If I am being honest, I know that sneaking into Bruce’s home was wrong. But in my defense, I had a very good reason. One that comes in the form of a six-foot-tall, ice hockey player who has a crazy ex and a smile to die for.

When he didn’t reply to my messages, I seriously thought he had gone missing and that I’d be doing him a favor by tracking him down. For all I knew, his ex might have killed him and buried him in her backyard. He had told me on several occasions that she was jealous of him dating me, so much so that she even slashed his tires and set his sports equipment on fire.

The judge showed no understanding for any of my reasons.

Zero. Zip. Nada.

She went completely overboard when she called my behavior sort of stalk-ish and even had the nerve to tell me that I was addicted. The thought that my love for Bruce had turned into an obsession was so absurd, I laughed in her face, which did not amuse her.

But can you blame me?

Addicted to love?

I snort, which earns me a curious glance from the blonde sitting in front of me.

People are addicted to books. They’re addicted to caffeine. To alcohol or drugs. But to love? Sweet, tender love?

How can someone love too much?

But apparently when you violate your restraining orders three times, they have no sense of humor. It wasn’t even my fault. The first two times, he texted me and wanted to hook up while continuing to keep our relationship a secret. The third time…I thought I was doing him a favor by protecting him from his crazy ex.

If you were to ask me why I went to such great lengths to violate my restraining order knowing that I would get in trouble, I would answer:

---

1. I love him.
2. He needs me.
3. We belong together even though “forces are standing against us.”

---

The last two points were his words, not mine, right before he broke up with me.

He even defined our love as “star-crossed” and claimed he’d be with me if “the circumstances were ideal.”

Point is: I’m not planning on letting a stupid therapy center ruin what we have.

I stare out of the window. At least it’s not cold out here, and the world hasn’t ended.

Located off the northeast coast of North Carolina, this place is still near land. About four hundred years ago, a colony got lost and settled here. Even now, no one knows what happened, but it’s all very tragic and mysterious. It’s as if Roanoke Island is some kind of undiscovered Bermuda Triangle no one knows about. Roads are not marked well, and from what I hear from the driver, the GPS is spotty, at best.

Sure, I’m going to miss my phone.

All right, I have a confession to make.

Maybe I do have a bit of stalking tendencies. Maybe thoughts about Bruce have been consuming me lately. And maybe I do think of him all the time. But I’m sure I don’t need therapy to control “those urges,” which make me wonder all kinds of things such as whether he’s thinking of me.

To me, it’s all-the-more proof that I love him.

As we near the building, the chatter around us increases in volume. At last, the bus halts and a woman holding a microphone in her hand gets up. Her hair, dyed a scarlet red, makes it hard to guess her age. I realize it’s the same woman who took my papers when I boarded the bus. She must have traveled with us.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she starts, and I bite on the inside of my cheek. There are no men on the bus, so I assume it’s one of the many standardized speeches she is going to hold. “Welcome to the LAA Center.”

She pauses for effect.

It works.

Everyone is sitting so still you could drop a pin and hear it.

“This is going to be your sanctuary for the next few weeks. It’s a place where we don’t judge you. A place that will offer you redemption. With the help of the finest psychologists and renowned… blah…blah…blah.”

My mind trails off.

I’m far away mentally, thinking of Bruce.

What’s he doing right now?

I hope he isn’t back with his ex. I’m pretty sure she’s the one responsible for my restraining order…she and Bruce’s mom.

I’ve barely caught fragments of the woman’s long talk when people stand, and I follow suit. Everyone seems excited, like they’re about to go on a trip to the Bahamas.

Everyone but me.

In my opinion, they’re crazy, not me.

I don’t belong here, and I can’t wait to get the hell out.

Stepping out of the bus, I inhale the humid scent of the earth and the wind ruffling the leaves.

The air is crisp. Clear. It does nothing to improve my opinion of this place.

Holding my handbag in one hand, I drag my suitcase behind me, which I packed lightly because I’m convinced I’m not going to stay for long. The crowd seems to know what to do, so I trudge behind, up the broad path that snakes all the way to what looks like a mansion from the late nineteenth century. I’m not particularly into architecture, but even I can’t deny that this place is both scary and imposing.

The large, wooden doors open into a huge reception area.

I stop to stare.

My first impression wasn’t wrong.

Even though the building is very old, the architectural design still looks intact, but the walls smell of paint.

There is hope that we haven’t entered the nineteenth century yet. Maybe the furnishings aren’t that old either.

Like a mattress or bed, for example.

Or else I’ll be forced to sleep on the floor. Because there’s no way I’ll sleep on a mattress that’s absorbed the sweat of a hundred other people.

The redhead has stepped on a small podium in the entrance hall, from where she seems hell bent on continuing her speech, her hand extending toward the rows of brown boxes stacked on a long table.

“Please grab a welcome package,” she says. “It contains all the information you’ll need as well as your therapy plan. We’re giving you the day to explore and acquaint yourself with the premises, so there won’t be any lessons. You’re expected to drop by your appointed counselor tomorrow at ten a.m. sharp. I wish you all a good time and hope to see everyone again.”

She hopes?

What does she think might happen? That we steal the bus and drive back wherever we came from?

On second thought, that isn’t such a bad idea.

A soft tug on my shoulder catches my attention. It’s Sylvie again.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her perfectly shaped eyebrows slightly raised. Her hand is clutching a thick folder, and I realize I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice people are busying themselves with picking up their itinerary.

I shrug. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem kind of zoned out.” She eyes me, amused. “You’re not scheming to break out already, are you?”

My face seems to catch fire. God, I’m such a bad liar that I don’t even try to answer that one. “I’m just tired.”

“Good,” she says. “Because I would strongly advise against it.”

“Out of curiosity, why?”

She shoots me a warning look and lowers her voice conspiratorially, which I’m pretty sure isn’t necessary. “I’ve heard people who aren’t complying are sent abroad to a mental institution. Compared to what’s going on over there, this is Heaven.”

She pauses for effect. I don’t want to point out the obvious—that since it’s all hearsay, she can’t know whether people are being sent abroad. And even if they were, maybe that place isn’t worse than this one.

“Yeah.” She pats my arm knowingly, misinterpreting my silence for dread. “It sounds awful, I know. Besides, I would hate to see you leaving so soon. We have to work in teams, and I think we’ll be a perfect match.”

“Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t going to run,” I say, my already bad mood plummeting further. “I’m looking forward to joining the cult.”

She lets out a laugh. “It’s not that bad.” Her gaze moves to my empty hands, lingering there. “So, where are you staying?”

“No idea. Time to find out.” As I walk over to the table to find my folder, Sylvie follows closely behind. She’s basically breathing down my neck. I find the one that says “Vicky” and rip off the envelope that’s glued to the box.

Anticipation and fear intermingle as I begin to read.

“Apartment 2B.” I scan the text quickly to absorb as much information as I can. “You?”

“Apartment 4C,” she replies, her voice oozing disappointment. “I guess we’re not staying in the same room after all.”

She sounds so thwarted I actually feel bad for her. “Doesn’t mean we can’t work together.”

“True.” She lifts her suitcase and exhales a small sigh. “Okay. I’ll see you when I see you.” She hesitates, as though there’s more she’d like to say but then decides otherwise. After another sigh, she walks off.

“See you in a bit,” I call out after her.

Sighing, I press my folder against my chest, clutching at it as though it’s my safety net. But the motion does nothing to take away the tension and the dark thoughts at being on my own in this place.

Under different circumstances, I would have asked Sylvie for her number to make sure we keep in touch. I guess she would have done the same.

But these aren’t ordinary circumstances.

I’m here because my emotions aren’t what people would call “ordinary love” either.

According to the judge, who court-ordered the therapy, I need to be here to learn how to stop my “obsessive compulsive stalking disorder.”

I’m going to prove to her that I don’t need this BS.

My love for Bruce is real.

It really is—even if people don’t understand the depth of my emotions.

Why can’t they just see it? I’m Juliet to Romeo. Elizabeth to Fitzwilliam.

Maybe Bruce and I are star-crossed lovers after all, but I know that what I’m feeling is real. And there is no way that I’m going to let them pierce their invisible daggers into my heart and tell me what I can or cannot feel.

I won’t let some idiot with a medical certificate declare that I’m addicted to love.

The building boasts a total of twenty apartments and plenty of space.

According to the leaflet, this used to be a popular attraction with visitors before it was remodeled to fit the needs of the acclaimed LAA Center.

My new home is situated in the west wing on the second floor. I find the key in my box and unlock the door, silently praying that my new roommate is going to be as easygoing as Sylvie. The last thing I need is someone who’s difficult to live with.

I close the door behind me with my foot and then drop the box onto the table in the hall, next to a beautiful arrangement of flowers.

The apartment is much smaller than I expected, but it’s clean and the furniture looks fairly new. I kick off my shoes and squeeze out of my jacket, ready to explore the place.

It’s seriously not as bad as I thought.

The living room is dominated by a cream, leather couch that’s covered with pillows. There’s no TV, but a bookcase filled to the brim with classics adorns one of the walls, and there’s even a leather reading chair strategically placed next to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the woods outside. I plop down to test it and sigh with delight as I realize this is going to be my favorite place. I know I’ll spend hours in this chair, immersed in a book, or maybe even daydreaming about a time when Bruce and I will have overcome all obstacles and finally be together.

Reluctantly, I eventually get up to inspect the rest of the apartment.

According to the brochure, the adjacent room is my bedroom—small, smelling of fresh linen and yet another flower arrangement. Walking along the hallway, I enter the kitchen, which is barely larger than a cupboard.

Out of curiosity, I open the fridge and find it stocked with fruit, flavored water, low-fat yogurt—all fresh produce and other healthy stuff, but nothing microwavable and no ready meals.

Too bad I can’t cook. However, I would definitely learn if it helped me get Bruce back.

I grab a bottle of flavored water and lean my head against the fridge, closing my eyes for a few seconds.

My heart pounds hard at the thought of Bruce.

What is he doing right now?

Does he regret the situation I’m in?

He went to great lengths to keep our relationship secret from his rich family when he could have given up on us and taken an easier path—go for someone his family would have approved of. That, in itself, is all the proof I need that Bruce’s feelings for me are indeed real.

He might not be a man of many words, but a woman’s gut feeling is never wrong.

You just have to look at a guy’s body language.

And facts. Like the fact that he invited me over, even after ending things with me, giving the excuse that he’s afraid of getting hurt. While I might not understand his motivations, I do believe his proclamation that someday we’ll have a future together.

As I return from the kitchen, I get confused in the hallway. There are so many doors, I can’t remember which one is my bedroom. I know I should be knocking and yet I find myself trying each handle.

All are locked.

I continue down the hallway and try the handle of the last one.

It’s unlocked. I push it open.

My heart drops.

A scream escapes my chest.

My feet are frozen to the spot.

This isn’t my bedroom.

The person standing before me doesn’t look female.

It’s a guy.

A hot guy with his pants gathered in a heap at his feet.