What the fuck just happened? My head is spinning like I just got off a Tilt-A-Whirl. Is this real life? I’m in a relationship. Me. Someone wants me and I want her and this is happening. My heartbeat hammers and my limbs tingle from my orgasm. Brie looks euphoric and beautiful. I feel like I’m dreaming because this can’t be real.

This wasn’t my storyline. I’m the guest star in life, not the romantic lead. I’ve never had sex with someone like her—someone who doesn’t put on a show. There were no fake noises or overblown words of encouragement. More than that, I’ve never had sex with someone who knows me like she does. I’ve told her things I’ve told no one. I was real. The sex was real. And it was amazing.

I reach over and brush back a lock of her long, silky hair. “That was incredible,” she says softly.

“You’re amazing,” I reply. She gives me the warmest, sweetest smile. I lean over and kiss her, long and deep. And then I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull off the condom. As I tie it and lean forward to toss in the wastebasket, I feel her fingertips on my back. She’s tracing the lines of my tattoo and I try not to tense. I hate when people touch it.

“There’re bumps…”

That’s why I tense. I hate talking about it. So I never do. I lie. I am dreading lying to her so I don’t answer. I just close my eyes and enjoy the feel of her fingers fluttering over my back. I feel her thumb glide over another scar.

The bed dips behind me and I know she’s moving closer to examine it. I force myself not to sigh. God, I hate this. “Are they scars?”

“Uh-huh,” I grunt more than speak. “Hockey scars.”

I lie to her like I lie to everyone. But this time it bothers me. Still I’m overwhelmed with everything that’s already happened tonight. I can’t add this truth to the pile I’ve already unloaded. Even if she thinks she can handle it, I know I can’t.

“Really?”

I turn and lie down beside her again. Closing my eyes, I take her hand and run her fingers along my cheek by my eye, where I have an actual hockey scar and down to my chin where I have another one. “I’m full of scars.”

“Scars are badges of honor,” she says softly. I’ve let go of her hand, her fingertips still drift over my scars, and it’s soothing. “It’s proof something or someone tried to break you and failed.”

My eyes flutter open and find hers. She’s looking at me with compassion and something else. Something I’m not ready to see. Like I said, I’ve faced too many truths tonight as it is. So I give her one of my best snarky smiles. “Where did you hear that? Fortune cookie or yoga class?”

She blinks and for second I think she might be offended, but then she grins. “Pinterest.”

I laugh. She laughs with me, dropping her head onto my chest. This is good—being here with her. It feels right in ways I can’t remember ever feeling with a woman before. But I still can’t let her spend the night. I still don’t want to risk subjecting her to what could happen if I have another nightmare. As our laughter dies, I start to worry about how I can get her to leave without offending her. I really don’t want her to be upset. I don’t want her to think I’m treating her like a booty call because we’ve already promised each other it isn’t.

Luckily after a few minutes of me running my hands through her long, soft hair and her drawing circles on my chest she lifts her head and looks at the clock beside my bed and her face clouds over a little. “I should get home.”

“Okay,” I say quietly, trying not to sound relieved.

Our eyes meet and she looks curious. “You’re used to women running out after you give them incredible orgasms?”

I grin at the word incredible. “I usually have such a busy schedule that I don’t tend to have sleepovers.”

“That’s a polite way of saying you kick them to the curb.”

“You’re not any woman. You’re my girlfriend. I am not going to kick you to the curb.” But please leave because I’m not ready to tell you about the nightmares.

She smiles so beautifully it makes it hard to breathe. And then she kisses me, making breathing impossible. “I’m your girlfriend,” she repeats and then her expression sobers. “And I have to leave because Len is at my place with Mac, and I promised I wouldn’t be late.”

“Is it still going well?” I ask.

“It is except she hates school and she skipped yesterday. She says she started to feel sick on her way there, so she came home. But she didn’t tell me and when the school called, I freaked out thinking she’d run away.” Her brows pinch and she frowns at the memory. “I rushed home and found her eating a bag of chips and channel surfing and we had a huge fight. She hates school and says she has no friends and she’s too far behind and wants to drop out.”

“She’s too young to drop out,” I state the obvious. “And the judge isn’t going to let her live at Daphne’s if she’s not in school.”

“I told her all that, so she agreed to a tutor,” Brie confirms as she gets out of bed and starts to get dressed. I have an overwhelming urge to stop her and pull her back into bed and have sex with her again, but I know I can’t. “A bunch of teachers come to Daphne’s twice a week to do group tutoring sessions. Rose is actually joining this week and so Mackenzie will go to that. Even though she’s already complaining about it.”

I groan. “She’s her own worst enemy.”

“We all were at her age. She’s just being a kid.” Brie pulls on the last of her clothing, then smooths her hair.

“You’re going above and beyond for her.”

“She’s special to someone who is special to me.”

Her words make me feel warm and my chest feel tight—in a good way. It’s the most surreal feeling ever.

“And honestly, she’s a special kid. I really like her. She reminds me of me when I was her age. There are rough edges, sure, but there’s a diamond in there waiting to shine.”

I want to laugh at that. “Pinterest again?”

She grins. “Motivational poster at my dentist’s office.”

I get out of bed and follow her into the main living area. She’s walking a little in front of me, so I put my hands on her waist and nuzzle the side of her neck.

“I’m sorry I acted like you were a one-percent, puddle-deep rich girl,” I whisper against her skin. “You’re clearly more than that.”

“I’m a hell of a lot more than that,” she replies. She grabs her purse off the floor where she dropped it and her coat off the back of one of the bar stools and walks slowly to the door. I follow beside her and she glances down. “You know you’re still buck naked in a Manhattan apartment with no curtains. And you’re half hard.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” I say with a shrug and glance down. “And that’s not half. It’d be bigger if it was half. You should know that now.”

I grab her hand and spin her around right next to the door, pressing her against the wall I kiss her again. I can’t get enough of her, the softness of her lips, the warmth of her mouth, the eagerness of her tongue. It’s more intoxicating than alcohol.

But she breaks the kiss before it can develop into anything more. I know it’s for the best but I still frown and try to pull her mouth back to mine. She laughs softly and slips away, grabbing the door handle, ready to make her escape.

She pauses and looks up at me. “I’m sorry I acted like you were a cocky playboy, incapable of serious feelings,” she tells me quietly with the hint of a smile. As the knob turns in her hand, she adds, “Because you’re more than that, and you might not truly believe that yet, but I do.”

With one more soft, quick kiss, she’s gone.