”

“And the sidewalks?”

“Yes, why?” she cocks her head.

The boys are already running, so I simply say, “No reason.”

I'm impressed, and that's got nothing to do with her dick-teasing looks. A woman who bakes and shovels is a certain rarity in this day and age. Then again this isn’t the big city.

By the time I get to the door, the boys have shoved it open and darted inside.

“Be careful,” she says. “Slow down.”

The boys listen, slowing to a brisk walk as they make their way around piles of lumber.

“We’re in the middle of a remodeling out here,” she says.

I nod, taking it all in.

Big and solid, the barn is what I’d call a clean slate. This is the part of construction work I’ve always loved. Envisioning the potential, what the final project could look like restored. Unfortunately, I don't get to do it as often as I’d like anymore.

Most of the time, my customers have professional blueprints ready to go for my crew.

Shit, the crew. Just thinking about them twists my lips sourly.

That was one of the two phone calls I’d made before I threw my phone to the wild. To Randy, my construction manager. I told him to cut the men a month’s worth of paychecks and shut everything down. It was the best I could do and it still pisses me off, but I had to make a choice. Fast.

A day or two more, and the Syndicate would be all over my company. They'd go after my men for info, hell, their families. I couldn’t put more lives in danger. Protecting my boys is enough. More than enough.

The other call had been to Mrs. Potter, the nanny and tutor I’d hired for Chase and Adam in better times. I told her I was taking them out of town on business and would call when we return. I'll cut her a severance check, eventually, but she already screwed me once. If she'd said no to Nelia that fucked up day she came...

No. I can't go there again.

Holding in a sigh, I follow the boys, who are following Cupcake, taking my time to examine the space. Whatever helps get my mind off poison. Like the lodge, the barn was built well and it's still solid. Even the floor. By the time I catch up to them through the back door, she's given each of the kids a bucket. A horse eats out of each one, both snorting happily to the boys' delight.

“What type of remodeling project?” I finally ask.

She eyes me critically while continuing to pet one of the big brown horses. I don’t blame her, I wasn’t friendly last night. After a few tense seconds, I walk over and pet the other horse, acting as if I don’t care if she answers or not.

“We’re turning it into more of a stable, with a large tack area room, feed storage, and office.”

“For these two?” I’m not much of an animal person, but I recognize old when I see it.

“No. We’ll keep them, but also bring in more, so we can offer trail rides to guests.”

“What are trail rides?”

She laughs at how both boys speak simultaneously, word for word. “Horse rides.”

“Yippie!” They both jump, no doubt hoping to be the first happy customers.

Picturing a layout inside the barn, I ask, “How many horses?”

“I’m thinking six,” she says, “but it depends on Clayton. He’s our neighbor and this will be a partnership of sorts. The man boards horses and always has more than he can exercise on his property. He doesn’t have enough acreage for trails, either. I think the guests will like it, and hopefully, we’ll both make some money.”

It's a solid plan, though I’m not about to say it. I’m also seeing a job for myself. One that won’t take long, but could pay the money I need.

“Unfortunately, the remodel is delayed right now.”

“Why?” I snap, trying not to show my hand. Not easy.

“Russ broke an ankle and probably won’t get back to work for a couple months. He's kinda our jack-of-all-trades around here. He was spearheading this before the accident.”

Shitfire, this is too perfect. My mind goes a hundred miles per hour, estimating how long it'll take me to complete the remodel as we stand quiet for a short time.

Then Cupcake glances down at the boys and then back up at me, breaking the silence. “So, not to break up the party, but I've got other chores. Can’t let you stay out here, sir. Liability reasons.”

I nod. “Fine. Thanks for letting them feed the horses. Boys, what do you say?”

“Can we do it again?”

I give them a look. “Boys...”

“Thank you, Tabby!” They both lower their eyes and I give a satisfied nod.

Cupcake laughs. A soft, airy sound reminding me what kind of trouble I'm in getting too close to this woman. “Adorable. Do you two always talk at the same time?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” the boys answer shyly.

The sound of more singsong feminine laughter makes me wonder if the boys ever heard such an angelic sound before. Hell, have I?

“Just you working in the barn while the help is out – Russ, right?” I ask.

Cupcake nods. “Yes. Well, I fill their water tank and feed them grain every morning and hay every evening,” she says while collecting the buckets. “It's easy enough.”

“How do you keep the water from freezing?” I wonder aloud.

Her eyes say she still doesn’t trust me, yet she answers, “There’s a pump house in the far corner of the barn that we keep heated.”

Room for improvement. Another opportunity, if they'll bite.

I wave for the boys to follow. They have more questions for her as we walk through the barn. She answers each one while I scan the area again, making mental notes. The old man who checked us in last night said he owns the place, so that’s who I need to talk to. Once we exit the barn, she says goodbye and walks towards the back of the lodge, a plastic salt bucket in hand. I keep the boys outside until they’ve worn off some energy, then lead them inside.

Off the foyer where the large front desk is located, there’s a big front room with a TV and a large game of checkers set up on a coffee table. I get the boys settled in first. I haven’t let them out of my sight since that night our world caved in. Don’t want to now, but must, in order to talk to the old man.

I won’t be far, knowing this is the safest place we’ve been in two weeks, so I leave the room and cross the foyer again. There’s a door behind the desk marked OFFICE. Unable to remember what the man said his name was, I scan a magazine on a side table with a subscription label. Morris Danes.

That’s right. I’ve sold multi-million dollar construction jobs, convincing Morris Danes to pay me to remodel his barn should be like taking candy from a baby.

I knock, fully prepared to open the door upon invitation.

Instead, it opens as someone leaves.

Shit.

It’s Cupcake. The old man sitting behind her bristles hostility. My shoulders want to sag. If she has anything to do with it, I won’t get this job.

My heart thuds so hard I can't breathe. Why does he do this to me? It happened outside, too, the minute I saw him standing next to the barn. Those blue eyes are the definition of piercing. Like they can see right into my head, read my thoughts. Earlier I’d become a babbling idiot, telling him all about my plan for the stable and trail rides. Which he obviously didn’t care about. The dark and brooding expression that crossed his face when he’d walked into the barn made that clear. Even though he’d tried to hide it later.

Well, I can hide a few things too. Like how easy he knots my stomach.

Lifting my chin, I ask, “Something you need, Mr. Osborne?”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Danes.” His gaze goes past me, settling on Gramps.

I'm about to say I'll help, whatever it is. Mainly because Gramps was never completely sold on the trail rides idea. It won't take much for him to re-think and shut it down. If this dark, coarse stranger blurts out anything I told him...

“Come in then,” Gramps says. “Tabby, shut the door behind you.”

Crap. It's too late to worry.

Rex’s eyes meet mine as he brushes past. There’s a hint of triumph in them, as if he’s won a game I didn't know we were playing. I pinch my lips together to keep from saying something rude.

“If you’ll excuse us, Ms. Danes?” Oh, suddenly, I'm Ms. Danes? Not Cupcake like he'd called me last night?

Shouldn't annoy me, but of course it does.

Keeping my composure, I leave the office and pull the door closed after he enters. Frustration pricks my blood. Gramps is dead set on nothing changing at the lodge. He won’t even consider proper listings on travel sites online. It took me a year to convince him to partner with Clayton Williams for the trail ride idea. No, it's not a million-dollar game changer, but every dollar counts right now. Besides, Clayton’s horse boarding has a basic website and he's promised to include our resort along with the trail rides next time he updates.

Again, not a huge money maker, but baby steps are all I dare take with Gramps. If Rex Osborne screws this up for me, he’ll be sorry.

“Hi, Tabby!” Two little voices chirp.

Their father makes me steam like an engine overheating, but his children are adorable. Looking at them is sunshine. It simply fills my soul with a carefree warmth. “Well, hello again,” I say, walking into the front room. “Are you two playing checkers?”

“Not really.”

I’m unsure which is Adam and which is Chase, so don’t know how to address the question. “Why's that? Good way to pass the time, boys.”

“Because we don’t know how to play,” the other one says, looking down.

“You don’t know how to play checkers?” I smile.

They both shake their heads. “Well, then it’s high time you learned.” I sit down on the floor and show them how to set up the game, and then play a couple rounds with them. They're smart and catch on quick, which is good, because I have tons of work to do. It had only snowed about two inches overnight, but Wes hasn't plowed yet, and Sarah, the weekend cleaning woman, hasn't been able to make it up the hill off the main road. I’m the lucky one filling in for her.

Gramps took the phone call while I’d been out shoveling, told Sarah she should have walked if her car couldn't hash the snow. That’s what he'd have done. Gramps, who has a million stories on permanent repeat about running the lodge under waves of Michigan snow, in every recession, without anyone around to drag him down.

Ugh. This also means I need to call and smooth things over with Sarah, which will probably include begging her to keep working here. If our part-time cleaning lady goes, I'll never get a full day off.

“Great game, boys, but I have to get to work,” I tell them, hearing someone's heavy footsteps on the stairs. “You two have fun.”

“We will, thanks, Tabby.”

“You’re welcome,” I say while tousling their hair. “Both of you.” If they were mine, I’d have to put a dot on one of their foreheads so I could tell one from the other. I’ve heard of that. New mothers putting a dot on one baby’s heel when she has twins, in order to keep track of who's who.

Of course, that’s a silly notion to be contemplating. Rex has paid for two nights, so they’ll be leaving tomorrow. Sunday. Makes sense, the boys most likely need to be back at school Monday. I’m assuming they're in school. Kindergarten, I’d bet. They look about that age.

I shuffle to the front desk, help the older couple from room 203 check out, and then collect the cleaning and supply cart.

The boys take up a portion of my mind while I’m busy, but their father takes up more. I'm working upstairs, first the third floor and then the second, so don’t know if he’s still talking with Gramps or not. Can’t tell if he and the boys entered their room or not, either. That could have happened while I was busy cleaning Grandpa’s room, or vacuuming the hallways, or resetting the room left vacant by the elderly couple who checked out this morning.

Their door has the DO NOT DISTURB tag hanging off its knob, meaning he doesn’t want any cleaning. Most people staying two days don’t. Just like the couple in room 202, who claim they're on their honeymoon, but arrived in separate cars, with license plates from different states.

Okay, I’m nosy, but I also mind my own business by keeping my thoughts to myself. Comes with the territory in this little town. The most excitement Split Harbor's had in years was a murder-mystery involving our resident billionaire, Ryan Caspian. Him and his wife, Kara, the high school sweetheart he settled down with after a mountain of drama, practically lived through a romance thriller. And the town lived it vicariously, too.

Newly-weds or not, the 202 guests both paid in advance and haven’t left their room since arriving on Thursday. They'll be leaving tomorrow, too. There are two reservations for next weekend, but the entire week we’ll be empty. Not so good when it comes to making a profit. Advertising is what we need, but other than a listing in the yellow pages, and one old worn out billboard off the old road, Gramps is against that too.

Almost as strongly as he dug his heels in against my trail rides.

I’ll be thoroughly pissed off if Rex changes his mind, however carelessly. That chiseled jaw and rock hard muscle sending lightning down my spine won't be enough to save him.

The more I think about it, the madder, the more worried I become. I'm holding my breath while rolling the cleaning cart off the elevator, wondering what happened. Gramps' office door is open, the room empty.

Now, I’m spitting mad. Damn him to hell on a fucking white horse. This stranger knows nothing about us. He can’t just waltz in here one night acting all grumpy and uppity – yes, he’s uppity, too, like he’s better than everyone else – and start telling us how to run this place.

My mind replays the worst scenarios as I refill the cleaning cart and then stow it and the vacuum away, and carry the used bedding to the basement, where I put it in the washer before heading back upstairs and to the kitchen.

Gramps is there eating lunch. I hold my breath for a moment, waiting for an explosion, or an 'I told you so.'

He barely looks up. Marcy, on the other hand, is as bubbly as ever.

“Sit down and eat, Tabby!” She motions to the chair. “I already carried trays up to the couple in 202 and that man and his cute little boys in 205.”

“Thanks,” I say. If only she knew that man and his cute little boys are driving me insane.

“It’s broccoli cheese soup and turkey sandwiches on rye, just how you like them!”

Is it that obvious I'm upset? I sit down, fill a bowl from the tureen in the center of the table and place half a sandwich on a plate. “Guilty as charged,” I tell her.

“I know you too well,” Marcy says, placing a large glass of iced tea in front of me. “Hey, if you have time this afternoon, we are out of cupcakes. I gave the last few to the guests. They loved them.”

“I’ll whip up another batch soon.”

“White with chocolate frosting?” Gramps asks.

“Sure.” I wait for more, eyeing him suspiciously. Still mad enough to make sure he listens to my point of view.

He just keeps eating. Weird.

Marcy sits down and fills a bowl of soup for herself. She sees me moving like molasses, sifting my spoon through the soup. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Only good advice I've heard today. I eat a few quick mouthfuls of soup, and just when I take a bite off my sandwich, have my mouth completely full, Gramps speaks up.

“Good news, Tabby-kitten. I hired someone to finish the barn stables.”

I almost choke trying to get down enough of the food in my mouth so I can ask, “Who?”

“Rex Osborne.”

I do choke then, and have to take a drink of tea to soothe my throat before I can speak again. “Who?”

This has to be a joke. He's pulling my leg right out of its socket.

“Rex Osborne,” Marcy says. “The man with those adorable twins in room –”

“I know who he is,” I say, cringing at how the shine in her eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses dulls. “I mean, I'm surprised. Thought he was only staying two nights.”

“He’s decided to make it an extended stay, until he’s done with the restoration.” Gramps pours himself a cup of coffee from the insulated pot on the table, turning a sip over in his cheek as he often does. “Here's your bonus: I told him the job includes shoveling the sidewalks. You're welcome.”

I'm not relieved. Not even a little.

I hold up a hand. “Wait. An extended stay?” My head spins with questions. What about his boys? School? Their mother? Where is she in all this?

“We need that place fixed pronto for peak season. Man’s a bit down right now and needs the work. Wasn't a hard decision.” He taps his chest proudly.

“Down, you said? From what?”

Gramps lets out a long sigh. “Life. The mother of his kids died recently.”

I press a hand against my stomach, where a sickening sensation erupts. “When? How?” I feel my anger wilting.

“Didn’t ask.” Gramps shrugs. “Figured it was none of my business, but suspect it wasn’t long ago. That’s why he’s here. Soul searching. Giving the boys some different scenery, trying to get their minds off it.” He tilts his head. “Also means a man like that'll be reliable. He'll work his keister off to forget.”

I don't care. I'm just...stunned isn't even the right word.

This explains everything. His moodiness, how sweet and patient he is towards his sons. Yet, I find it hard to believe the Rex I met last night and again this morning, poured his heart out to Gramps on a whim. “He told you all that?”

“Didn’t need to. Once he said their mother died recently, I put the rest together.” Gramps frowns. “I thought you’d be happy? The stable will be done before spring, which is what you wanted. We need it if we're gonna give your little happy trails notion some motion.”

“You didn't want to,” I point out.

“I never said that,” Gramps says sternly.

I can’t believe this. “You fought me every step of the way. Now, you're on board because of him?”

“No. I fought against us paying for everything out-of-pocket. Once Clayton agreed to pay for a portion of the remodel, well, that changed things. It'll be his horses living in the barn, after all.”

“We'll be profiting off his horses.”

“Yes, but it'll take years to recoup the remodeling cost. Clayton's portion makes business sense. I explained all that to you.”

He had, but not exactly the way he is right now.

“Rex is smarter than he looks. Man's got some ideas for a few minor fix-ups and upgrades I really liked.”

A flash of anger hits me all over again. “What ideas? Clayton and I laid out the design for you months ago. One that'll work for the horses, guests, and us.”

“Yes, you did, it’s only a few minor changes.” Gramps pushes away from the table, a sure signal he’s done with this conversation. He crosses the room, but as he pushes open the door, he says, “Rex starts tomorrow morning. Be sure to drop off breakfast early.”

“Isn’t that wonderful news?” Marcy asks. Her smile fell then as she says, “Oh, those poor little boys, and that man. How sad.”

She's right, of course. I try to calm down, feeling guilty how I’d condemned Rex to hell before knowing his situation. So guilty I pick up my half eaten lunch and carry it across the room to the sink, dumping the remnants in the trash on the way. “I’ll clean up the kitchen and bake some cupcakes if you want to go up to your room for a while.”

“No, I’ll help,” Marcy says. “Busy hands are happy. I won’t be able to sew anyway, thinking about those little boys and their loss.”

I know the feeling. That’s what’s weighing on my mind, too.

“I wonder how long ago that was,” Marcy says. “A month? Maybe weeks? More?”

“No clue.”

“Well, there would have been a funeral and such.” With a shoulder, she shoves me aside. “Let me get the dishes. Need something to occupy my mind or I’ll go nuts with crazy thoughts.”

I feel the exact same way and open the pantry door to pull out the ingredients for cupcakes.

“You know what? I have a roast in the freezer. I’m going to pull that out and put it in to bake. Nice and slow so it’ll be tender and juicy. It’s probably been ages since those little boys had a good home-cooked meal. I mean if she’d been sick for a time or something...yeah, that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll make mashed potatoes and gravy and candied carrots. Everybody loves candied carrots!”

Marcy rattles on, and I hear her, but don’t. My own mind’s too busy. Had Rex’s wife been ill?

Ill for years and then passed away? The more I think about it, the more tragic my thoughts turn. Until tears sting my eyes. Not wanting Marcy to see them, I turn off the mixer. “I have to go put the laundry in the dryer, be right back.”

I keep busy all afternoon, baking and helping Marcy, between taking care of any lodge business. There's very little. A couple reservations for later in the month. I also speak to Sarah, who agrees to continue working for us, but not until next weekend. That's not an issue with just the two rooms occupied, and I call Betty, the week day housekeeper, and say she doesn't need to come in on Monday unless things change.

Both women are wonderful that way, working when we need them and taking days off when we don’t. I fill in the gaps and there are a lot of them. But we're like family here.

There are so many little issues with running a lodge that Gramps doesn’t seem to fully understand. Or maybe he does and I don’t understand his way of relaying it to me. It seems that’s how it was with the stables.

It seems that’s how it was with Rex, too. I’d jumped to conclusions without knowing all the facts.

By the time supper finishes, I’ve worked myself into a minor frenzy, wondering how I'll face Rex again, knowing how I condemned him. Or Adam and Chase for that matter.

It's not like I have a choice, anyway. I carry the tray up to the couple in room 202 first, just to give myself a bit more time.

My nerves literally have me shaking in my shoes. I carry the tray for his room slowly across the hallway. It's not like he completely knows all the bad things I thought about him, but I do. And that's the problem.

God, Tabby Danes. Get on with it. You're being ridiculous.

I find my nerve. Can't stall longer anyway – if I do their food will get cold – so I knock. When there's no response after what feels like an hour, I knock again. This time, louder.

Still no answer.

Surely, they haven't left. They don't seem like the type to go into town for dinner. I think I'd know that, so I hold the tray against me with one hand and slowly try the knob.

It's unlocked. Just as slowly, I push the door open a crack to poke my head in around the edge.

“Hey,” I say quietly to the boys lying on the bed.

“Hi, Tabby,” they say together, as if expecting me.

One of them holds up the tablet they'd both been staring at. “Dad downloaded us a checkers game!”

Glancing around the room, I ask, “Where is your dad?”

“In the shower.”

I can’t stop the sigh of relief that oozes out of me as I hear the water hissing. We're alone. I got lucky.

Pushing the door all the way open, I carry in the tray. “I've got your supper, boys.”

“And cupcakes?!”

They're too sweet. My heart skips a beat, thinking of their loss. “Two for each of you.”

“Yippie!” They launch their little bodies in the air, jumping like monkeys several times.

Closing the door, I gently warn, “But, I think your dad will want you to eat your dinner first.”

“Yes, he will,” one of them says, a bashful look in his eyes.

They're so well behaved.

I set the tray on the table, making sure the cloth is evenly situated, hoping it helps keep things as warm as possible until Rex is ready to eat. My smile hides how my heart bleeds sympathy every time I look at them, so I sit down on the edge of the bed. “Show me your checkers game while we wait for your daddy.”

They climb across the bed and sit down, one on each side of me.

“It’s fun!”

“Dad never lets us play games like this.”

“Nope, never.”

“Mrs. Potter doesn’t either.”

My neck is getting tired from twisting left and right as they each speak. “Oh, who's Mrs. Potter?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

I bolt off the bed, spin around, and find myself dumbfounded all over again. Or maybe just frozen in place.

Rex. Rex freakin' Osborne, in the flesh, and holy hell what kind of flesh is this sweet sorcery?

Water drips off his hair, the droplets trickling down his shoulders, his arms, his chest. He’d looked buff with clothes on, but without – Holy hell! Again.

I’ve never seen anything like it in my life and I can't stop my eyes from going lower. It's like God smashed an underwear model, a Spartan warrior, and a screaming rockstar together. He's big, ripped to the bone, and inked all over. Explosions of color flash on the canvas of his body when he catches the light, wild beasts and flowers with thorns.

My eyes move on their own. Straight to the towel wrapped around his waist.

I can’t stop myself from thinking about his wife, how she must have enjoyed this sight on a regular basis. I can’t help but feel a bit jealous, either.

What the hell is wrong with me? Jealous of a dead woman.

“I asked you a question.” His growl is as fierce as his muscles.

End me.

I close my eyes because they refuse to move upwards, to his face. “I, uh...I brought your supper tray. No one answered, so—”

“The old fat woman just knocked and set it on the floor.”

My eyes snap open and meet the glare he’s casting my way. “Her name is Marcy and she’s not fat. Or very old.” She's only in her late fifties, pleasantly plump and middle-aged.

“All right, the plump older woman just knocked and set it on the floor.” It's barely politer, but I'll let it go.

His poor wife might have loved his body, but probably despised his attitude. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just me he’s this grumpy with. No longer feeling a strong desire to apologize, I say, “Did you really agree to work for my grandfather?”

“Yeah. That a problem, Cupcake?”

Hell yes. Him. That body. Inked and hard and oh my God. Nearly naked and dripping wet, or fully clothed, it's not something I need to see every day. “He’s not easy to get along with,” I warn.

“Good. Neither am I.”

“Really?” I don't hide my sarcasm.

The grin that lights up his face is a bit cock-eyed and it nearly knocks the air out of me. A man this good-looking should have a red danger sign taped to his chest.

“Really.”

I huff out a breath. “Color me shocked.”

He steps closer, and though warning bells ring loud and clear in my head, my feet are still frozen. Glued to the floor.

“You’ll be glad knowing it’ll only take me a couple of weeks to have that barn looking better than new. Ready for horses and guests alike. Easy work, solid pay, I would've been a fool to turn it down.”

I nod, pressing my feet harder against the floor, hoping it might stop my eyes from roaming lower again, past his bulging tattooed chest, washboard abs, and that line of dark hair that disappears beneath the towel.

A bolt of heat shoots down my neck as he touches the underside of my chin with a single finger and slowly forces me to look up, into his face.

“Said you'd be glad, didn't you, Cupcake? You'll have guests for this place. Other guests a lot more pleasant than me, and probably more boring. Because they won’t turn your eyes into magnets.”

Damn it to hell and back in a chicken basket. Flustered, I jump back, mainly because my feet still hadn’t wanted to move. “Right. Glad, Mr. Osborne. I will be.”

He chuckles.

“Keep laughing. You won’t find it so funny after a day or two working for Gramps,” I warn. “He expects an early riser, and a full day of hard, quality work.”

“That’s me. Man enough for the job, darling.”

Darling?! And I thought Cupcake was bad. Time to go.

I'm retreating toward the door, trying hard not to stumble, but I really don’t dare take my eyes off him. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I don’t want to even after his crap and the rude remarks.

Yes, I'm fully aware how messed up this is.

I step into the hallway. “We’ll see if you’re truly up for the task.”

“Oh, I’m up for the task, Cupcake, don’t worry.” Again, that name. One brow arches as he grasps the edge of the door and eyes me up and down. “I’m up for a lot of things. Just sayin'.”

Fire rushes through me just as the door closes in my face. Unable to take more than a single step sideways, I lean my head against the wall and whisper to myself, “Tabby Danes, I never knew you were such a fucking idiot.”

I’ve only been working for an hour, and already have a fucking blister. Who would have ever thought? Not me. The past few years is why.

I had to do more managing than real labor. Not just my company, but keeping after the money Nelia kept sucking out of me. She kept threatening to haul me to court for full custody. No judge in their right mind would have agreed to it, but that had also been the problem.

The Stone Syndicate is one of the oldest crime families in Chicago. Justice is corruptible and they've got more than one judge in their pocket, and Nelia had been fucking Aiden Stone. I’d have lost any court case she dragged me into, that much was a given.

That bitch sucked more than money out of me. She sucked out my life, maybe my soul. I can’t find any remorse over the fact that she’s dead. I just have to find a way out of the mess she left behind. That's what still matters. The one I’m smack dab in the middle of, in more ways than one. It's not just their deaths that set the hounds loose on my trail, it was the money laundering.

I grab the handsaw and start cutting a board in two, shaking off my dilemma. When I’d estimated the time this job would take, I mistakenly figured there'd be power tools I could use.

There are. Hand-powered tools. Honestly, I don’t mind, delays aside.

It’s a release for the anger that fills me to the point it feels as if I’m being swallowed by some hellish beast and spat back out, more pissed off than I was before. These hands are used to working miracles, and when they do, they also make me smile.

Working, building something that'll last for years, grounds me. Gives me the first sense of normalcy I’ve had in years. Certainly since my life went to hell in a hand basket after that one fateful fuck.

Her pussy hadn’t even been good. I would have remembered if it had. I don’t. I know it happened, can’t deny that, and won’t ever regret Adam and Chase coming out of it.

I glance towards the corner where they're sorting the bent nails from straight ones out of an old coffee can. Had to give the kids something to do to keep them busy. The sun is barely up, and it’s cold, well below freezing, but they haven’t mumbled a single complaint. They won’t either.

Even as young as they are, they're made of tough stuff. Thank God and the blessings I’m not sure I deserve that they've got no idea killers are out there right now, somewhere, searching for us.

There are times since arriving here I’ve forgotten that fact. I have to make sure I never get so focused on the here and now I forget the past. Or the present. Or the reason we're here, and how fucking evil the men looking for us are.

The click of the door latch sends a shiver up my spine, and I wheel around, ready to take out whoever walks through the door.

Then I see it. Pink. The relief rushing over me is uncanny.

So is she. Pink coat, headband, and gloves. Panties? Fuck, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were pink, too. Pleased. But not surprised.

“Hi, Tabby!” the boys shout together, coming back to life.

“Good morning,” she replies.

I catch the way she glances my way, her frown. She’s clearly not impressed the boys are out here with me. Too bad. This is where they are and where they're staying. Within my sight at all times. Not like I've got a better choice.

“What are you doing out here?” Adam asks.

“Are you here to work, too?” Chase asks. “Like us? Helping Daddy?”

“Smart guess. That's exactly why I'm here.”

A chill claws through me. Shit.

I was counting on not seeing her all day. Don't need the distraction. By the time she left the room last night after delivering our supper, I’d had a hard-on like no tomorrow. An ice-cold shower had barely helped. Neither had the second one I took after I woke up, the heat flowing through my fingers as I jerked off my frustration, my sick dreams, my unholy fixation on wanting to fuck this girl.

Now, conveniently, my boss' granddaughter. Hell, boss and landlord. Old Morris could snap his fingers and throw us to the wolves on a whim. I have to get my head straight. Focus.

“But my work is feeding the horses.”

I’d forgotten that. How? I don’t know. But I had.

“Can we help?”

“Only if it’s all right with your father,” she answers.

The boys don’t ask, they just give me that look, the faces I can’t say no to. Even as young as they are, they know it, the little miscreants.

I mull it over. They’ll still be close, within hearing distance if not seeing, so I nod.

“Yippie!” Their little screams echo off the rafters.

She holds out both hands and they run towards her, each one grasping one of her hands. I’ll never admit to being a soft-hearted man, but the sight of that does something to me. To the point my throat thickens. Irritated she can do that to me, I growl, “Boys, remember: behave.”

“We will!” they say. Not just Adam and Chase.

Tabby joins them. I bite back a grin at how all three of them had spoken at the same time, and how they giggle after.

Damn it. I need to keep a clear head. She makes that near impossible.

The saw does its job, cutting through the board, and I’m surprised at how straight the cut is considering how I had my eyes on the other end of the barn, where she’d shown the boys how to pull the hose out of the small corner room and out the side door, and then how to turn on the water, the entire time I’d been working.

I take my time collecting and measuring another board, still watching her as she answers the multitude of questions the boys ask about turning the water on and off, and reeling the hose back into the small corner room. Then she helps them dump grain into two buckets and carry them out to the horses.

I have several boards ready before they're back inside. I’d been able to hear them the entire time, but even if I hadn’t, I instinctively knew the boys would be fine with her.

Strange. The few times Nelia was around them, I’d been on needles. Ready to pounce. Had pounced more than once. She couldn’t be trusted to even feed them a bottle. The one time she had, Adam almost choked because she’d shoved the nipple so far down his throat.

She’d never been able to tell them apart, either. Her own sons. That was Nelia. One hell of a mother.

Hell, where I hope she is now.

I hadn’t realized the anger inside me was being taken out on the board I’d been sawing until the end split off and I looked up. Just in time to catch the way Cupcake looks at me. There are wrinkles between her brows. Something inside her eyes I can’t quite describe, other than it makes me feel a touch of embarrassment.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.

Still holding one of Adam and Chase’s hands each, she guides them to the corner and their can of nails. I can’t hear what she says, but the boys both nod. Then she pats their heads and stands up. Without looking at me, she walks out the door.

Frustration bubbles inside me, but I push it down, ignore it, and pick up another board.

Hours later, the boys have long ago finished their nail job, as well as several other things I’d come up with to keep them busy. They're getting bored, and cold.

This isn’t going to work. Fuck me.

I can’t have them out here all day, every day. Michigan in late winter is just too damn cold, too mind-numbing. They're good kids, but five year olds have limits. I can’t afford for them to get sick, either, and being out in the cold for so long...

Shit. But I need this job.

They need me to have this job.

There’s a Podunk town not far away, Split Haven or something. The idea of finding someone to watch them crosses my mind. I instantly shove the thought aside. I can’t have them that far away, nor can I trust anyone. Not when it comes to my kids.

I finish pounding two boards together, and then walk over to the duffel bag I’d brought with us. Pulling out the tablet, I ask, “How about a game of checkers? You've earned it.”

The boys readily agree, perking up as I lead them to the hay bales piled along the end wall. “Climb up,” I say, patting the top of the lowest stack. Mrs. Potter was dead-set against any type of electronic toys, saying the screens are bad for children’s eyes and minds.

Totally overblown. It’s only checkers.

The boys settle on the hay and I pull their stocking-caps down over their ears after setting the tablet between them. I’d let them pick out the hats while buying the necessities of being on the run. Adam chose a black Batman hat and Chase a green Hulk one. Mrs. Potter was also against watching TV, but there are some shows every boy needs in his life. Every kid needs a hero or two.

I carry the ladder to that end of the barn and secure it so I can climb up to mark where I’ll need to connect the wall studs.

That’s what I’m doing, nailing in a stud, when the door opens again. This time I’m expecting pink.

The boys are excited to see her, but don’t display the same enthusiasm as earlier. They’re tired. I already knew that, but this confirms it.

She’s carrying a basket and uses one foot to shut the door behind her. “Who’s ready for lunch?”

My stomach does a bear impression, but I don’t reply. The shouts from the boys are the answer she's looking for. Her smile says it all.

“Hope you like chili,” she says. “Marcy made a big pot, and it’s so delicious.”

“We do!” The boys jump down and run to where she’s unloading the basket on the boards I’d left stretched between two saw horses.

I climb down and follow.

She sets out three bowls with lids and several sandwiches wrapped in plastic, as well as a thermos that I hope is full of hot coffee, plus small cartons of milk.

“I also have these.” She holds up two brown paper bags with Adam and Chase’s names written on them, along with smiley faces. “But you have to eat your lunch first.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I say.

She glances my way, a brief, sideways peek out of the corner of her eyes that sends a trickle of electricity zipping through me.

“I have one for you, too,” she says, lifting another brown bag out of the basket with Daddy written on it.

It's crazy, but for some reason, my cheeks heat up. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She helps Adam get situated with his lunch while I help Chase.

Even something as simple as this, her bringing us food, affects me like it shouldn't. Without attempting to in any way, she has my blood heating up and shooting to specific areas.

It’s annoying how frustratingly hard she makes me in no time flat. She’s the exact opposite of every woman I’ve ever known. Of all those I left behind. The high-maintenance broads and the sleazy ones with bad habits like Cornelia. They were fuck and dumps and I was too damn busy for anything different. Cupcake doesn’t know that, of course, but I do. I know better, too. No woman will ever come between me and my sons. Cornelia had run that road right to the end, and got what she deserved.

I just wish it hadn't cost us so much.

Cupcake circles around the barn while the boys and I eat, looking at the work I’ve completed. I try to act like I don’t care what she thinks, but I do. Shouldn’t. But do.

“Why are you putting a wall up here?” she asks, leaning against the ladder.

“For the office.”

She shakes her head and points to the area behind me. “The office goes down there.”

“Makes more sense to be on that end. Near the well that you already keep heated.” Meeting her gaze, I ask, “You want water in the office, right? The sink?”

“Yes.”

I gesture to the ceiling. “Plumbing water the length of the barn leaves you open to frozen pipes if you have any heating issues.”

“The office over here won’t work. I don’t want the guests to have to walk the length of the barn to check-in.”

I walk over and plant a hand against the outside wall. “I’m going to put the entrance right here. You can have a nice sized parking lot outside this wall, too.”

She nibbles on her bottom lip for a moment before saying, “These are the changes you talked to Gramps about?”

“Yes, and foregoing the bathroom entirely.”

“We can’t lose the bathroom. People will need it, especially those not renting rooms at the lodge.”

“Then rent some porta-potties.” I shrug. “You’ll never recoup the cost of putting in a septic system, or the issues that come with it. Winter can be hard on toilets, the lines will freeze up, and that can get costly.”

I’ve got her thinking. Seriously thinking. Both that I know what I’m talking about, and that I have her best interests in mind. I have more than that in mind, and have to shift my stance to lesson the tension in my groin.

She walks towards the front of the barn. “What will be over here then, if not the office?”

“Stables mainly,” I say, and then proceed to tell her how I intend to lay out the tack area near the office, and the few other minor changes I’d suggested to Morris.

By the time I’m done, she’s nodding, and the smile on her face has me putting both hands in my front pockets in order to stretch my jeans enough to relieve some of the pressure on my swelling cock. Damn it to hell, but she’s getting under my skin. And I can't let her.

“A part of me doesn’t want to admit it.” Her smile increases as she shrugs. “But some of what you’ve said makes sense.”

I have to look away, it’s like she’s sucking me into some kind of happy hole. That’s when I notice the boys. Sleepy-eyed, probably from being warmed up by the big bowls of hot chili. They're leaning against each other for support like two kittens ready for a long nap.

She notices, too. “Looks like your helpers need sleep.”

“Looks that way,” I admit, having no idea what to do about it. They’ll never be able to sleep through the sound of me pounding in nails.

“I can take them inside,” she says quietly. “They’ll be more comfortable and you’ll probably get more work done.”

I appreciate her offer, but shake my head. “No, they’re a handful, can’t be out of sight for even a few minutes, and you have work, too.”

“Not really. You’re our only guests. The other couple checked out this morning.” Her smile is soft and serene as she looks at the boys. “I’ll keep a close eye on them, I promise.”

Damn. I want to say yes, but—

“Rex. Please.” She shakes her head. “Mr. Osborne, I promise –”

“You can call me Rex,” I interrupt. I like how it sounded when she said it. Soft. Gentle.

“I promise they’ll be fine,” she says. “And warm. They can’t stay out in this cold all day.”

She’s right about that. Silently I battle myself as she reaches into the basket on the floor.

“Here, I brought these out for you. They’re too big for me.”

I take the pair of leather work gloves she’s handing me and make my decision. “The boys can be a handful, and grumpy when they’re tired.”

Once again her smile strikes me hard and fast.

“Grumpy is something I’ve handled my entire life.” She starts loading the basket. “Don’t worry. They’ll be fine.”

I’ll worry all right, but I’ll also get more work done. The gloves will help, too. The ones I’d bought myself weren’t made for winter labor. “Thanks, and thanks for the gloves.” I tell the boys to behave one more time, and that I’ll be in the barn if they need me, and watch them leave.

With no disruptions outside my own thoughts, which sometimes make me work harder and faster, I make progress. Not as much as I would've done with power-tools, but still a sense of satisfaction fills me as I clean up the wood scraps and get things laid out for tomorrow morning. I’m stiff, overworking muscles that I hadn’t in some time, but overall feel great as I grab my thermos and shut off the lights.

It was cold in the barn, but it's freezing out here in the dark. I hurry along the shoveled walkway towards the lodge. A car in the parking lot catches my eye. A big sedan.

Fuck. I hadn’t heard anyone pull in, too engrossed in my work. That shouldn't have happened.

I take the steps two at a time, barging into the lodge. The dead silence that greets me sends my intuition into overdrive. There’s no one at the desk, in the office, or the front room. I race up the steps and down the hall. Our room is empty. The beds are made.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I let my guard down for a couple of hours and this happens. Same shit that happened in Chicago.

Two empty beds. The boys gone. There’s no note, not like then, stating Mommy took my boys for the night. Nelia had been no fucking mommy to them in this lifetime. They’d only seen her half a dozen times.

Mrs. Potter was out sick that day, so I'd gotten a replacement, a girl I could trust, she’d said. One who also hadn’t known Nelia was to never – ever – be near the twins without my supervision.

That was the one time I'd let a stranger watch them. Until now. Whether she's hot as fuck or not, Cupcake is a stranger, too.

I slam the door shut and run down the back stairs, sliding to a stop when I hear laughter. The boys. I shove a door open as if it weighs a ton, and have the sense to catch it from hitting me as it swings backwards when my feet glue themselves to the floor.

They're both there. Jesus. And so's Cupcake. Their laughter comes to an abrupt halt when they see me. All three stop and stare like I’m some crazy lunatic intruder.

That’s not far from the truth. “Whose car's parked out front?”

She frowns and wipes her hands on a towel. “A guest’s. Why?”

“What’s his name? Where’s he from? Where’s he going?” It rattles out like the automatic rifle fire I remember from my Army days.

Using the towel to wipe Adam’s cheek, she says, “Chester Hobbs from Minneapolis. Older businessman. He always spends the night here when he's on his way to and from his daughter’s place in Ontario.” Turning a cold glare on me, she adds, “Would you like to know how old he is, or that his wife died five years ago?”

I catch the reprimand, the way she bites her lips together before spinning around.

“Time to check on those cookies again,” she says, placing a reassuring hand on each of the boys.

“We made cookies, Daddy,” Adam says, looking at me over his shoulder.

“Chocolate chip,” Chase adds.

The last bits of tension and fear seeps out of my body. “Smells good,” I say, emulating a normal person again.

“Now, we’re making cinnamon rolls,” Adam tells me while crossing the room beside Tabby.

“For tomorrow morning,” Chase adds from her other side. He stops what's on the tip of my tongue about them having all this sugar.

She opens a big stainless-steel oven door and peeks inside. So do the boys.

“Not quite done, yet,” she says. “Let's give it a little longer.”

The air is heavy, and strained. It's my fucking fault.

When she turns around and our eyes meet, hot guilt slices through me. I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry.”

“Me, too,” she says.

I’m not sure why she bothers. I was the lunatic, belting her with questions about some old fart who's probably stayed in this place a million times.

“We’ve already eaten, but saved you a plate.” She opens a door on the side-by-side fridge. “I’ll warm it up. You can wash in that sink over there.”

I glance to the left, and hoping to ease the tension, ask, “The one with the hand washing only sign?”

“Yes.” She grins slightly. “Health code.”

“Gotcha.” Actually, she’s the one that’s got me. Right where it counts.

She’s wearing an apron, pink of course, and covered in flour. There’s even flour on her face, which turns my dick to diamond, picturing how I'd like to wipe it away.

Shit, let's be honest: everything about Tabby Danes turns me on.

I remove my coat and drape it over a chair before moving to the sink to scrub my hands. By the time I’m done, she’s set a plate on the end of the long island that's half covered in white dust.

“Chase spilled flour!” Adam says.

“No! Didn’t mean to!” Chase snaps back.

“Of course you didn’t,” Cupcake says, smiling sweetly at Chase, who looks like a red-faced chipmunk. “Luckily, it landed right where we’ll need it. Once those cookies are out of the oven, it’ll be time to kneed our dough.”

“You make cinnamon rolls from scratch?” I ask. Haven't seen that since I used to spend summers with my grandma down in Kentucky.

“Of course,” she says. “Is there another way?”

Clearly not for her. Should've guessed that. “Frozen,” I say. “But they're never as good.”

The boys pipe in then, telling me what they’ve done all afternoon, including baking the chocolate chip cookies she rescues from the oven. Two of the cookies end up on a plate beside me. I eat them while they're still warm and at the peak of perfection. Just like her.

I set the small plate atop the larger one that I’d practically licked clean after gobbling down the lasagna. “Where should I put these?”

“Just leave them there,” she says while giving the boys each a section of white dough. “I’ll get them after we get this dough kneaded.”

“I could do that for you.”

She eyes me skeptically. “Knead dough?”

I pick up the plates and carry them to the sink. “Yes.”

“You’ve kneaded dough before?” She laughs. “I doubt that.”

Keeping my eyes locked on hers, I walk back to the island. “These hands are good for more than just pounding nails and sawing boards.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” she says.

“Why? Because I’m not covered in flour?” I swipe the tip of her nose with one finger and hold it up for her to see the flour I’d removed. “Like the rest of you?”

“Accidents happen,” she says. She turns away and her cheek is sun fire.

Seeing her blush taunts every inch of my cock.

Before I can respond, she flicks her fingers my way, spewing flour dust into my face.

Tease. Her playfulness sends sparks through me, and I plant both of my hands in the flour spread across the granite counter top.

As if reading my mind, she says, “You wouldn’t!”

I laugh.

“Don’t you dare,” she says, wagging a finger. “I already have enough to clean up.”

There's a good amount of flour on the counter and floor, true. Rather than flick flour at her as intended, I elbow her instead. “Step aside. Let me show you how a man kneads dough.”

“Oh, please,” she laughs, elbowing me back. “This is mine, get your own dough.”

I point to the empty bowl. “None left.”

“Snooze and you lose,” she says, laughing again.

“I never lose, Ms. Danes.” I step sideways so I’m right behind her, then wrap my arms around both sides of her, just above those lush ass cheeks, burying my hands in her dough. “Never.”

She wiggles, trying to shove me away. “My dough. You hear? I can’t teach the boys how to knead with your big hands in it.”

I can barely think with the way her tight butt bumps into the front of my jeans, making my cock so hard I think it'll explode. Pinpointing the ounce of attention not controlled by my hard-on, I say, “Then I’ll teach them.” It takes a moment to pull up memories from when I was little, but once they hit, I flip the mound of dough over.

“It’s like this, boys,” I growl. “You have to dig the heels of your palms into this stuff, use them to stretch the dough. Not too hard or fast, or it’ll get tough.”

Her ponytail tickles my nose as she turns enough to look at me over one shoulder. “Who taught you that?”

“Why? Is it wrong?”

Her eyes bounce between my eyes and my lips, which causes a ripple of chaos to jolt through me. So does the way she swallows, and the way she smells. Sweet and sexy. So fucking sexy.

“Unfortunately, no,” she says.

Chase and Adam are barely paying attention. For once, I don't mind.

I fold my hands over the tops of hers, using them to gently force her hands to knead the dough beneath mine, and I step closer, damn near getting high off the way her ass feels pressed up against my dick. Hellfire churns in my balls.

I feel her tremble slightly, and for the first time since they’d been born, I wish my boys were in another room. Then I’d reach up and knead her tits the same way we're working the dough – slow, forceful, thoroughly. If these hands could wander, they'd find hard nipples and warm, wet pussy lips. If the boys weren't here, fuck. It'd be less than ten minutes before I had her bent over with my balls smacking hard on her clit, dick buried in pink, pink, so much pink perfection.

The fantasy owns my mind and it's hard to remember we're hardly by ourselves, even if they are distracted. I force her to stretch the dough across the counter top, giving me a reason to press more firmly against her ass. She melts against me, enjoying it as much as I am.

She grabs the dough and flips it over, then stretches it again, as if giving me permission to dry-fuck her. Electricity shoots through me and I give my hips a quick upwards thrust. She swallows a gasp, plants her hands on the counter, as if pulling my dick deep inside her.

It's fucking nuclear. Taking us so dangerously close to full meltdown.

Until someone clears their throat.

Someone behind us who shouldn't be there.

She freezes. So do I.

A second later, she twists slightly. “Gramps. Hey.”

The old man’s been behind us for God only knows how long, and must've seen the way I’m practically butt-fucking his granddaughter, fully-clothed or not.

Shit!

“We can’t have guests in the kitchen, Tabby.”

“We won’t feed these rolls to the public,” she says. “It's off hours and we certainly weren't doing anything that'd get a health inspector after us.”

How the hell can she sound so calm? My blood’s pumping faster than a marathon runner's. I’ve been slowly easing away from her, not wanting the old man to see just how tightly I’d had her pressed against the countertop, but if I try to talk, I’ll risk my voice cracking like a goddamn kid.

“Doesn’t matter who eats them,” Morris says sharply. “It matters whose hands have been in them.”

“Everyone washed their hands,” she says, gathering the dough into a ball, defiance creeping into her tone. “Thoroughly.”

I drop my hands to my sides as she picks up the dough and drops it into a bowl. “Put yours in here, too,” she says to the boys. Once they do, she spins around and hands me a towel.

The old man is still glaring at me. “Health codes,” he says.

I nod. It’s all I can think to do.

“I’ll have this place inspection clean in twenty minutes, Gramps. No worries. Save the white gloves some work.” She nods to the boys. “Go wash your hands, please. And don’t forget the soap!”

“We won’t, Tabby,” they say, hurrying towards the sink.

I follow, desperate to get my mind off this fuckery. “I’ll make sure.”

The sink is large enough for all three of us to wash at the same time, which we do, using gobs of soap.

Morris stands at the door the whole time, watching. As soon as we dry our hands, he pushes the door open. “I’d like a word with you, Mr. Osborne.”

“Of course.” He wants more than a word. He’d like to knock my head off. Can’t say I blame him. There must be some twisted part of me that likes this – the way I keep fucking up my life.

He leads us down the hall and into the front foyer. The boys and I follow. Morris stops near his office door, and his eyes, how they look at the boys and then the front room, tells me what he expects.

“You boys go play a game of checkers,” I say. “Practice makes perfect.”

They run into the front room while I follow Morris into his interrogation room, closing the door behind me. I’ve never been in this predicament before, and it’s rather hellish, but that’s nothing new. My life’s been toxic for some time now.

There's a brutal pause. I'm half-expecting him to belt me on the chin, and I'm ready to stand and take it like a man. Just as long as he doesn't fire my stupid horn dog ass.

“I’m taking a chance on you, Mr. Osborne, and I want it to work out,” Morris says at last, giving me the evil eye. “But I’ll kick your ass out that door so far you’ll need wings if you don’t stay away from my granddaughter.”

I bite my tongue as a thousand come-backs race through my mind. He’s got a hold over me, one I gave him, and I can’t afford to break it. Fuck.

“You understand, you say so.”

“Yes, sir!” I say. Just like I'm back in boot camp.

He walks to his desk and opens a drawer. When he reaches in, I half-expect to see him pull out a gun. Instead, I hear the tinkling of metal. Wound tight, my reflexes are good, and I catch the set of keys he throws my way.

“There’s a shed out back,” he says. “It’s full of power-tools. Get that barn done as fast as you can and then get the hell off my property.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, reaching behind me for the door knob. “I will.”

Hours later, long after I’ve read the boys a story I downloaded onto the tablet, I’m staring at the ceiling, watching how the howling wind makes the shadows cast by the moonlight flutter. I see teeth and claws and death in those dark shapes. I see my own life burned, cremated, inching up to the sky in a plume of smoke.

There has to be a way for me to navigate this and not fuck up again. The Stone Syndicate is out there. Aiden’s bodyguard said they'd be, and I believe him. They’ll find us. It’s only a matter of time.

I gotta make this money. Gotta make this work. If I don’t, we’re dead.

Whatever Cupcake does to me, she isn't worth risking Adam and Chase. No woman could ever be.

I'll become a fucking eunuch before I put them in harm's way.

My throat burns as I glance towards the other bed, where both boys are sleeping.

Today was my last warning. If I fuck up again, we're dead.

Dead. All three of us.

I wrap the cinnamon rolls in tinfoil and fill one thermos with coffee and the other with hot chocolate, then place everything in the basket, including cups, plates, and silverware. The lodge has an odd vibe to it today, like it’s emptier than usual.

It's not just missing people, but something more. Something that’s invisible, yet warming and wholesome. It’s probably just me. I had a restless night. When I did finally fall asleep, I had some pretty crazy dreams. I hate when that happens. Stress always does it. Puts nightmares in my head that wake me up early, but I can’t remember them.

And the odd vibe, well, that's mostly thanks to Gramps. He wasn't happy about Rex and the boys being in the kitchen.

That, I could have dealt with, but the rest of it?

He's not happy about the position he caught me and Rex in.

I should be embarrassed. Humiliated. Ashamed.

But I’m not. I’m human. Gramps has to understand that. I’m twenty-five. Most women my age have a healthy sex life.

There’s nothing wrong with it.

There’s nothing wrong with me. Except, I’m still a virgin, and woefully aware of it.

Mainly because no one has ever lit a fire inside me like Rex did last night. I should be glad Gramps walked in when he did, but I’m not. Until last night, my sex life revolved around imagining what things would feel like.

Now I know.

Know and want so much more.

The heat pooling inside me while I carry the basket out of the kitchen makes me grin. Or maybe it’s the thought of seeing Rex that has me smiling. I like him, for all his faults. The whys are a mystery, but I like him. There's more than the brute I met his first night here. Sometimes, when he gets that dark scowl on his face, I feel like he’s scared, running from something, and my heart drums sympathy.

Breath-stealing cold, the wind, hits me the second I'm outside. Crap. How stupid am I? Heaven only knows because it takes the icy wind to wake me up enough to realize Rex is running from something.

The death of his wife. Pain. Memories, perhaps.

How had I forgotten?

Thinking about myself. That's how.

About how I’d like to get fucked hard and often by Rex Osborne. Soundly fucked so I know exactly what it feels like for real, not just what I’ve read in dirty books or seen on TV. Or made up in my own mind, like I’ve been doing for eons.

Great. Embarrassment hits me now. Strong but delayed. Hell, I didn't even pretend to stop him last night, right?

When did I become so...idiotic? So desperate? So sex-starved? It’s never bothered me before.

Gramps has chased off plenty of men since I turned sixteen, well before anything could ever happen. It's nothing new. This is just more of the same.

But if that's true, then why am I so worried what Rex thinks of me for wanting to give it up so easy?

I’m almost to the barn door, but seriously consider turning around, until the image of Adam and Chase eating the cinnamon rolls they made last night flutters in my mind. Those two boys are adorable, and so well behaved.

Me, and my nosiness, had dropped a couple of hints yesterday while baking cookies with them about mothers, hoping they’d shed some light on what happened to theirs, but they hadn’t. In fact, they’d acted like they’d never had one. The only woman they mentioned was Mrs. Potter again, who never let them play video games or watch TV while their dad worked days.

Their mother was still on my mind when Rex stormed into the kitchen demanding to know every little thing about Chester Hobbs. Of course, I dropped the convenient fact that Chester’s wife died five years ago, not-so-secretly wishing it'd make him open up.

Fresh guilt stings me.

Rex was probably thinking about her. Missing her. I’d seen the sadness in his eyes. The regret. And I was the only female for miles around. Just like a siren, I'd offered pleasure, a way to forget, but had I brought him the opposite?

I open the barn door and step in. Rex is at the far end, on the ladder, and barely glances my way while pounding in a nail. The boys are happy to see me.

“I brought you some cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate,” I tell them while setting the basket down.

“Cocoa? Yippie!” They do their trademark jumping thing. Makes me laugh every time.

Yesterday, I’d watched which boy took the bag with their name on it and discovered a way to tell them apart – at least somewhat. Adam is left-handed, while Chase is right. Chase also has a dimple when he grins in his right cheek. That's the closest I'll get to having an identifying dot.

“You can eat them after we water and feed the horses,” I say, touching the tips of their noses, first Adam's and then Chase's.

“Okay, we will!”

Rex never stops pounding in nails, not even after we're done with the horses and back inside. The angst turning over in my belly is almost sickening.

“I brought you some coffee,” I shout above the noise he’s making.

He nods before pulling a nail out from between his lips and starts pounding again.

“Do you want me to take the boys inside?” I ask when the pounding stops.

“No, they’re fine.”

“It’s colder today and –“

“They’re fine,” he says again, colder than the air itself.

Okay. I bite my lips. I don’t need to be hammered on the head to know I’m not wanted, so I tell the boys goodbye and head back to the lodge.

* * *

After checking out Chester Hobbs and cleaning his room, I dust the front room and foyer and wash a few windows, then head to the basement to transfer the sheets from the washer to the dryer.

Using the last dryer sheet, I toss the empty box into the trash and enter the storage room to get some more. I grab a new box from the shelf, but it slips out of my hand. Bending down to pick it up, I see the writing on a cardboard box on the bottom shelf.

Julia.

My mother.

I’ve seen the box a million times. Dug through it at least a dozen occasions, flipping through her old school albums. That’s all that's really there, all that's left, along with some pictures she’d drawn when she was young and a few miscellaneous report cards. Gramps saved them all. Just like he'd saved mine.

Once upon a time, mom was his little girl. And I think he sees me as the daughter he wished he'd had.

I pick up the dryer sheets and leave the room, wondering again about Adam and Chase, and if they should be in school. Too curious not to know, I head upstairs, grab my coat, and walk to my cabin.

It’s small, but cozy. Familiar. Compact, but home.

There’s a tiny kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms, each with their own bathrooms from when it had been remodeled several years ago. There’s also a fair-sized storage room where I keep my personal stuff, mementos, old books I like to re-read when I'm in the right mood. Whenever it needs to be rented out, all I have to do is lock my storage room and take enough clothes with me to the main lodge to bunk with Marcy until the guests leave.

I grab a water from the fridge and sit down at the table, opening my laptop. It takes a while for it to start up, being as old as it is, a hand me down Gramps never used for business. Then I Google the age requirements for Michigan schools.

Six to sixteen.

So, the boys are technically too young. They're only five. That much I’d gotten out of them yesterday. Their age.

I turn the computer off, wait for it to fully power down before closing the lid. It hits me then that I should have Googled Rex Osborne, too. Damn.

I consider it, but the queasy feeling in my stomach tells me not to. I'm scared I'll find more questions than answers. Worse, I'm afraid I'll just feed this obsession, this stupid crush, this thing that should not be happening.

Grabbing my coat, I leave the cabin and head back to the main lodge to help Marcy prep lunch. It goes smoothly.

I pack an extra basket and carry it out to the barn. Rex isn’t any friendlier than he was this morning, but he does agree to let the boys return to the lodge with me. I tell him they'll be safe and warm. He grunts, the only reply I get, rude and cryptic.

I'm steaming, but it's not long before the sweet boys take the edge off. Their innocent chatter through a couple board games I have just enough time to teach them makes me forget their ass of a dad for a few blissful hours.

It's the start of a weird routine that continues for several more days. The boys spend the morning in the barn with Rex and the afternoon in the lodge with me, and the two of us, Rex and me, don’t say more than three or four words to one another.

I hate his icy silence. Loathe it because I'd like to get in his face, ask him what kind of game he's playing. But I know it'd make me look like the reckless, desperate girl who's more strung up on him than she has any right to be. And Rex Osborne won't be seeing me like that.

Also, there are times I sense he’d like to say more, but for whatever reason, doesn’t. Torture.

I’ve lived with moody men who hold their emotions like cheap whiskey since I was four years old. I've figured out Rex isn’t grumpy. Whatever's bothering him, goes deeper and it doesn’t fit him. This isn’t the way he’s meant to be. I don’t know why I'm so sure, but I am. It’s like we’re in the middle of a poker game and he doesn’t want me to see his hand. He’s not ready to play them, either. Not even one card at a time. Not yet.

It’s driving me nuts. Fucking nuts

My only saving grace is the steady flow of new guests. Not many, and none book rooms for long, but at least the constant checking in and out gives me something to do every morning while waiting to collect Adam and Chase for lunch.

Now, I can’t believe I ever had a hard time telling them apart. Adam is more curious and asks far more questions than his brother. Chase is more like Rex, quiet and pondering, often figuring out the answers to Adam’s questions about the same time Adam asks them. It's odd, adorable, and fascinating all at once.

This afternoon we learn a popular cartoon hero flick will be on TV tonight. The boys beg me to ask Rex if they can watch it, so I do. Surprisingly, he agrees.

The boys help me make popcorn, and here we are, watching a movie about super heroes. I’m a little lost trying to follow all the characters and the powers they have, but the boys are enjoying every second. Rex appears to be, too, when he slinks in later and sits at the far end of the sofa. So does Gramps, who gobbles more popcorn than the rest of us combined.

Then I notice headlights shining through the window, and leave the room to man the front desk, ready to check in our new arrival.

There are no reservations, so I collect his information and give him our standard spiel about amenities.

He states he’ll only need a place to sleep.

I assign him a room for the night, and then swipe his credit card. While I'm waiting for the approval to go through, I ask if he’s been in Split Harbor before.

“Nope, first time. Heading up to Canada to go ice fishing with my brother. Haven’t seen him for five years, since he came down to Chicago.”

“Well, have fun, and stay warm,” I say, handing him back his card. “You’re all set.”

With a friendly wave, he heads for the wide staircase. “Thanks!”

I'm about to staple the credit card slip to the printout of the room assignment when the sheet of paper flies out of my hand. Flipping around, I try to re-take it from Rex, who's already scanning the printout. He holds it conveniently out of reach.

“Hey! Private information,” I say, trying again to snatch the paper back, but he's too tall and his hold is too firm.

“I heard him say Chicago,” Rex snaps.

“Because that’s where he’s from?” He’s reading the slip, so it’s not like I’m telling him anything he doesn’t already know. I point to the top of the paper. “Sam Walton from Chicago, Illinois.”

He flips the paper over, finding only a blank page of course. “Where’s he going?”

“What’s it matter?”

His eyes turn into narrow slits. “Where’s he going?”

I finally jerk the paper away, staple the credit card slip, and file it. “Canada, to go fishing with his brother. Not that it's any business of yours.”

“How long is he staying?” He's relentless. “Cupcake, how long?”

“Jesus, one night!” Flustered, I tap my cheeks and say, “What’s wrong with you, Rex? Why do you interrogate me about every single male guest who checks in?”

“Just curious.”

“Oh, no. You’re a lot more than curious. You’re like an FBI agent without a badge to flash.”

He grabs my arm when I try to walk around him. “FBI, huh? Has the FBI been here?”

“No, the FBI hasn't been here! I said it because you’re acting like they do on TV.” Pulling my arm out of his hold, I add, “Like a total asshole.”

He scowls, but then glances towards the staircase.

Wow. He hasn't actually let this go.

An eerie feeling crawls up my spine, slowly, like a spider on a mission. A creepy-ass scary spider. I can’t stop myself from asking, “You aren’t wanted by the FBI...are you?”

I swear my heart stops during the silence that follows.

“No,” he finally says.

“You’re sure?”

“Would I be here, with my sons, working on your barn if I was wanted by the goddamn FBI?”

That’s his way, answering my questions with his own. Tired of playing his game, I say, “You'd better be telling the truth, Rex. Because if you aren’t, I’ll –“

“You’ll what?” Rage flashes in his eyes. “Tell me, Cupcake. What'll you do?”

Hell if I know. Pissed, I skirt around him while hissing, “Rue the day you were born for putting my family, my business in danger.”

“I –“

I stop, waiting to hear more.

“Forget it,” he snarls numbly, walking past me.

He heads to the front door and I march into the front room.

“Anyone need more popcorn?”

Both boys and Gramps say yes, so I grab the bowl and leave the room. Rex is still outside, I can see his outline through the window.

Fine. I’ll forget about it all right. And him. Jerk.

I stomp down the hall. Such. An. Asshole.

Why can’t he just be honest? Tell me his wife died and he’s going through a rough time right now. That's all he'd have to say, and I'd believe him.

But no. Instead, he jumps back and forth in some stupid Jekyll and Hyde routine that's twisting my last nerve.

I make the popcorn and deliver it to the front room. Rex is back, sitting on the sofa with the boys, acting like nothing happened. I leave again. I can't do this and I've officially had my fill.

I need space. Finding myself back in the kitchen, I dig out the ingredients to make a batch of blueberry muffins, a double batch so Sam Walton can take some with on his ice fishing trip.

Screw you, Rex Osborne.

Flipping off the door while I wait for the oven makes me feel a smidge better, but I’m still fuming.

After the muffins are done, I gather the bowls and glasses from the front room, which is empty except for Gramps. The movie's over. I tell him I’ll lock up after wrapping the muffins and putting the extras on a plate for the front desk in case the guests checking out want to take some.

“You doing all right, Tabby-kitten?” Gramps asks as we walk down the hallway together.

“I’m fine.” I'm nowhere close and I think he knows it.

“Is it the boys? Taking care of those kids getting to be too much?”

“No way. Adam and Chase are wonderful, Gramps. Seriously.”

I'm glad I don't have to lie. They're not the problem.

He casts me a thoughtful glance before saying, “Well, they won’t be here much longer.”

“I know.” God, do I ever. I hold up the dirty dishes in my hands. “Gotta get these in the dishwasher.” After kissing his cheek, I hold the kitchen door open, giving him one last glance. “Night.”

Gramps is a better man than Rex. Grumpy, short-fused, but his heart is in the right place. With Mr. Osborne, I don't know what the hell I'm dealing with besides a constant guessing game.

His words ring in my memory while I finish up. They won't be here much longer.

Sigh. My mind goes down several melancholy paths concerning both Rex and his sons while I’m wiping the counters. I'll never hear their sweet laughter, or catch Rex's fierce blue eyes stripping me bare, or wonder for the thousandth time what makes him tick like the timebomb he is. Soon, they'll be memories. By the time I’ve locked the front door, I can’t take any more.

None.

I’m done.

Rather than grab my coat and head for my cabin, I march up the back steps. Quietly, because I don’t want to wake the boys, I knock on Rex’s door.

He pulls it open and scowls. Exactly what I'm expecting.

“Why can’t you just tell me the truth?” I ask.

He shakes his head, but his eyes never leave mine. Then he grabs my arm and pulls me inside.

Nothing good will come of this, but I can’t take the sorrow in her eyes any longer. I can’t take the shit-ton of it filling me, either, strapped around my neck like an albatross made of solid granite.

Cupcake’s the reason I feel this way. At least part of it. She’s done me one hell of a favor, watching the boys every afternoon, asking for nothing in return. I’d offered to pay her, but she’d refused to even consider that.

She just wanted a smile, a few kind words, a goddamned thank you or two. And I've been too screwed up to give her more than a disinterested grunt and a weight from hell she doesn't need.

Fuck. It isn't fair and I know it. I'm not oblivious.

The least I can give her is the truth – a small portion of it.

Still holding onto her arm, I close the door, and then guide her to the corner of the room furthest away from the bed the boys are sleeping in. I can't wake them up with this.

“Look, Tabby, I can’t tell you everything, but what I’m about to say, is the truth.”

My heart literally swells at how her face softens.

“You don’t have to. I never asked for everything,” she whispers.

But I want to get it out, have her understand, but there's this ugly fear in my guts she’ll hate me once she knows. “You can’t tell anyone a word I say.”

“I won’t,” she says. “Promise.”

I have no idea where to start, what to say specifically.

“Had she been ill long?”

I shake my head, wondering if I’d already spoken. Convinced I hadn’t, I ask, “Who?”

“Your wife.”

“I’ve never been married.”

She glances towards the bed. “Grandpa said their mother died recently.”

A wave of regret washes over me.

“He said you told him that.”

“I did,” I admit. I'd said a lot of things to get the job, most of them true, stopping at the part where I'm running for my life after an accidental murder.

“Why?” There’s skepticism in her eyes again. “So he’d give you the job?”

“Bingo.” I had to give Morris a normal reason why the boys and I are here. Why I needed the job so badly. He’s an intuitive old goat, would've seen through any obvious lies.

“So she’s not dead?”

“She’s dead all right,” I say.

Tabby blinks and her eyes get big. “But that’s not what’s bothering you. It’s not the chip on your shoulder,” she says softly.

No. Fuck no. It’s far more than 'a chip.' More like a thousand-pound boulder. “Some things happened a few weeks ago. Bad shit, and now I've got bad people looking for me.”

The splattering of fear racing across her face has me taking hold of her hand.

“They don’t know where we are. I have to believe they won’t find us here.” Not for a while, anyway. I’m still hoping they're following my pinged phone all the way to Florida. They’ll figure it out sooner or later, and by then, I can only hope any trail I may have left is ice cold.

“Who are they?”

“Demons. People deep in the criminal world.” I can’t tell her about the deaths, but can let her know what lead up to it at the beginning. “They needed money laundered. I got blackmailed into doing it.”

Her eyes pop wide again. “So, are you wanted by the FBI?”

I have no idea, but for her sake, I shake my head. “They aren’t the type to go to the FBI, and no one will report the money laundering. I just refused to keep doing it. That's why I've got problems.” That’s what I should have done in the very beginning. Instead, fearing Nelia would find a way to take away the boys, I agreed to run a few thousand dollars worth of drug money through my construction company. Then a few thousand turned five figures, then six. I know now, as I should have then, it would never fucking stop. You give these men an inch, they'll be up your ass for miles.

“And now they're after you,” she finishes.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus. Can’t you just...I don't know, go to the authorities?”

I shake my head. “If only it was that easy. I broke the law, Cupcake. Also not sure the police can do shit to protect us from these people. Their Syndicate has tendrils everywhere. I can't start over with the boys in witness protection, growing up with their old lives and me scorched to the ground.”

Her eyes are so sweet, so innocent, nowhere cut out for contemplating something like this. Guilt blackens my heart for laying this on her, but there's also a vicious relief in giving up the truth.

She takes hold of my other hand. “There are people who can help you, Rex. I can help. You just have to let me.”

I pull her towards me, close enough for me to place a tiny kiss on her forehead. “No. Nothing you can do, Cupcake. Nothing anyone can do. I'm not putting you in danger.”

“Yes –“

I shake my head. “We’ll be leaving soon.” Nodding towards the bed, I continue, “The boys and me, we can't stay here forever once the job's done, much as I'd like it. Soon as the money comes in from remodeling the barn, we're moving on.” I didn't expect this part to be the hardest confession. My heart constricts so tightly my chest burns.

Fuck.

I know this is exactly how it has to be, and if I don’t get her out of this room soon, I won’t want her to leave.

I lead her back to the door. “Thanks, Cupcake, you’re an amazing, compassionate, beautiful woman. I hope you never change.”

I open the door then, gently nudging her over the threshold because it'd be far too easy to ask her to stay. She leaves without a fight, or maybe she just doesn't know what the hell to say. I can't blame her.

As soon as I push the door closed, I lock it, as if that'll reconstruct the barrier between us I just tore down. Why did I have to meet someone like her now? When my life's as fucked as it can possibly be?

I back away from the door, watching to make sure it doesn’t magically open. When the backs of my legs bump the foot of the bed, I sit.

It's not long before I lose track of how much time passes since she left. I crawl to the head of the bed and click off the lamp. Sleep doesn’t come quick or easy.

I can’t stop thinking of Cupcake. Of how sad and forlorn she looked when I closed that door, wishes etched all over her face for us, for the kids, for me.

But this is how it has to be. How I have to be.

Distant. Detached from everyone and everything. No more midnight confessions where I might slip, say too damn much, or put too many promises in her sweet young heart.

I close my eyes, begging for sleep to come.

* * *

She’s stretched out in a big tub, naked, one leg hanging over the edge.

I’m pissed.

Yell at her.

She doesn’t open an eye.

Blood boils inside me as I storm into the room, calling her the fucking bitch she is.

She still doesn’t move.

That’s when I notice what’s next to her.

Needles. Tubing. Drug shit.

“Nelia!” I shout one more time, roaring so loud my throat shifts on bone.

She still doesn’t move.

I lean down to touch her.

Cold. So fucking cold.

Then, suddenly, she grabs my arm.

I jolt backwards. The air stalls in my lungs.

It’s not Nelia. It’s Tabby! Her sweet eyes empty, scared, lifeless.

“Cupcake!” I scream, reaching to grab her as she slips beneath the water, too deep for me to reach.

“Cupcake!”

* * *

I can’t breathe. It hurts. Agony like I’ve never known. I rip my eyes open, cough like mad, trying to catch my breath. It was a dream. A goddamn dream.

I press a hand to my forehead. Another nightmare. Trying to split my soul in two, or at least my head.

Nelia’s dead. A fucking overdose, but Cupcake is fine.

She's fine.

Too afraid to close my eyes, I get off the bed. Go to the bathroom. Fill a glass with water. Drink it. Then do it again.

She’s fine, you fool.

“Fine!” It comes out a harsh whisper. I barely recognize my own reflection.

For now, I'll trust she's fine without acting like a madman. And fine is how I need her to stay.

* * *

I work my ass off the next two days, needing to get this project done as fast as possible. The routine is the same: the boys stay with me, playing in the barn, until Tabby comes and gets them at noon. I try hard to think of her as Tabby, not Cupcake. Not the woman Nelia’s dead face transformed into during that fucked up dream. And I try harder to avoid her day and night. I'm giving her the cold shoulder again and it makes me feel like shit, only a little less than pouring my heart out again, putting her in danger.

It has to be almost noon, so I climb off the ladder, tell the boys to zip up their coats and get their hats on.

“Why?” Adam asks while zipping.

Chase tugs on his Hulk hat. “Where're we going, daddy?”

“Lodge,” I growl.

They race for the door, glad to have the morning over no doubt. We're inching toward spring, but more than a couple hours out here still lets Jack Frost creep into your bones.

Morris is behind the check-in desk. Good. I don’t want to run into Tabby looking for him.

“I need a few things.” I set the list I’ve written on the desk. “Mostly nails and pole-barn screws.”

The old man frowns. “Can’t go to town today. Several guests are due here anytime,” Morris says. “But you can go get them. I’ll call Walt at the hardware store and tell him you’re coming. He’ll put it on my charge account.”

I hadn’t left the lodge since arriving over a week ago.

“The hardware store is right on main street. You can’t miss it.” Morris picks up the phone and nods toward the boys. “They can stay with Tabby. She’s in the kitchen.”

“No, she’s right here.”

Shit. Avoiding her hasn’t changed much inside me. The sound of her voice still turns me on. Exactly why I grab the list off the desk and walk out the door.

Split Harbor's only ten miles up the road, a somewhat rough county road considering the weather keeps trying to fool us into thinking spring might be near. The last two days were in the forties, today even warmer. The ice and snow packed solid on the road for the past few months is melting fast, leaving puddles the size of craters.

By the time I pull onto the main highway and the tires start rolling along the smooth, dry pavement, my teeth feel like they're ready to rattle out of my head.

Trucks as old as this one don't have the same suspension as newer ones. Or the creature comforts.

I glance down to check my speed and notice the fuel gauge. “Asshole. Gas hog,” I say aloud. Then, feeling a bit guilty putting the old truck down, I say, “Actually, you probably get better mileage than my new truck, your tank is just smaller.”

Damn thing saved our life. Call me sentimental, superstitious, but I can't jinx that.

The hardware store is easy enough to find, and Walt introduces himself as soon as I walk in the door. I have a bag full of supplies in no time. I'm done in less time that it would have taken to walk to the hardware section of those big-box stores back in Chicagoland.

Seeing a gas station a block up the road, I head there next, pulling up beside the pump. After filling the tank, I head inside. No longer having a debit card, paying at the pump isn’t an option. There are a couple people ahead of me, so I scan the candy bars and pick out a couple for the boys I know they'll like. One more for me.

Still standing in line, waiting for the cashier to finish showing the customer ahead of me a video of her granddaughter on her cellphone, a rumble makes the windows rattle. The hair on my arms rise as motorcycles, a good dozen of them, swarm into the gas station's lot.

Aiden always claimed to be tight with a large motorcycle gang. Said he'd been a prospect in his younger days and still wore the ink. I never cared one way or the other.

Until now.

Now, I wish I’d paid more attention to Aiden’s tattoos so I could match them up against those on the men outside. Not that I can see many tattoos. These guys are all wearing black leather jackets, cuts as dark as night.

Sweat pops out on my temples as a burly guy climbs off his bike and walks around my truck, eyeing it closely. I think of the gun buried deep in the glove box, how fast I could fish it out if needed.

The man turns, and sees me through the glass. The pulse in my neck pounds spikes in my veins as he walks toward the door. Other bikers are looking at the truck, too.

Fuck.

I glance around, looking for an escape route, which there isn’t.

“Oh, look,” the woman in front of me says. “It’s Sheriff Cahill! Now, we know it's almost spring if he's out riding.”

The door opens and the biker walks in. The logos on his cut say SPLIT HARBOR PD.

I’m not very relieved and try to hide how my fingers tremble, sticking them in my coat pockets. That’s when I realize I’m still holding candy bars in one of them. I drop that hand to my side, squeezing the bars so hard I feel the fucking chocolate melt.

“Hey, Sheriff,” the check out gal says. “Got the day off?”

“Sure do,” the biker answers. “Feels good, let me tell you. Been busting my balls since my old man turned the department over for retirement. And knowing we might not have another day like this in weeks, the boys and I are taking the bikes for a ride.”

“Smart move. How's old Dixon holding up, anyway? Anything I can get for you? Just made fresh coffee in the deli.”

“Nah, I’m fine, and so's dad. He's busy writing a book on that Caspian thing and the Drayton assholes, now that they're out of town. Even Ryan's taking a break from employing half the town to contribute. Says it's good for town history and all. Gonna be a bestseller,” he answers, looking at me. “Enough said, though. I really just want to talk to this guy.”

My heart stops. So do my lungs. With air locked in them like hot coal.

I'm fucking panicking. I never expected the Stone Syndicate to involve the law. Not on this level. A northern Michigan county sheriff? How?

My thoughts go to Adam and Chase at the lodge. I tell myself they're at the safest place they can be. With Cupcake.

“That your truck, stranger?” the sheriff asks.

My lungs are searing, melting. I push out air before I can calmly say, “Yes, sir. Is there something wrong?” It dawns on me then that I’ve never checked the tabs. Just assumed my cousin bought them every year.

“That’s a heavy-ass Chevy. Haven't seen a beast like that in years.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Chevy only made a few, I think. Back in the seventies if I'm not mistaken. Added a few extra springs to their half-tons so they could haul more.”

“That’s correct,” I say. “My grandpa bought it new for the same reason you said.”

My head is about to explode. It's miraculous I'm smiling.

The man nods. “So, you wouldn’t be interested in selling, would you?”

“No, sir. It’ll stay in the family, I'm afraid.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He turns to look out the window again. “That’s a damn good-looking truck. Keep it that way.”

“I do my best,” I tell him, my heart finally thumping a notch slower.

He nods, gives a single finger wave to the cashier and walks back out the door.

My legs turn into rubber and I squish the melting candy bars more by slapping them on the counter to stay upright.

“Anything else I can get you?” the cashier asks. “Fresh coffee in the deli, don't forget.”

“No, thanks.” Not unless she's got a tranquilizer.

I drive all the way back to the lodge with the driver’s window down, trying to cool my body from the amount of hot sweat coating every inch of my skin. Still hot, and sweating bullets, after arriving, I pull the ladder out of the barn and climb up on the side awning to examine a few lose shingles I’d noticed. There might not be another day this weather will let me fix them.

The fresh air helps my body and kicks my brain back to functional. “Goddamn it,” I mumble. I’d never been so scared in my life as I’d been back at that gas station. Nor as jumpy. A part of me wants to run into the house to check on the boys, but there are no new cars in the lot, and deep down, I know they're safe with Tabby.

I also know I can’t see her. Not right now. Not after I thought my worst nightmares were coming true.

If we're together, I'll grab on and hug her tight, just to make sure she’s alive and well.

I consider that for a moment, and then make a mental note to write an informal will, stating if anything happens to me, the boys go to Tabby Danes until she can call my cousin.

It's a scenario I never want to think about, but shit, after what just happened...

No choice. I’ll include Justin’s name on it, he’ll recognize my signature, know it's from me. He’s a damn good lawyer, but I don’t dare contact him. Not yet.

Lifting my head, I stare at the lodge for some time, and then let out the sigh that's grown too heavy to hold in.

There are so many if onlys running through my mind, I’m making myself dizzy. Most have to do with Nelia, her drug addiction, which is how she hooked up with Aiden and then got the idea to start blackmailing me.

I should have left the city then. Got as far away as possible. But I hadn’t.

Now, I’m here. Scared shitless of a local lawman on a bike who just wanted to haggle over my ancient truck.

Fuck.

It’s only a matter of time before everything catches up with me. The Danes are good people. Cupcake and her grandfather, and their cook, Marcy. They’ve made the boys feel at home, more at home than they’ve ever known. Plus they’ve given me this, a chance to make enough money for us to move on. Which is what I need to do so I don't have to consider Plan B and its worst case scenarios.

Tabby and Morris don’t deserve to have monsters on their doorsteps. That’s what’s going to happen. Sooner or later, that will happen, the longer I stay.

I grab the hammer and start pounding, vowing to leave as soon as possible.