“Are you really sure this is the best thing to do?” Olivia asked.

Nat turned her face from the car windshield where she’d been staring at a parking garage pillar in Auckland’s CBD for the past three minutes. The two of them had driven down from Bounty Bay last night after Olivia finished school, to stay with Jackson’s eldest brother and his wife.

Nat studied the frown lines and shadows under her daughter’s eyes. Nat wasn’t the only one who’d lost sleep since Olivia had come home that Sunday afternoon and found Nat on her hands and knees in the bathroom, scrubbing out the shower stall.

“Time for a spring clean,” she’d said with every ounce of cheerfulness she could muster.

“Where’s Isaac?” Olivia had asked.

“He’s gone home.”

Olivia opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, seeing something on Nat’s face that gave her pause.

“I’ll go start on my room,” her daughter had said and backed out of the bathroom.

“I mean”—Olivia wriggled in the passenger seat, fiddling with the zipper tag of her puffer jacket—“Uncle Daryl and Auntie Lynn were okay with it, but Grandma looked pretty pissed off.”

“Yeah.”

Being grilled like a sausage on a barbecue plate hadn’t been the highlight of Nat’s part in the Fisher family meeting earlier that morning. Neither was fending off their inquiries about her relationship with Isaac, and how come he wasn’t there to speak up for himself. She’d found an unexpected ally in Jackson’s father, who quietened his wife’s machine-gun-like questions with his hand, and ordered her to “zip it and let the girl finish.” The for-and-against verdict from the Fishers over Nat’s plans ended in a tiebreaker, but Nat, in the nicest way possible, had already decided that hers and Olivia’s decisions were the only ones that mattered. And regardless of how she and Isaac had left things, Nat made the decision to forgive him. That’s right—she believed forgiveness was a choice. Isaac had done what he thought was right, and maybe there hadn’t been a perfect time for him to have told her. If she got out of her head and actually put herself in his shoes, would she have found it any easier to raise such a booby-trap ridden conversation? No.

“It might not be the best thing,” Nat said, giving Olivia’s knee a gentle squeeze. “But it’s the right thing to do.”

“If you say so,” Olivia said in a singsong voice. “Glad it’s gonna be you on TV, not me.”

Nat turned back to the windshield and the view of the television studio. Sunshine glittered off the windows, harsh and as scary as hell. Nevertheless, an exclusive segment on one of New Zealand’s respected current affairs shows was what she’d agreed to. Was what she’d pull up her big-girl panties and do—regardless of the potential backlash of public opinion and the mixed support of Jackson’s family.

Or how Isaac would react once they returned home to Bounty Bay.

They climbed out of the car and headed to the elevator to take them down to the street.

“Practice would be over by now,” Olivia said conversationally as the elevator doors closed. “Do you think they noticed I wasn’t there?”

“I asked Owen to tell your coach you couldn’t make it today.”

“Isaac, Mum. Isaac. You’re not gonna start calling him ‘Coach’ now, are you?”

“Isaac, then,” Nat said.

“You could’ve texted him yourself. You’re still friends, right?”

Nat made a grumbly sound in the back of her throat which could’ve been interpreted as both an agreement and a disagreement with her daughter’s statement. Then she caught sight of Olivia’s stricken expression in the elevator’s metal doors. Crap.

“Of course we’re still friends,” Nat said, her stomach reaching street level two beats before the elevator did. “That’s why we’re here.”

Olivia looped her arm through Nat’s and they stepped out of the claustrophobic confines of the elevator into the sunshine. Deep breath after deep breath of fresh air settled her twisting stomach, but didn’t prevent her heart from careening around her chest.

“We stand up for our friends no matter what anyone else says—that’s what you told me when I was little,” Olivia said.

“The right thing to do is often the hardest thing to do,” she agreed.

Especially in Nat’s case, because even though she’d already lost the battle for Isaac’s heart, she loved him enough to risk what remained of their friendship in order to right a wrong.

He’d sacrificed enough for her and Olivia. It was time to set the record straight.

* * *

What the hell had he been thinking buying a house in Bounty Bay?

“Don’t answer that,” he muttered into the silence. “I plead insanity.”

Isaac slapped the laptop screen down so he wouldn’t have to see the bunch of emails sitting in his in-box glowering at him because he refused to deal with his shit. But if he took his pick of any of the high schools from the Far North to south of Auckland offering him a position as a rugby coach, he could avoid situations like the one about to unravel.

Isaac’s back door slammed shut and heavy footfalls tracked down the hallway toward the living room, where Isaac was sitting alone in the dark. The whole house was dark—and dark for a reason.

“I know you’re throwing a one-man pity party,” came Sam’s disembodied voice from the hallway, “but tough shit, bro, I’m gate-crashing.”

“Should never’ve given him a spare key,” Isaac muttered from the couch, and then in a louder voice said, “Fuck off, bro.”

The living room lights came on overhead, sending an explosion of knives through his eyeballs. It also sent a snapshot of the current state of his living room into his brain. Stained mugs, unwashed glasses, and empty takeout containers were stacked on his coffee table. A flotsam of junk mail was spread across the living room armchairs, some of which had slid to the carpet—which had a scattering of potato chip crumbs and a new stain from where he’d spilled a glass of red wine two nights ago.

“Mate,” Sam said from somewhere near the living room entrance. “What in the actual hell?”

Isaac kept his eyes squeezed shut, his arms folded across his chest, feet propped up on the only remaining clear area of his coffee table. Maybe if he ignored his pain-in-the-ass brother he’d get the hint and leave.

Rustling sounds of paper falling to the floor were followed by the couch dipping under him as Sam sat with an exaggerated “ahhh.” As if he’d been the one putting in twelve-hour days at the office.

“So,” Sam said. “Natalie, eh?”

“Thought I told you to fuck off?” Isaac kept his eyes shut, even though, nope, Sam wasn’t going anywhere.

“You want me to send Mum a photo of your living room?”

“If you think you can do it in the three seconds before I beat you to a pulp and throw you out on your ass.”

Sam snorted. “The state you’re in, a newborn kitten has better odds of taking me down.”

Isaac opened his eyes and sent Sam a bring it, asshole stare. His brother merely raised an eyebrow, his arm stretched in a relaxed pose along the back of the couch.

“Haven’t seen you like this since Jackson died,” Sam said. “I’m worried about you, man. We all are. Don’t go slipping down into that pit again.”

The snide shut-down Isaac was about to utter melted on his tongue at the genuine fear in his brother’s tone. He dragged a palm down his face and blew out a long breath. “I’m not. I’ve got this.”

“Evidenced by the bloody pigsty you’re living in,” Sam said.

“You got a problem with it, feel free to stick on an apron and get busy.”

“You’re stonewalling.” Sam drummed his fingers on the couch back, his eyes narrowed into speculative slits. “Want my unsolicited opinion of why you screwed things up with Nat?”

“Hell no. But I bet you’re gonna give it to me anyway.”

“Fucking-A.”

Sam propped his bent leg on the couch and leaned forward, pinning Isaac with his intense I’ve got this shit figured out stare. It was the same expression Sam got when he started work on a new kauri stump project. He’d walk around the shapeless lump of wood, studying and muttering and measuring up shit only he could understand for days before he even touched the damn thing with his tools. While Isaac was the doer, relying on training, adrenaline, and instinct to navigate his life much the way he did on the sports field, Sam was the thinker, considering, searching that rough stump of wood for the beauty within. He sucked at seeing shit in his own life, but he was pretty damn insightful when it came to other people.

“Lay it on me, then,” Isaac said.

“You’re in love with Natalie.”

Isaac gave him the side-eye. “We’re gonna talk about feelings, are we?”

“Well, you sucked at talking about your precious manly feelings with Nat, so yeah, we’re gonna talk feelings.”

Like the feelings he’d had when he’d spotted the two wedding bands in a jewelry box surrounded by evidence of Nat’s grief. Feelings that had kept his mouth shut as effectively as lining his lips with superglue.

“You’re in love with her, yes or no?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Isaac said. So damn bad that he hurt everywhere, all the time.

“There, was that so hard?”

Younger brothers, the ultimate endorsement for a single-child family. “Shut up.”

“And you’ve been in love with Nat for years. In fact”—Sam’s gaze slitted again—“you were in love with her while she was still married to Jackson and it’s eating away at you like bloody cancer.”

A face-first dive into concrete would hurt less than facing up to that statement. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut again. “No.”

“Bullshit.” Sam was relentless. “You were in love with your best mate’s wife and you’ve shouldered that guilt for years. That’s why you lied to everyone except your family about that night. That’s why you allowed the media to shred your reputation—not just out of duty to your friendship with Jackson or protectiveness of her as his wife, but because you loved Nat and wanted to spare her any pain that you could.”

“No.” Something cracked open inside Isaac’s chest. “I’m not that guy, the sleaze that lusts after his mate’s woman. That goes against everything I believe in.”

“The only thing sleazy would be if you’d acted on your feelings back then, and you didn’t. I know you didn’t, even as I think I’ve always known that you never felt brotherly toward Natalie. Isaac—” Sam’s voice gentled. “You can’t control who you fall in love with. What you can control is what you do about it, and you did the honorable thing by locking down your feelings for years. Now you don’t need to anymore, and if you continue to push her away because of guilt and a screwed-up sense of honor, then you’ll lose her. And you’re a fucking self-sabotaging idiot.”

Not for the first time, Isaac couldn’t think of a comeback. Because Sam was a hundred percent right.

“Anyway.” Sam found the TV remote under a pizza box and clicked it on. “You need to watch something.” He toggled through the channels until he settled on one with a national human-interest news show.

“That’s it? We’re watching TV now?” Isaac asked.

The two smiling hosts on the screen chatted to each other about something Isaac had little interest in.

“I’ve said what I need to say,” Sam said. “Now, shut up, it’s nearly on.”

“What’s nearly on?” Isaac glared at Sam, then a familiar name spoken on the TV sent a streak of ice down his spine. His head whipped toward the screen.

“…came into the studio with us for an exclusive interview earlier this week.” The female host continued to talk. “Natalie is the widow of Jackson Fisher, one of the All Blacks’ brightest stars who was cut down in a tragic accident five years ago in London. Also with her tonight is Lucy Gilbert, the young woman at the center of the controversy surrounding Jackson’s death. This is their story.”

The screen flicked to a wide camera shot of a studio where Natalie and Lucy Gilbert were seated on a leather couch, with the interviewer in a matching leather armchair angled toward them. Every hair on Isaac’s body went rigid at the sight of Nat. She looked so goddamned beautiful, poised and fiercely determined in a simple but stunning blue dress, appearing calm and confident as the woman interviewing asked her first question. Frozen in time and space, Isaac listened as Lucy spoke tearfully about that night, the interviewer obviously prepared with a box of tissues that she handed over.

Then it was Natalie’s turn, and she bared her soul with dignity and grace, telling the interviewer how she hadn’t known the truth until a few weeks ago, but it’d given her a sense of closure, and that she would still rigorously defend Jackson’s memory as a good man—one who had nearly made a mistake—but she believed that Isaac could’ve talked him out of making it if the accident hadn’t happened.

“Why is she doing this?” Isaac said, more to himself than an actual question.

“Why are you both coming forward now?” the interviewer asked, reading Isaac’s mind.

Isaac barely registered Lucy’s long-winded explanation, he was so focused on Natalie, his heart clenching as she reached out to rub the younger woman’s arm when she started to tear up again. That was Nat, always thinking of other people.

“And Natalie?” the interviewer asked. “Is the reason you’re speaking out because you’re now in a romantic relationship with Isaac Ngata?”

Natalie’s beautiful smile froze into a doll-like mask. “I’m speaking out because I know the only thing Isaac was guilty of that night was being a good friend to my husband. He doesn’t deserve the public condemnation and lack of support shown to him during the past five years. But I’m just as guilty of maligning his outstanding character. Even though we’re all human, we all make mistakes.”

“Oh, true,” said the interviewer, “but to readdress the issue of your relationship with Isaac—”

“We’re friends.”

The finality in Nat’s voice cut Isaac to the bone.

“I consider him a close family friend,” Nat added.

Isaac snatched the remote off the couch and stabbed the off button.

“She’s relegated me to the friend-zone?”

“Dude,” Sam said. “When a woman tells you she loves you and you turn into an emotionally constipated statue, what the hell do you expect?”

“She told you that?” Isaac’s voice soared at least an octave, and he cleared his throat before trying again. “Nat told you about our conversation?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Nope. But you just confirmed my lucky guess. Everyone but you knows Nat’s all in, so, again, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Thanks.” Isaac resisted flipping the bird to his brother and instead dropped his feet off the coffee table and sat upright. “But how am I going to get out of the friend-zone again?”

“Do you really want to?” Sam asked. “Because I’ll break your other kneecap if you hurt Nat again. She deserves better, and by better, I mean she deserves a man who’s in it as deep as her, and for the long haul. None of this hooking up behind your friends’ backs, or more importantly, Olivia’s back.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m in it. For the long haul.” Isaac blew out a sigh and scrubbed his hands over his face again. “You’re right, I’ve always been in love with Nat, but while she was with Jackson it was bearable—because there was just no way in the world I could have her, or that she would ever possibly feel that way about me. She loved Jackson, and I loved him, too, but once he was gone…” He shook his head and twisted to look at Sam. “God, I’m such a pussy.”

“You are.” Sam grinned. “Got real fast, didn’t it?”

Isaac grunted and started stacking dirty glasses on the coffee table.

“You know what you need to do, right?” Sam asked. “You can’t be that out of touch with women.”

Isaac shot him a filthy look and kept stacking.

“You gotta do a BRG,” Sam said smugly.

“BRG?”

“Big romantic gesture. Women dig it, especially when you heap on the grovel, and man, do you need to grovel your ass off.”

Isaac flopped back against the couch. “You obviously know more about groveling than me, given your track record.” He rolled his head toward Sam. “Any ideas?”

“Yup. But what am I working with here? A BRG to get back to just being her low-key boyfriend or…” Sam lifted his eyebrow in question.

Isaac’s stomach gave a sideways tumble and he blew out a breath. Sneaking around with Nat wasn’t enough, hadn’t ever been enough. He wanted to curl around her every night, wake up next to her each morning and make her coffee, make a family with her and Olivia.

“Or,” Isaac said. “Definitely or. She’s the love of my life, and you can take my man card for saying it—I don’t give a shit.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Sam chuckled and stood to help clean up. “But you may not wanna lead with the man card part, bro.”