No more messages appear stuck to Matt’s door in the following days—as far as I know, though why would he keep that from me? The rest of the week goes by pretty quietly. Even Adam isn’t around. He said he had to go visit his sister in Springfield.

No more ice cream strolls.

Then I realize there’s no reason why I have to wait for him to go for ice cream. And it’s not as if he’s my boyfriend or anything.

So I grab Gigi and we set off toward the main street under the cloudless evening sky with a promise to Merc who’s playing video games with a friend of his to return with a tub of mint with chocolate chip for him.

That kid’s obsessed with mint. Mint soap, mint chocolate bars, mint donuts, mint brownies. He says it’s a genetic thing he got from his father.

That’s a topic we never touch at home.

Our father.

Mom refuses to talk about him. Says he skipped town ages ago, right after we were born. But if that’s the case, why can’t I remember him? I was four when Merc was born. If our dad left us right after, why wouldn’t I recall a single thing about him?

“So… you and Adam,” Gigi says, cutting through my thoughts. “You guys are so cute together it’s disgusting. Are you two an item now?”

“No.”

“Wow, that was vague.” She sticks her tongue out at me, all mature. “Not sure I got it, try again.”

“We’re not dating.”

“Woo. Goosebumps. That was clear all right.” She drags her fingertips along the rotten fence of Mrs. Koontz’s house. “Why the hell not?”

“Because.” I rub my arms, wishing I’d brought my light cardigan with me. “We just aren’t.”

“Lack of chemistry, huh?”

I shrug.

“Has he kissed you?”

“What? No.”

“So maybe that’s the problem.”

I stop walking. “Meaning what?”

“That you can’t know whether you have chemistry until you kiss.”

“Says who?” Then I narrow my eyes. “Did Quinn kiss you?”

“Now he’s Quinn, huh? Not Quasimodo? You seem rattled, Little Sis.”

I am. I feel rattled.

But not because of Adam. It’s a certain bad-tempered, bearded someone who’s occupying my thoughts day and night, even though I can’t figure out why.

“Well, come on.” Gigi shakes her long hair and winks at me. “Race you to the ice cream shop.”

“You’re crazy.”

“If you win, I’ll tell you if Quinn kissed me and how it was.”

“And if I lose?” I ask as I start running after her.

“Then you promise to give Adam another chance.”

With a curse, I push myself to go faster.

* * *

I can’t remember the last time I ran so hard. Gigi beats me by a few seconds, grinning as she leans against the wall outside the shop, acting cool and pretending not to be panting for breath.

Shaking my head at myself, I head inside the shop. That ice cream sounds even better now. My T-shirt sticks to my back with sweat, and my mouth is dry. Gigi giggles as she follows me inside.

“Is it really such a hardship to give Adam another chance?” She pores over the flavors as if she doesn’t have ice cream from this same place all the time. “You see him every night. I thought you liked him.”

“I don’t see him every night.” I huff. “And I do like him. He’s nice.”

“Hm.” She eyes me as I give our order to Jessica. “I see.”

Jessica has been running this joint since I was a toddler. See, I remember her, but not my dad. Isn’t it weird?

Just as weird as being unsure about Adam. I mean, I do like him. And he is cute.

Then why do I feel so defensive when Gigi asks if we’re dating?

Maybe she’s right. If he made his move and kissed me, I’d know what he wants, too. I’d know he wants me.

I just have to have patience. Gigi is right, instant chemistry is a myth, like insta-love. Besides, what if he’s unsure himself? It’s not like I’m helping things by refusing to even hold his hand, sending off confusing vibes, feeding the loop.

“I’ll give Adam another chance,” I say and glare at Gigi who’s grinning widely, showing her sharp incisors. “Happy?”

“Delighted,” she purrs and grabs her cone and the tub for Merc. “Now let me tell you about Quinn on the way home.”

* * *

The next day I walk the short distance from the bus stop to Matt’s house, my stomach knotted up. I blame it on the time of the month, and the heaviness on the air, sign of an approaching storm.

Until I ring the doorbell, again and again, and decide something is really off.

I think of the threatening messages, and the kids, and I panic. I bang on the door, then step back and pull out my cell phone to call 9-1-1.

Hesitate.

What if he’s in the bathroom? In the shower?

Well, better safe than sorry, right?

But before I dial the number, the door handle turns.

Phew. I fluff up my hair that I’ve let loose today, then force myself to stop as the door slowly swings open.

My gaze drops down to the little girl standing there. “Mary? Where’s your dad?”

“Upstairs,” she says seriously. “You should stay away, Tati.”

Way too seriously for a five-year-old. And what does she mean? That knot is back in my stomach and it has nothing to do with the time of the month.

“Why, sweetie?” I take her hand and step inside, letting the door close behind us. “What’s wrong? And where’s your brother?”

“Cole’s in the kitchen,” she says and tugs me that way. “I made him some cereal.”

“That’s great. Did you make some for yourself, too?”

“Ah-huh.” She nods emphatically, and I smile even though I’m so worried.

“Good.” We enter the kitchen and Cole looks up with a milk mustache and splashed mushy Fruit Loops around his plate.

“Tati,” he says in his cute baby voice, and I lean over to kiss his sticky cheek.

“Hey, baby. Why don’t you guys sit here and have your breakfast while I look for your daddy?”

“Told you, Daddy’s upstairs. He made a mess,” Mary says sadly.

“A mess?”

A crash comes from upstairs, and she winces.

A chill goes through me.

Shit. “I’ll be right back. Don’t you worry about a thing.” I flash them a quick smile and hurry up the stairs. “I’ve got this.”

Let’s hope I’m right.

* * *

I don’t know what to expect. A full-blown psychotic episode? Violence. At least there hasn’t been another crash since I came upstairs.

Still. Fear is a touch of ice in my veins as I peek into Matt Hansen’s bedroom for the first time. His door is open—also for the first time.

Taking a deep breath, I enter.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his hands over his face. As I watch, he rubs them up and down, then as if feeling my gaze, turns to look at me.

“Tay,” he says in his deep voice, and I freeze.

Not just because of the unexpected nickname. I like the sound of it, though nobody else calls me that.

No, it’s the raw pain in his dark eyes, bared for me to see, that takes my breath away.

Then he turns away and curses, breaking the spell.

“I thought I heard a crash.” There are things strewn on the floor. Books. A broken gadget that looks like a tablet. There’s a small dent in the wall. “Are you all right?”

“Peachy.”

I pick up the tablet. The screen is cracked through. “Bad morning?”

“Bad… night.” His voice catches on the word, and I swallow hard.

“Want to talk about it?”

“What is it with you and asking me to talk all the time?”

“If you talked to me, I wouldn’t be asking.”

“Christ, you’re like Emma,” he whispers, still not looking at me.

“I look like your wife?”

“No. But you are like her,” he says after a moment, softly. He’s quiet, and I think he won’t speak again, but then he says, “She was your age when I met her. So pretty. Innocent. Kind. With a core of steel after the foster system had spat her out.”

I wait for more, but it’s as if he’s run out of steam. He also looks much younger from this close, his gaze vulnerable, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth soft and uncertain.

God, I’m so sorry for him. And for his kids. My heart’s breaking for them. I want to ask more, about her, about her death, when it was and how it happened, but I hold back.

Not a good time. But how can I ever help him, or his kids, without knowing?

“Are the kids okay?” he asks, his voice raspy, and I wonder what his nightmares were about. If they change, or if the same one returns to haunt him.

“They’re fine. Having breakfast. Worried about you.”

He grimaces and shakes his head. “I keep fucking up.”

“You don’t.”

I don’t trust myself around him when he’s like this. Not to open up and let him hurt me when I don’t expect him to.

How weird. I don’t trust this truce to last, and yet I can’t stay away and save myself.

I approach him slowly and sit down beside him. I put a hand on his thigh, over the thin cotton of his sweats, shocked at the thick muscle shifting under my palm, and feeling strangely hot and excited.

Warmth wafts off his body. I can smell his shampoo, his soap, and underneath it all, his scent of powerful male.

I feel drunk.

I feel disconnected. Is this what they call an out of body experience? Although I can feel my body, kind of distantly, aching sweetly, throbbing. Needing.

It’s his touch I need. On my skin. His mouth. Skimming over my lips, over my cheeks, down my neck, and lower.

“You’re so damn young,” he mutters, his gaze on my hand. I slide it up, toward his groin, and his breath catches.

I can’t seem to draw a proper breath, either. I think the bulge between his legs has grown larger, but I’m not sure.

“You’re not that old,” I whisper.

“I’m turning thirty this year.”

I nod, too absorbed by the way his solid flesh shifts under my hand. I trail my fingers toward that fascinating bulge.

He catches my wrist, stopping me. His cheekbones are flushed. “Did you hear me? I’m almost twelve years older than you.”

“I heard you.” And I don’t frigging care.

Is it a bad thing? It only makes me more excited. He’s older, hardened, grounded, and so hot. He’s not a boy. He’s all man.

I lift my hand to his arm, tracing the dark ink he has winding around his thick biceps. What am I doing? What are these thoughts? I shouldn’t be sitting here, touching him. I should be downstairs with the kids, looking after them, doing my job.

But I can’t tear myself away. I’m in a trance. Can’t ever remember feeling this way before. It’s like I want to climb on him, plaster myself all over him, lick his skin, bite his flesh.

Jesus, Octavia.

“What are these tattoos?” I trace them. “They look like barbed wire.”

“Zane Madden did them for me,” he says, glancing down at them. “He was my wife’s adopted brother.”

“Was? He died?”

“Fuck, no.”

“But she did,” I whisper. When he doesn’t speak, I say, “I know about your wife.”

He shoves away from me and gets up, scowling, his gaze going stormy. “The fuck you think you know. You know nothing.”

I recoil as if he slapped me. “Matt…”

“Get out.”

Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I won’t let then fall. I don’t know why, but I’d do anything to hide them from him.

“Fine,” I say unsteadily and stand up, then turn blindly toward the door. “Whatever.”

Not gonna let him see.

I hope he’ll call my name, stop me. Explain. Apologize.

He doesn’t.

Not that it matters anyway. I don’t know what I thought I was doing back there, touching him, letting myself want him. Letting myself fall for him.

What an idiot I’ve been.