Last night was magical. There are no other words to describe it. After three years of pain, anguish, and sorrow, I feel free. Free to be a woman in love. Free to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Free to believe there is more out there for me. I’m not damaged. Just because I’m scarred, marred in a way I barely tolerate, it doesn’t mean I’m gone. I haven’t disappeared. Last evening, Carson proved it to me. It’s what my soul sisters have been harping on me about. It’s what Chase has said time and again.

I am not my scars. They are a part of me now. A part I can never erase. In the last discussion with my medical team, they said we’ve gone as far as we can with the attempts at making them aesthetically pleasing. My arm, ribcage, and just the very side of my right breast will remain deformed. It is what it is. I can no longer change that. The time has come to accept what happened to me and move on. Stop living in the past. Stop wishing for a different body. I am who I am. This is the new me.

I’m not a monster. I’m Kathleen Bennett. A survivor.

I survived a horrible fire. I lost my will, and with it, the desire to hold on to happiness. Somehow, I twisted myself into believing my injury made me ugly, unlovable—something to despise. Mostly because that’s how I felt when I saw the scars. Every time I removed my clothes and met my reflection in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me as me. I guess that’s how all people feel when they get older or gain a bunch of weight. With time, everyone changes. Some changes are for the better. Others are thrust upon us, and we have to make do. It’s what I’ve been doing for the past three years. Making do. No longer am I going to push my needs and desires into a corner so I don’t have to look at myself—or worse, so no one else has to.

I deserve to be happy.

The thought flickers through my brain like a kaleidoscope of monarch butterflies flapping their wings at the same time.

Happiness is a choice.

For the past three years I chose not to be happy. Sure, anyone in my position would have gone through a grieving process. And I did grieve. For the loss of my ability to sew. For the loss of my strength and mobility. But most of all, I grieved for the loss of Carson. I didn’t believe a young, virile man with his entire life ahead of him could love or want to be with a disfigured woman. I put so much into my looks and our physical relationship, I threw away our mental and emotional connections as if they were day-old news. Somewhere in my mind I believed I was not worthy of having someone so beautiful care for me and see me through a dark time. Instead of coping with the changes and challenges, I made the worst decision of my life.

I pushed Carson away. I did that. My scars didn’t. That was all me.

I love you, Kathleen.

He loves me.

During the heat of the moment, Carson Davis said the three words I’d always wished he’d say. I love you, Kathleen. Technically, four words. And what beautiful words they were. The moment he said them, something inside me clicked. Healed. Without Carson in my life, I was lost. Going through the motions in black and white. My life no longer had color. He brings color to my world.

Wheat-colored hair.

Sparkling sky-blue eyes.

Straight white teeth.

Golden-brown skin.

All that beauty is mine.

We didn’t speak of our situation after making love last night. No, once we’d cleaned up, we were all shared smiles and sweet caresses. Throughout the night, Carson woke me and made love to me again. Three different times. He said he was making up for lost time.

When I think about it like that, we will have a lifetime to make up for lost time.

Turning on my side, I watch him sleep peacefully. Each little puff of air through his lips lifts a lock of hair that has fallen down his forehead.

How many mornings did I wake alone, scared and afraid to face the day without this force to fill me up and make me a whole person? I get now why people call their soul mates their other half. For me, Carson always filled all the empty spaces inside me. When I pushed him away, bits and pieces of his essence fell away too, leaving gaping holes within my heart and mind where his essence once lived.

I haven’t been happy the past three years. Each and every day, I woke up and thought I can make it through today. Just put one foot in front of the other.

Why should anyone have to “make it” through a day?

Dr. Madison, my therapist, said it was depression and I needed to work through those thoughts in a healthy manner. Fill up the holes inside me with something else. The only problem? Nothing worked. It was only ever Carson. He’d dug those holes inside me in the first place and burrowed deep until he had his place. He’s the only one who could piece me back together. Last night went a long way toward that happening.

Parts of me feel more put together now. There’s a lightness to my heart I’ve been missing for years. An ease I hope to enjoy for longer than a single night.

Will he want to see me again?

I blow out a long breath, fluffing my bangs up and away from my forehead. Kat, be reasonable. He told me he loved me. Wanted me to never forget how good it was between us. As if I ever could. Does it mean we’re automatically back together?

Do I want to open myself back up to loving this man?

Of course, I never lost my love for him. It was the one single constant I could count on through my therapy and the mental anguish that followed a life-altering injury such as mine. At least I’d had love and lost it. Most people don’t even find it once. I figure I was lucky. I am lucky.

But what happens now?

A ringing phone cuts off my silent musings.

Carson blinks his eyes open. I stay where I am, holding my breath, staring at the beautiful sight of him lying in my bed for the first time in years. He lifts his lips into a beautiful smile.

“Morning, Sweetcheeks,” he rumbles, tugging me around the waist and dragging me closer to his naked warmth.

The instant my bare legs touch his, the comforting warmth seeps deep into my bones. He didn’t bother to put any clothing on last night. Out of force of habit, I’d put on a long-sleeved nightshirt after our last round of lovemaking.

The phone stops ringing as Carson rubs his scruffy chin against my neck, sighs, and inhales my scent. The sound reverberates against my neck and flows down into my soul.

Carson is in my bed. In the flesh. Holding me.

I love you, Kathleen.

In my mind, I hear those words over and over. They give me the ability to snuggle into him and just breathe. Enjoy the moment for what it is. The morning after.

Only this time, it’s the morning after with the man I love.

I love you, Kathleen.

He’d said the words, and I believed him.

The phone rings again, ruining my good vibes with its persistence.

Carson groans, scowls, and then turns flat on his back, digging around on the floor. He’s so tall and his arms so long, his reach is incredible.

He pulls the ringing phone up and glances at the display.

He frowns, narrows his gaze, and punches the “ignore” button.

I couldn’t be sure, but I think the name of the person calling was Michelle or Missy or Misty.

Then it hits me. What Chase said last week. That he didn’t think the woman Carson was with was right for him, or something of that nature. Honestly, I wasn’t paying too close attention, because if I had, I would’ve spent weeks hating myself all over again for letting him go.

Carson’s body is rigid when he turns back to his side. The second his pretty eyes hit mine and that smile comes back, the phone rings a third time.

He sits up, groaning and letting the sheet fall around his lap. God, he’s sexy, all tanned skin and tight brick-shaped abdominals. I want nothing more than to roll over and lick them to prove there is indeed an indented outline around each one.

“Fucking hell!” He smashes the accept button and turns to the side of the bed, curling over to listen.

“I told you I’d call when I was ready.” His voice borders on angry.

Not exactly the happy-go-lucky man I am used to, especially after a night of smokin’-hot sex and reconnecting to lost love.

Carson’s entire body visibly tightens, the muscles of his back bunching up and engaging.

“Jesus Christ. Is she okay?”

Abruptly he stands, leans over, grabs his boxer briefs, and shimmies into them. If I weren’t so focused on the heightened breathing, the worry taking over his entire form, I’d have ogled him. Instead, I sit up and watch him silently pace. He pushes his hand into the mop of sleep-mussed hair and tugs. It is definitely a Davis male move. Chase does the same thing all the time. I’ve even seen Carson’s dad do it a time or two.

His face is a mask of irritation when he turns to pace toward the bed. “Uh-huh. You what? No, I’m not home.” His head flings up, eyes alert and on me. He cringes. “Nowhere.”

God, something must be really wrong.

“How is that even possible? No family? Friends?” He shakes his head, fumbles with his polo, and pulls it over his head in jerky movements. “Fuck. I’ll figure something out. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

Carson sits on the bed, grabs his socks, and holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder. Not easy to do with an iPhone. He could just put it on speaker. I secretly wish he would. Then the fear and anxiety pumping off him and coating me would be relieved.

“Yes, thirty minutes. Where am I? That’s none of your concern.” He peeks at me from the corner of his eyes before rubbing at his face. “I said I’ll be there, and I will.”

Without even a goodbye, he hangs up on whomever he was talking to.

Moving slowly, I crawl over to his side of the bed and lay a hand on his shoulder.

His entire body jerks and then settles when he realizes it’s me.

“What’s the matter?”

Carson licks his lips and glances away, his head falling down to view his shoes. “Uh, nothing. I gotta go.”

He finishes tying his shoes and then stands.

“Who was that on the phone?” My voice rises along with the dread filling my heart.

“No one,” he deadpans.

I tilt my head and cross my arms. “Didn’t sound like no one. Carson…” I’m about to tell him what we had last night can’t go forward if he can’t be honest with me. Instead, I follow my heart. “Talk to me,” I urge.

He swallows and his chest rises and falls. “I can’t. Not yet. I…I have some things I need to figure out,” he says cryptically.

I crawl across the bed and stand in front of him. I lift my hand to his cheek, and he leans into it briefly before closing his eyes.

“What things? Let me help you. I can see that you’re angry or confused. Just talk to me.”

He cups my wrist and brings my palm to his lips, where he lays a warm kiss. “Kat, last night was everything. More than I could have ever hoped for, but I gotta go. Can we please talk later?” Something in his eyes reveals his genuine need. He’s struggling with whatever it is he’s not saying.

“Later?” I swallow down the instant emotion bubbling up my throat.

“Yeah, uh, maybe tonight or tomorrow?” I hear equal parts hope and distraction.

Without waiting for a reply, he moves out of my hold and locates his wallet and keys. He shoves his wallet into his back pocket and frowns. His hand shifts behind his back and then he brings it around with lace dangling from his fingertips.

The frown marring his beautiful face dissipates, and he lights up with a giant smile, clears his throat, and coughs. “Yeah, I’m so keeping these.” He waggles his brows and it almost dissolves the icepick digging into my heart.

I try to grab for the undies, but he jumps back just in time. “Give them to me. They’re ruined!”

“Don’t care. Still want them. They’ll be my good-luck charm for the day,” he declares while backing up through my hallway and toward my front door.

I giggle and follow him. “Um, last night…” I try, but he cuts me off with a hand to my neck and a quick, hard press of his lips.

“I already told you. Last night was everything. I just have a situation I have to deal with. Can you understand?”

“Why won’t you tell me what it is? I’m sure I can help. I want to help you with anything.” My voice is laced with worry and regret. Too much time has already passed between us, and now he’s running off to handle something that has obviously made him very agitated, and he’s pushing me away.

“This is not something you can help with. I’m sorry. I really have to go. A, uh, friend”—he settles on the word “friend” as if it’s foreign and sticky on his lips before continuing—“of mine needs me.”

The fumble with the word friend sends a fire alarm clanging in my head.

“You know, we never did talk about whether you were seeing anyone before we hit the…you know.” I gesture to the bedroom.

“She. Is. Not. My. Girlfriend.” His response is instant and adamant.

“Okay, but you are going to help a woman. Someone who asked where you were. That sounds more than casual.”

He closes his eyes and his nostrils flare. He doesn’t move for a few heartbeats. “I can’t talk about this right now, Kathleen. I just can’t. I have to go. I’ll call you.”

Carson kisses me swiftly before he’s gone in what feels like a flash.

“He’ll call me,” I repeat to the closed door, feeling cold and alone all over again.

I shake my head, thinking I very well may have stepped into the Twilight Zone. There’s only one thing I need now.

Reinforcements.

---

“¿Ahora lo que dijo?” Maria’s screech is so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear to avoid losing an eardrum.

“Ria, English, please.”

“Lo siento. Sorry. He said what now?” she repeats.

“He said he’d call me.” I close my eyes and press my thumb and forefinger into my temples. It sounds like a stupid blow-off, even to me.

“And this wasn’t a booty call?”

I sigh. “Maria, I haven’t had sex in three years. The last time I had sex was with Carson. This was not a booty call.”

She hums as if she’s thinking about what I told her. “And he blew you off?”

Another broken sigh slips from my lips. “Yeah. Now I don’t know what to do.”

“How did he sound when he took the call?”

“Agitated. Angry. It sounded like whoever called him wasn’t supposed to. But that doesn’t sound right either. If it was the mystery woman Chase mentioned last week, she should be able to call him. Right?”

“Si. But if he was angry, maybe he broke up with her recently, then met up with you, had the night of his life, got his Sweetcheeks back, and didn’t want to deal with the other woman’s skanky ass anymore.”

I laugh. Leave it to Maria to make light of any situation.

“Maybe. God, I don’t know. It was just weird. What do you think I should do?”

“As much as I hate to say it, wait it out. If he doesn’t call tonight, you’ll know something’s up. He is a man. They do weird shit all the time. Just the other day I saw Eli walking through the house carrying a duffle bag. When I asked what was in the bag, he acted all put out. Estupido. You never act strange when a woman asks about something, especially if you don’t want her to know.”

I cringe. “What was in the bag?”

“Guns,” she says flatly.

“Guns!” I scream into the phone and glance around my apartment as if the mere mention of the vile things could magically manifest in the center of my living room.

“Si. Keep up,” she chastises me. “He was taking guns out to the shed to hide them for an old friend who was going to stop by because he owed him a marker.”

He owed the “friend” a marker. I’ve watched Sons of Anarchy. Markers are always awful things scary dudes with names like Butch demand in return for a favor they once did for you.

“Holy shit, he owed guns to someone? Like a bad guy?” I gasp, placing my fingertips over my mouth.

Sometimes finding out the finer details of your friend’s marriage to a badass bounty hunter is not all roses and chocolates. Guns? Jesus. Now I had two things to worry about. Carson being a weirdo after a night of what I kind of thought was us getting back together, and Maria and her husband hiding guns in a shed. What the heck is going on?

“No se preocupe. No worries. It’s not a big deal. One of his FBI friends needed them for a raid. He’d gotten them from another raid himself, so they were going back to the feds. Still, it’s off the books. You know, like when the Italians say, ‘It fell off the truck,’” she says nonchalantly.

“The Italians?” I stutter over my words. “You mean the flippin’ Mafia?”

“Si, si. Now you’re paying attention. Kind of like that—only totally the good guys.”

I rub at my now aching head. “Maria, how does any of this help me?” I want to say it’s accomplished the exact opposite by giving me a heart attack.

“Basically, I’m saying, guys do stupid shit. They act like the world is ending, when really it’s just putting guns into a shed for the FBI.”

I blink a few times. This makes absolutely no sense at all.

“Uh, thanks, Maria. You helped a lot.”

“Sweet, mi gatita.” I roll my eyes at her “little kitty” nickname. “Call me and let me know what happens tonight? Si?”

“Sure.”

“Besos,” she says.

“Besos.”

I set my phone down on my lap. How the hell does hiding guns in a shed for the FBI relate in any way, shape, or form to Carson blowing me off, telling me he’d call me, and then running away to go help some woman he refused to tell me about?

Ugh. This is so frustrating. I don’t even know how to deal with this. With him. I want to call him. Yell at him and tell him he’s an ass for confusing me and making me second-guess everything that happened between us, past and present.

More than that, though, I want to call him, tell him I love him, and kiss him until it all goes away.

Maria down. Time for opinion number two. I debate calling Gillian or Bree. I glance at the clock and realize Bree will be between classes.

Bree…you’re up!