It’s been nearly six months since I last laid eyes on her.

Before my world orbited hers, I was living my life to its fullest.

So what if I was mostly living a lie?

My life was full, or at least full enough.

The day I met her, I swear all the breath was stolen from my lungs. My heart stopped beating. When her stunning sapphire eyes met mine, I had to close mine to stop from staring at the truth written in her gaze—not her truth, though. Mine.

Usually when a lady crosses my path, I treat her with the utmost kindness, and if there’s a spark between us, I’ll show her a decent time for a night or two.

But that isn’t the case with Tessa Annabelle.

She took one glance at me and knew I was an asshole from “Hello”—at least that’s what I’ve assumed for the last couple of years now. If she liked me, there’s no way she would’ve turned me down when I asked her out. All she said was, “No, Ace, not now,” which I took as, “You’re an asshole, go away.” I mean, who calls someone Ace anyway?

Normally I’d lick my wounds and move on to the next willing lady, but that’s also not the case when it comes to Tessa. This firecracker has gotten under my skin. It’s no longer a question of my wanting her; my desire to possess her has become a need.

Mark my words: Tessa Annabelle will be mine.

* * *

Threads & Trends San Diego is bigger than I thought it’d be. Having only Averill’s T&T shop for reference, I figured Tessa’s would be around the same size.

Boy, was I mistaken.

Hers is easily four times the size.

I’m standing outside, watching her work on a new window display. I’ve been standing here for nearly an hour now and she’s yet to notice me, which is advantageous since I don’t know if I want her to know I’m here yet.

I’m here on business, not strictly to sniff out Tessa, although I’d love nothing more than to walk into her store, kiss her senseless, and leave. No explanations, not a single word. She may come running behind me, swearing at me a million different ways, but I know it’d be worth it.

Before I let her know I’m here, I have some work to take care of.

Complicated work.

Work I wish I no longer had to partake in.

But when you sign a deal with the devil, you do the devil’s work.

When I originally went down this path that led me to the choices I’m making now, I was barely legal enough to buy a beer in a bar. The offer I was given sounded too incredible to be true, but I was drunk and signed on to do this awful, corrupting, soulless job for ten years.

My ten years are almost up.

Once they are, I’ll be making damn sure the woman currently designing the beautiful window display in her shop is mine.

She’s my pot of gold at the end of a decade-long rainbow.

I’m attempting to quickly get our window displays done before leaving tonight. If I manage to finish them, I can just stop in for an hour or so tomorrow before heading out to Michigan for Averill’s baby shower.

My best friend is having a sweet baby girl—Alixandria Aideen Gallhagar—in less than two and a half months. Normally we’d be having her baby shower a couple months down the line, but since all the women who mean the most to her have to travel, we’re having it earlier than planned.

Besides, who gives a shit? Why does there have to be a certain set of rules to follow for a baby shower? Rules are lame, and there shouldn’t be any for a baby shower.

All I know for certain are two things: her mother, Mary, and mother-in-law, Aideen, are flying out tomorrow morning on the same flight I am, and planning a baby shower that’s taking place in the Midwest from California has been challenging. At least there are online stores to help when ordering lots of pink candy, utensils, napkins, paper plates, and of course, balloons, because who has a baby shower without balloons? Averill certainly won’t be.

Her living room is going to look like pink threw up in it.

I may have gone a tad overboard when it came to ordering decorations.

I’ll blame it on my Ambien. It’s a real thing—late-night Ambien shopping is no joke. Trust me, my bank calls me at least once a month to make sure my card hasn’t been compromised. Ambien made me do it is a valid excuse. At least it’s led to some great purchases, and nothing too terribly overpriced…yet.

“Dammit,” I mumble to myself while dressing the last mannequin. I forgot the new inventory of custom leather biker jackets by a local designer, and I promised her she’d have her product in this month’s window display. Since she’s working with a few amazing new spring colors, it wasn’t hard to agree to putting one on display, and I may have snagged a lilac one for myself before stocking them.

Stepping back from the arrangement, my foot gets caught in the scarf I tossed down a few minutes ago because it didn’t look right with the distressed jeans I had it paired with. I’m about to fall ass over teakettle, but the moment my butt should meet the hardwood floor, my arms are suddenly securely bound by a pair of strong hands.

“I have you, Firecracker.”

Brant.

I’d know his voice anywhere. He doesn’t have to use his nickname for me to make me aware it’s him; his voice does that for him. The deep timbre never fails to send shivers down my spine. He has a voice made for sin. Stop it, Tessa. He’s the enemy.

“First, thanks. Second, what the hell are you doing here? Third, I’m on team Rhys.” He knows what I’m alluding to, why I have to say I’m on a team to begin with. “And fourth, how in the hell did you get in? I’m closed.”

“First, you’re welcome,” he says while he places a strand of errant hair behind my ear. Quit touching me. “Second, I’m in the area for work and thought I’d stop in to say hello.” His hand moves from my ear to cup my face and begins to gently stroke my cheek while tipping my chin up, causing our gazes to collide. “Third, I know you’re on his side, and I’ll explain everything to you and to him in due time. Fourth, the door was unlocked.”

Not liking the idea of my doors being unlocked, I untangle myself from his oddly comforting embrace of sorts and make my way to the front.

Hm. One is locked, and the other is, as he claimed, unlocked. Quickly sliding the lock into place, I begin to walk toward the storage room, needing to make sure the delivery door is secure, though dammit, I could’ve sworn I locked all of them earlier.

As I’m walking back toward the front of the store after unlocking and relocking each door, Brant moves away from where I left him near the front window.

“I swear it was unlocked—I didn’t break and enter.” He’s holding up both hands to show me he isn’t holding anything. “I was casually strolling by, saw you in the window, knocked on the window, you didn’t hear me, so I tried the door. Lucky for you, it was in the nick of time.”

Something isn’t adding up for me, on top of the whole entry situation. Take the unlocked door out of the equation, and it’s still bizarre.

Why? Because Brant Ashley is standing in my store.

After six months of radio silence.

After not so much as a goodbye the morning we left Cancun.

After dropping the news bomb of all news bombs.

Keeping Rhys’s letters from his mother—for years—was an extremely shitty thing to do to someone you call brother. It’s why I’m firmly on team Rhys.

“What are you actually doing here?” I ask before I can think twice.

“I told you, I’m here for work.” His voice is smooth and steady, full of calm.

He must’ve forgot I can call him on all of his bullshit lies…normally.

“Bullshit. Give me the truth,” I demand, because if he can’t give me the truth now then he won’t give me the truth when he explains himself about Rhys’s letters, and we all want to know why he did what he did. Rhys needs to know why. Scratch that, Rhys deserves to know why.

“Work is the honest answer, but I’m also here to see you.”

Now we’re cooking with gas; at least he told the truth. It was like pulling teeth, but he admitted the reason he’s here.

“Was that truly so hard to say?”

“Honestly?” he says, pondering for a moment.

“Yes, Brant, honestly. If we don’t have the truth, we don’t have anything.”

“The first day I met you, you shot down any and all ways of communication with me. Yes, I asked you out, but you shut me out. After that, you never allowed me back in, just because I asked one simple question. I’m a big boy—I can take no as an answer and move on and be friends. It was you who didn’t let the moving on happen.”

Wait…

What?

Did I cause this rift between us?

Did I shut him out?

Could my shutting him out be the reason we always bicker? We’ve never been able to have a normal conversation since. We’re always disagreeing about something, from which berry is the best berry to what show is better, Arrow or Supernatural. It’s Supernatural, in case you’re wondering.

“Holy shit.” It’s all I can say at this point. “Um, maybe you’re correct. Truce?” I offer.

“We can call a truce, on two conditions,” he states.

Oh, shit, what is he going to ask of me? It’ll probably be something strange, or another date. Maybe I’d say yes this time—wait, no I wouldn’t…would I?

“I’m here for a few weeks on business, and I’d like you to show me around—that’s the first condition.”

Doable.

“Yeah, okay, I can do it. I’ll be gone for a couple of days, but after I get back, I can show you around in our spare time.”

“Great. The second condition is a tad harder, and you may not be able to fulfill it. I need you to keep it a secret from Rhys and Averill that I’m here if they ask, and they may. I haven’t contacted either of them at this point in time, but I will when I can.” The way he stresses the last word makes me think he truly feels like he can’t contact them, which saddens me. “When I can fully explain myself without my nose suffering again. Please, Tessa, don’t let our friends know I’m here.”

This one…less doable, but not impossible.

“Okay.”

If he can prove to me why he’s worthy of me keeping his secret, I’ll keep it. If he breaks my trust?

Game over.

* * *

After my unusual run-in with Brant, I’m not looking forward to checking in on my store before catching my flight.

He’s never stepped foot in my franchise of T&T before, and now it feels…tainted, like he’s somehow polluted the space with his essence.

I know, I know, I’m a weirdo. It’s one of my many flaws.

Before last night, I’d never given much thought to why Brant has never seen where I work—or hell, for that matter, where I live. Maybe it’s because every single time I’ve seen him, it’s taken place on his turf.

Is it odd to feel like he somehow fit in my space?

It could be the California roots I know he has, or it could be all the truth I see shining brightly from his steely blue depths.

He claims he’s here for work, but also here for me. It all unsettles me. Normally, I’d call up Av and ask her for some advice, but I can’t, and of course, he couldn’t have chosen a worse time for me to have to stay tight-lipped about seeing him. One look from Av and she’ll know I’m keeping something from her. Hopefully, I can pull it off as me keeping her gift a secret.

Shit, what did I get myself into?

Men, I swear.

When my divorce was finalized, I made a pact with myself while sitting in that courtroom, one I’ve yet to break. The reason I turned Brant down when he asked me out was because I knew with one glance, he’d make me break my promise to myself. It makes sense for me to have been standoffish and indifferent to him since.

My promise?

Never again will I fall in love.

Up until now, it’s been easy.

The men I have chosen to date, I haven’t let in enough to get to know me. Therefore, they never love me, nor I them.

It’s been the easiest promise I’ve made in all my thirty-one years on this planet.

If only I would’ve made the promise before I met Michael ‘Mick the Dick’ Davison.

Mick was supposed to be my forever love, my Prince Charming. Turned out he was nothing but a woman-beating, berating, villainous toad.

The day I said goodbye to him forever was the happiest day of my life.

We got married young, just out of high school, in fact. I know what you’re thinking—how could I have gotten married when I was still a kid myself? Well, I didn’t feel young.

When you’re in love, sometimes you make stupid mistakes.

Mick had been my boyfriend since the seventh grade when I asked him to a Sadie Hawkins dance. He was my first kiss, my first sexual partner, my first…everything. Junior year in high school was when things started to change. Slowly, he started with the verbal abuse, and he made me feel like all my friends were against me.

I was in choir, but he told me my voice sucked and the director was just taking pity on me—I dropped out. I auditioned for the lead role in the spring musical and nabbed the part, but he again told me it was given to me out of pity—I dropped the role. I was a pitcher for the school’s softball team, and we were undefeated. The day we lost our first game, he said it was my fault for letting the opposing team hit two balls and thus score—I quit the team.

By the end of the school year, he was the only one I spent any of my spare time with. My senior year? All Mick, all the time.

When my daddy died of a sudden heart attack two weeks before graduation, Mick said he’d never let me go. He said I’d never have to worry about someone taking care of me because he’d always be there. He said he’d help me with college expenses like my daddy had planned to do.

If only I knew what was in store for me the moment the words “I do” left my lips.

The morning of his eighteenth birthday, we were married at the courthouse by the justice of the peace. It was barely a week after graduation and I’d already changed my last name from Annabelle to Davison.

I was ecstatic as we left the courthouse as husband and wife. My daddy was gone, but I wasn’t truly alone; I had my husband now, and he was going to help me with Daddy’s estate and going to college.

I was on top of the world.

Until the day I went to register for fall classes at the local community college.

Mick, who was with me, acted like he had no idea why my check bounced when I handed it to my student representative to pay for the three classes I’d signed up to take. Mick supposedly still had no idea when my credit card was declined. I left the office in tears. I was embarrassed, humiliated, and ashamed.

My daddy had left me plenty of money for college. It was in my account—at least it was supposed to be in my account. To my surprise, my account was empty—well, unless you count the seven cents interest I’d gained on the two pennies I’d had left in the account. I didn’t.

Mick stole my college money.

Mick stole all of my money.

He took every single dime from the estate.

He claimed the money was ours, since we were married. When I tried to argue with him, telling him it was my money, he slapped me across the face so hard, I saw actual stars.

My already blushed face now had a huge red handprint to go along with the pink shades of embarrassment and humiliation climbing up from my neck.

We were in public when it happened, and I should have left him then.

But I didn’t.

I stayed for six more years.

Six more years of verbal and physical abuse. Six more years of lying to nurses and doctors when the injuries were severe enough to warrant a visit to the emergency room. Six more years of living in fear.

Six more years.

It was the morning of my twenty-fourth birthday when I finally grew some lady balls and fought back. By then I’d watched enough self-defense videos online and knew how to throw a decent punch.

The first punch I landed broke his nose. The second one knocked him out.

I didn’t waste one second of the time he was down. I grabbed my keys, my cell phone, and my purse, and I haven’t looked back for a moment in nearly seven years.

My promise to myself will stand.

Never again will I fall in love.