“Two bruised ribs. A concussion. A fractured finger. A laceration on his cheek that required four stitches.” The doctor clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose. “And some bruising in his genital area.”

I glance at my husband who has a dopey grin plastered on his face. “There she is. Told you my wife was hot, doc.”

Reggie and I exchange a glance. “Is he okay?”

“The bruised ribs will take a few weeks to heal as well as his finger, but other than that he should be fine in a few days. I’ve given him some pain medication to make him more comfortable, but you’ll need to keep a close eye on him for the next forty-eight hours. Make sure his symptoms don’t become worse and there’s no nausea, vomiting, memory impairments, or bleeding when he urinates. If so, bring him straight to the ER and call my cell phone.”

He hands me a bottle of pills. “What I gave him should last for a little while, but you can give him one of these every six hours. A little sooner if he’s complaining of pain. I’ve given him a splint for his finger, but I would like to see him in two weeks to see how he’s healing.”

My nanna ushers the doctor over. Whatever she’s written on her notepad makes him turn red. “Barring his symptoms don’t become worse and after the bruising in the area subsides, he should be able to resume his usual activities.”

I glare at her. “Please tell me you did not just ask the doctor when he can have sex. What is wrong with you?”

At that, Preston laughs. “My dick works just fine, Nanna.” He winks, his dopey grin growing wider. “I tested it out in the bathroom with your granddaughter earlier. Although she—”

“Preston,” I grit through my teeth before he says something he shouldn’t. “Spare everyone the details.”

I lead the doctor to the far side of the room so no one will overhear. “So that’s it? You sure he doesn’t need to stay at a hospital?”

The doctor shakes his head. “Not unless his symptoms become worse, no. Like I said, he just needs someone to keep an eye on him.”

“Right.” I can feel the color drain from my face. “Is there a place I can bring him…like a service that will do all that? You know…almost like a pet sitter…but for humans.”

The doctor raises an eyebrow and my nanna takes the opportunity to wheel her nosy ass over.

Thinking quick, I add, “It’s just…I have to go to New York for work in a few days. I don’t want to leave him without care.” I give him a saccharine smile. “I worry about my shnookums.”

From across the room, I hear Preston snort.

The doctor looks between us. “I suppose you can hire a private nurse if you’re that worried, but I don’t think it’s necessary. The worst should be over by then.”

“I’m fine,” Preston slurs. “Just drive me to the airport.”

“Airport?” Reggie questions.

I glare daggers at my husband. “Sorry, lovebug. We’ll have to reschedule the honeymoon until after I get back from New York. That’s what happens when you mess around with mobsters.”

My nanna pinches Reggie and thrusts her notepad at him. “Your grandmother said she’ll make the arrangements for a new honeymoon after you get back.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

With my luck, she’ll end up sticking us on a remote island together where our only option of getting back home is to procreate.

I hold out my hand. “But I will take the keys to my parents’ house.”

Reggie tuts. “It won’t be ready for at least another twenty-four hours. The workers are there now.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Workers?”

“She hired a cleaning crew and she’s having it inspected. No one has lived there in over fifteen years.”

I know.

She pinches him again. “She’s also having some renovations done, but the contractors won’t be there until next week.”

Irritation crawls along my neck as I turn to her. “I don’t want any renovations. Leave everything as is.”

The way they left it.

She flips her notepad around. Too late, I already paid them. You’re welcome.

If it weren’t for the fact she’s still alive and can change her will at any moment, I’d strangle her.

I wave Preston over. “Come on, let’s go.”

He jostles to his feet, swaying slightly. “If she’s gonna start changing shit, you should ask her for one of those saunas. Fuck knows I could use one right now.”

“Perfect, I’ll be sure to drop your ass off at the Four Seasons,” I snap, linking my arm with his to keep him steady. “See you around, Nanna.”

My husband, ever the polite one, salutes her with his middle finger as we walk out of the room.

And even though I shouldn’t, I can’t help but smile.

“What kind of drugs did he give you?” I gripe as I help him up the stairs to my apartment. “Horse tranquilizers?”

“I wish,” Preston quips, his voice sounding more slurred than before.

“That makes one of us. If you were any heavier, I’d leave you at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Come on, Bishop. I carried you into my place.”

“Big difference. Unlike you, I don’t weigh the same as a baby elephant.”

“Yeah, well, I told you I didn’t need your help in the first place.” He pauses. “And for the record, baby elephants only weigh two hundred pounds. I’m about fifteen pounds heavier. Maybe less, considering breakfast sucked and it’s almost midnight now.”

I fish my keys out of my purse when we reach the top of the stairs. “Well, aren’t you just full of useless information.”

He waggles his eyebrows and gives me a boyish grin. “Depends on who you ask.”

Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted after a stressful day, but I can’t help but laugh. “God, if that’s how you flirt with women, I have a feeling I’ll be the one and only Mrs. Preston Holden.”

His expression is dour as I stick my key in the lock. “You will. I don’t believe in marriage.”

I open the door and take off my shoes. “Really?”

“Nope. It’s nothing but a government-sanctioned union. Something people do to shut their friends and family up as some bullshit rite of passage. If you really loved someone…you shouldn’t have to pay thousands of dollars to declare it in some fancy building full of people you barely talk to.” He leans against the doorframe. “I’m also not too fond of being permanently tied to one person until the day I die. You shouldn’t have to surrender your life or your freedom to anyone other than your spawn. It’s why the divorce rate is so high. Marriage is a bet you’re all but guaranteed to lose.”

“Shoes,” I scold when he starts to walk inside.

His tongue finds his cheek as he shucks them off. “And so it begins.”

I roll my eyes. “The last part of your statement aside, I kind of agree with you. I’ve never been big on the idea of marriage. In the traditional sense.” I raise a finger. “And before you say it’s because I’m gay, that’s not why—equal rights are an entirely different argument.” I place my purse on the table and walk over to the fridge. “But marriage itself? I don’t really get the purpose. You know, in the general sense. You shouldn’t need a piece of paper to prove you love someone or that you’ll remain faithful to them…you should just do it. Put them first and show them you love them every single day…including the bad days when it’s not so easy. Fuck the paper.”

He props himself up against the counter and even when I turn to fetch us something to eat, I can still feel his eyes on me. “You’re a paradox, Kit Bishop.”

I grab a carton of eggs from the fridge along with the rest of the fixings to make omelets since I never went food shopping before I left for Vegas. “How so?”

He hands me a bowl from the cabinet I can never reach. “You’re an old soul with a young heart. I don’t think they make them like you anymore.”  

I have to refrain from rubbing the painful spot forming in my chest as I pour the eggs into the pan and face him. “My dad used to tell me they broke the mold.”

Those intense eyes slide over me again. “He was right.” And just as quickly the heat from his stare is gone and it’s all I can do not to shiver from the loss. “I’ve never met anyone like you…don’t think I ever will.”

“You sure that’s not the painkillers talking?”

“No, but now that you mention it, I’ll take another one.”

“You don’t look like you’re in that much pain.”

His eyes narrow, sizing me up. “Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m just worried about you is all.”

“Clearly.”

An awkward silence descends. It’s not that I want him suffering, but it hasn’t been that long since he had his last one.

Fidgeting, I try to word my next statement carefully. “I am worried. You obviously have an addictive personality—”

“How very Freudian of you.”

“This isn’t a joke, Preston.”

His face is an impassive mask. “Do you see me laughing?”

Smoothing my hands on my thighs, I inhale a deep breath before I unveil the big, ugly elephant in the room we keep tiptoeing around. “Look, it’s no secret you have a gambling problem. And given your preference for drinking beer for breakfast along with all the empty bottles around your motel room…it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to say you enjoy alcohol more than what’s considered healthy as well.” I chew on my bottom lip. “It’s only been a few hours since your last dose…you shouldn’t play with fi—”

The pungent smell of eggs burning has me turning back to the stove. My annoyance grows when I see the shit-eating smirk on Preston’s face out of the corner of my eye. Given his height and where he’s standing, he watched it happen.  

I reach for the spatula and point it at him. “You could have told me.”

“And disrupt your riveting after school special where you make assumptions about a person you haven’t seen in three years based on a few beer bottles.”

“Fine—you might not have an issue with alcohol, but what about the fact that we were reunited due to you playing poker with mobsters? Call me crazy, but if you’re willing to play with dangerous thugs and die over a stupid game…I’m pretty sure it’s no longer a harmless pastime. It’s a serious issue.”

He runs a hand down his face. “You know what? You’re right.” I open my mouth to tell him I’m proud of him for admitting it but then he says, “I should have told Campanelli I didn’t want to work for him anymore. I’m sure he would have been very accommodating.”

I start to open my mouth again, but he slams his fist on the kitchen counter. “Newsflash…when you work for the mob, there are only two ways out—money or blood. And it’s usually the latter, because unlike some people, not everyone has a rich family to fall back on when shit goes south.”

Acid burns my throat. “You’re an asshole.”

He smiles, deep dimples and all. “Tell me something I don’t know, angry girl.”

My heart squeezes in protest, but I say it anyway because maybe it will get through to him.

Maybe no one ever told him.

“You’re one of the smartest, strongest, and most capable people I know. You could do anything you want in this world and succeed. It’s a pity you let all your potential go to waste and choose to intentionally fuck up your life instead.”

Maybe no one’s ever called him on his bullshit before.

He’s silent for several agonizing beats of my heart.

When it becomes more than I can bear, I turn and scrape the charbroiled eggs into the trash.

I’m preparing to bring the bag to the dumpster, but Preston snatches it from me. “I got it.”

Before I can say a word, he’s gone.

For a moment I’m worried he’ll leave, but when I peer out the small kitchen window above the sink, I see him toss the bag in the dumpster. The full moon and the dim streetlight above him illuminates his suit-clad form, and from this angle, he looks so much like the Preston on the bridge—my breath catches and I’m immediately brought back to that night.

He was nothing more than a silhouette when I first saw him, but I was completely transfixed. Heavy footsteps and the way his shoulders slumped as he walked to the other side of the bridge made it seem like he was carrying the weight of the world on them. Like he lost everything and was having the worst night of his life. Or rather, a lifetime full of the worst nights of his life—which was something I could relate to.

And even though his back was to me as he looked down at the river, his misery was palpable—as if he was in a perpetual state of grief.

For one fleeting moment, time stood still and it felt like there was an invisible cord connecting us. A profound reason he was on my bridge that night…less than sixty seconds after I made the decision to join my parents, because the pain caused by another person I loved ripping my heart out had become too much.

But then he turned around and started walking to his car…and I realized he wasn’t my kindred spirit after all…

He was my archenemy.

And if he hadn’t been there and said what he said—if he hadn’t given me the tiniest bit of hope…I wouldn’t be here now.

“You, Kit Bishop, deserve the real fucking deal. The best kind of love. The constant, unwavering, selfless, for better or worse, never goes away and they'd do anything to see you smile kind of love. And one day, someone is going to come along and give it to you in spades. They're gonna crash right into you and never let go.”

Exhaling a breath, I shake the memory from my thoughts and focus my attention out the window again.

Curiosity holds me hostage as I watch him pull his phone out of his pocket and then check his watch. His gaze darts between the two for a beat, as if he’s having an internal debate of some sort before he brings it to his ear.  

I don’t know who’s on the other line, but it’s obvious they annoy him based on the way he grinds his teeth and drags a frustrated hand through his short dark hair.

And then the strangest thing of all happens.

Out of nowhere, his face lights up and every ounce of his former irritation dissipates. I’ve never seen anything like it.

The conversation is short, a few minutes at most, and when it ends, he’s back to his usual brooding self. Which only has me even more baffled because who in the world would make him instantly happy like that?

A curse leaves my mouth when it hits me. Turns out it’s not who…it’s what.

Asher once disclosed to me that Preston’s gambling problem was so bad he had actual bookies on speed dial. He was so desperate to find his brother he attempted to track them down and offered them money to spill. According to the private investigator he hired to help, there were over five he’d been in contact with since the age of fifteen. One was honest enough to admit he didn’t know anything and no longer talked to him, but the others took the money and made up stories and locations that ended with Asher being even more depressed.

Right before I moved out of his home, he decided to give up and stop looking for someone who didn’t want to be found.

I told him it was probably for the best, and Breslin and Landon agreed, no doubt relieved he finally came to his senses.

The promise Preston forced me to make curdles in my stomach as I watch him walk through the front door of my apartment. I hate not being able to tell Asher he’s been found—almost as much as I hate not knowing what’s caused such bad blood between them that Preston refuses to see or talk to his brother, but my husband’s given me no choice.

Doesn’t mean I’m going to sit idly by and let him pull this crap.

“I’m going to ask you this once and if I find out you lied to me, I don’t ever want to see you again and the deal we made is off for good.”

The tone of my voice tells him there’s no room for argument, but he doesn’t look worried. As usual, he’s cool as a cucumber.

“I don’t lie…I bluff. But for the record, I’ve never lied to you, Kit.”

I want to tell him that right there is a lie because he never told me why he won’t talk to Asher, or what the deal with the secret phone is—but then I realize he’s right. Preston doesn’t lie to me, he just chooses not to tell me certain things…which isn’t any better. It’s just a technicality.

“You omit. There’s a difference.”

He crosses his arms. “Are you gonna get to the point of this little interrogation?”

I look him right in the eyes. “Did you call a bookie and make plans to gamble before?”

“I live in Vegas and work for the mob. I have no use for bookies and haven’t called one in years. Also, I’d never call a bookie to make plans to gamble…it’s not brunch.”

I poke his chest. “You used to live in Vegas and you used to work for the mob. And I don’t care how the process works, I need a straight answer.”

“No.”

I match his stance. “Who did you call then?”

“None of your business.”

“It kind of is.”  

He walks to the fridge and pulls out the carton of eggs. “How so?”

“We’re married.” I raise an eyebrow as I watch him take out a new pan. “You cook?”

“I cook.” He starts chopping up an onion like a pro despite a fractured finger. “I figure if you’re going to continue giving me the third-degree, I’m gonna need some sustenance. Preferably uncharred.”

“Does that mean you’re going to answer my question?”

He cracks some eggs into a bowl. “I already did.”

I’m pretty sure peace in the Middle East would be easier for me to achieve at this point. And way less frustrating.

“Fine, you don’t have to tell me who it was, but can you at least tell me if they’re dangerous?”

“No.” He whisks the eggs and adds the chopped onion. “Do you have any garlic?”

“No—you won’t tell me. Or no—they’re not dangerous?”

He swoops past me and opens the fridge. “No, they’re not dangerous. Your milk has gone bad.” He makes a face. “It expired last month. When’s the last time you went food shopping?”

I shrug. “I don’t really go food shopping. I usually order takeout or get frozen stuff I can microwave. Cooking isn’t really my thing unless it’s simple stuff like eggs and grilled cheese.” My heart rises in my throat. “It’s not like I have a family to feed, so I never saw the point in learning how to make full meals.”

He walks back over to the stove. “Most kids like grilled cheese and microwavable stuff anyway.” Something crosses over his face, but then he adds, “Asher and I used to bug the crap out of the housekeeper for grilled cheese and chicken nuggets when we were younger.”

“My parents didn’t have a housekeeper, but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were my favorite.” I can feel the smile spread across my face with the memory. “Grape jelly and smooth peanut butter only, though. Cut into fours and no crust. It was my dad’s specialty. He’d always make it for us when my mom wasn’t home. He wasn’t much of a cook either…at all really. I once asked him to make macaroni and cheese from the box and he called my mom in a panic and almost passed out.”  

Preston flips the omelet over in the pan and winks. “Guess that explains who you inherited your overdramatic side from.”

“Bite me.” I take two plates down from the cabinet with a heavy heart. “My dad wasn’t overdramatic…but he was pretty particular about things. Not in a mean way…he just liked things to be a certain way and didn’t like to deviate from his routine.”

He flips the omelet again. “That’s not unusual. Most people don’t like change.”

“Yeah, he hated change.” I laugh. “My mom and him were so different. She loved to decorate and rearrange everything from the rugs to the furniture. Sometimes every week. It drove my dad crazy and he’d retreat to his office when it overwhelmed him, but he was too captivated by her to tell her to stop. I think she was the only person in the world who didn’t annoy him. He said in a world full of clouds and storms she was his sunshine.”

He divides the omelet and plates it. “Sounds like a man in love.”

I take my plate and walk over to the kitchen island. “He had a yellow rose delivered to her every day without fail.” I look down at my food. “Sorry, I’ll shut up. I always end up getting carried away and rambling on and on about them for too long and annoying people.”

“You can talk about your parents for as long as you want.” He joins me a moment later. “Yellow roses? Sounds like a hopeless romantic like his daughter.”

“I can’t decide if you meant that as a compliment or an insult.”

“Trust me, angry girl. If I wanted to insult you, I’d start with the cremation ceremony you gave those eggs before.” He picks up his fork. “I think it’s safe to say that unlike most husbands…I’ll be ordering my wife to get out of the kitchen.”

I fling the forkful of eggs which was about to enter my mouth at him. “Jackass.”

He brushes the food off his shirt. “I am, but at least now you look amused instead of sad.”

He’s right. Usually, I’m down in the dumps after talking about my parents because it’s so bittersweet, but with Preston, it feels more sweet than bitter. “Thanks, I needed that.”

He exhales heavily. “It’s been a long day.”

I get up from the table when it dawns on me how inconsiderate I’m being. “I keep forgetting you’re injured. I should probably let you finish eating so you can get some rest instead of cooking and cleaning up after me while I talk your ear off about people you don’t even know.”

I fish his medication out of my purse. “You were right before. I assumed you were addicted to these because of your gambling issues. But I know how upsetting it can be when someone makes assumptions about me based on what they think instead of facts.”

He stares at the bottle of pills. “Narcs aren’t really my thing. I much prefer a green felt table with a side of whiskey or beer.” His lips pull tight. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take them if I didn’t have access to my usual and needed a pick-me-up. You’re probably better off holding on to them for the time being.”

Shock roots me to the spot. “Did you just ad—”

“Don’t make it a bigger deal than it is, Bishop.” He points to the seat across from him. “Sit down and tell me more about your parents. I could use the distraction.”

I make a mental note to throw the pills into the toilet as I put them back in my purse. “Okay, but we don’t have to talk about them. It might be boring—”

“Not to me. I’m all ears.”  

Taking a deep breath, I settle into my seat…and then I proceed to tell him everything I still remember about my parents.

And he never complains, not even when I’ve talked so long, I fall asleep at the table and he has to carry me into my bedroom.