I thought I was ready for this.

And I was dead wrong.

It’s strange to have a woman in the house again. There’s just a different energy in a home when a woman settles into it, especially when over the past four years, Em and I have learned to work around each other like clockwork.

We know which gears to turn to keep our lives running smoothly. Now there’s another cog in the wheel, someone else turning those gears, and I have no idea how to fit her in without the entire machinery of our household seizing up.

Especially when I’m constantly reminded who she’s not. It’s a relief, really, and that relief feels like a betrayal, when it shouldn’t.

I don’t need those reminders.

I don’t need someone teasing old shadows of grief and pain.

Fuck, if Olivia were anything like Crystal, then it might feel like having a ghost in the house.

But Olivia’s so very different – from my dead wife, from her plastic-accented sister, from anyone I’ve ever known, and she fills the space so uniquely it’s like she transforms everything she touches.

I don’t know how to handle that.

Not when after all this time, I’ve gotten used to the way I am, and I don’t know how to change myself around someone else.

Especially not someone this young, someone from a world so different from mine; it’s like some asshole threw this delicate, soft-spoken angel out of an ivory tower. Just left her glowing in the middle of all my darkened spaces, lighting up all the uncomfortable things I try like hell not to see.

Or hear, at barely five o’clock in the morning, when I’m dragging out of the shower with my hair dripping in my eyes and my brain about two hours behind my body.

Apparently, Milah’s not the only one with vocal talents because Olivia’s soft voice trills up the stairs in low, sweet lilts that sound almost like subdued opera.

It’s not hard to tell she’s trying to keep herself quiet so she won’t wake anyone, but despite the things that have happened to her there’s a brightness around her she can’t keep contained.

I don’t want to admire that about her, when she’s just a problem I have to deal with until the danger she brings is as far away from my daughter as possible.

But I do.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this shit.

I’m half-asleep and I don’t know where my mind is going. Then I hear it.

The second a sudden, alarming squeal rises from downstairs, I’m wide awake and bolting down the steps, nearly vaulting the banister rail into the living room with the towel around my waist flapping. I bolt into the kitchen, heart hammering, ready to pry Olivia from the hands of a masked intruder.

Only, I find her standing there covered in spattered coffee grounds, dripping wet, her short, silk bathrobe clinging to her body in translucent patches. The kind that make it crystal clear whatever she’s wearing underneath is paper thin, enough that her skin swells in soft, curving mounds against the soaked fabric.

She freezes, staring at me guiltily. I stare back, caught between surprise at finding her here half-dressed and stunned confusion at why the hell my Keurig is smoking on the kitchen counter.

Her cheeks flush. It’s funny how when women blush, their cheeks turn the same color as their lips – and hers are a sort of velvety strawberry, natural red without any lipstick.

Liv bites her lower lip, then ducks her head sheepishly, lacing her fingers together behind her back and peeking up at me through her lashes with her shoulders hunched.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, scuffing one foot against the floor. “I just wanted to help, but I’ve...I’ve never done this before. This thing just exploded everywhere. It’s usually Julia, our live-in housekeeper, you know, and she makes the best French pressed –”

“Enough.”

I don’t want to hear about this.

Nothing about this pampered life she had growing up with a silver spoon in her mouth, unable to even make coffee for herself.

I especially don’t want to feel sympathy for her over it, when I should be disgusted.

Hell, whatever else I should be feeling, there's one thing I know damn well I shouldn’t.

I can't stand seeing this woman in my house, underdressed, looking at me sheepishly in that flimsy little robe. I can't be here, hyper-focused on this beautiful, too young, dick-hardening mess while we should be sweeping up the real mess she's just created.

Swallowing a growl, I tear my gaze off her and stalk past to a cabinet.

I’m just going to help her and then get out.

And hope like hell she doesn’t burn my house down with me and my daughter in it.

There’s an old Moka pot in the cabinet, one from before I replaced it with the Keurig. I pull it down and set it on the stove. “Over here. You’re going to learn how to make your own coffee,” I say. “Chateau Woods doesn’t come with espresso service or turn-downs.”

She laughs a bit shakily and leans in to watch. “Okay, fair enough. What's that thing?”

“Moka pot. It’s a little different from a normal coffee pot, but the same result. Here.” I open the pot and ladle in grounds, then run it under the sink to fill its well with water. “You just fill both compartments – don’t forget the filter – then put it on the stove and keep an eye on it.” I set the pot down on a burner and turn it to medium high heat. “Try not to explode this, too.”

Rather than sulking at me like I’d expect a spoiled little rich girl to do, she lights up with a smile, like this is some kind of inside joke between us. “What’s the harm? The kitchen’s already ruined.”

I just arch a brow.

Turn away.

And pull the broom off the hook by the back door, thrusting it at her without a single solitary word.

She blinks at me like I’ve just tried to give her a live snake before she reaches out tentatively, her slender fingers grasping loosely at the broom, soft skin brushing against mine with a tingle that raises the hairs along the backs of my knuckles. I let go quickly, and she clutches tighter, catching the broom and then pulling it against her. Her wide eyes look up at me, blue as a clear morning.

“You...you want me to sweep?”

“You made the mess,” I say. “You clean it. House rule.”

I wait for the whine. The protest. The demand that I be her servant and do it myself, like witness protection is a luxury five-star hotel and she’s just here for us to wait on her hand and foot.

Instead, she only gives me a fierce, determined little smile, looking almost happy about the prospect, and whips around.

Her robe flashes to the side for a moment, and I catch an edge of scalloped pink lace and a taut, curving cleft. My dick jerks under my towel. She grips the broom firmly in both hands and starts pushing the patch of coffee grounds on the floor around, gathering them up clumsily, and...whistling.

The girl is whistling.

Even more, I recognize the tune from some of the DVDs Em used to watch when she was a little girl.

It’s Whistle While You Work.

“Playing Cinderella now?” I ask, leaning against the counter next to the stove and just watching. She’s doing something, all right. Not sure I’d call it cleaning, but she’s trying determinedly.

She stops for a moment and flashes me that fierce little smile, oddly self-contained in how she expresses herself. “It’s Snow White, but thanks.”

“Whatever. I’m not a dwarf.”

I almost swear the look she flicks over me lingers, that it isn't just amusement, right before she suddenly looks away. Back down to watch the broom scoot across the floor, her cheeks reddening again. “Maybe not, Riker. But you’re sure as hell Grumpy. Don’t you want to go put some clothes on?”

Not really.

My house, my space, and I’m comfortable here. I keep my mouth closed and just watch her as she putters around with the broom.

She’s making much more work of it than she has to, but Snow White here seems determined to get the coffee grounds into a single pile. It’s mostly working. The water splattered everywhere, not so much. I don’t quite have the heart to tell her there’s a mop that will do that, or paper towels.

Because it’s actually kind of adorable, watching her determinedly try to sweep water into a single puddle in the center of the floor.

She keeps peeking at me in the silence, though, past the fringe of soft honey-blonde hair that falls over her shoulders and into her face. It's the color of summer wheat.

I grumble to myself, then look away, glaring toward the window, where the sun is coming through the curtains in soft, misty wisps.

Fine. Small talk it is.

“Why are you up so early, anyway?” I ask.

It’s Saturday, for one – and while my tension had me up early today, normally I like to sleep in on Saturdays. Before Em turns into a little tornado, dragging me over every hill. For two, I expected her to be lying in bed until noon, a sleep mask over her eyes.

She blinks, then straightens, leaning on the broom. “Oh, well, I normally get up before everyone else. It’s the only quiet time I can find to do some writing without people hovering over me or wanting my attention.”

Writing? I tilt my head, folding my arms over my chest. “What do you write? Landon’s wife writes these chick flick reads –”

I’ve never seen someone light up so fast at the very mention, like a teenager coming face to face with a music idol. She’s practically got stars in her eyes. “I know! I love Kenna’s books. She’s what made me want to try writing. If I could write as well as she does, maybe I could...”

She trails off. An odd glow flashes over her features, wrinkling between her brows, and she stops the broom’s regular sweeping.

I know I shouldn’t ask, but she looks so damn vulnerable. Hell, she looks so damn vulnerable all the time, and every time I want to snarl at her for fucking up my life this thing inside me yanks me back because I can’t stand to bruise or crush fragile things, especially when this situation isn’t her fault.

So I make myself ask her, bridging the quiet between us. “Maybe you could...what?”

She says nothing, until she shakes herself and flashes that soft, self-contained smile at me again. “Nothing. I don’t really write like Kenna, anyway. I write more Nicholas Sparks type romance. Ugly cry books for masochists in love. Love over all, fighting through tragedy together, natural disasters, lost kids, dying wives.”

Dying wives.

Fuck. You’d think it wouldn’t hit so hard.

But it does, like she picked that broom up and jammed the handle right into my solar plexus.

I let out an odd wheezing sigh before I’m aware of it, then turn away quickly. The Moka pot saves me with its low cry, and I push everything out of me until there’s nothing but the simple robotic actions needed to pour us two steaming cups.

My jaw won’t unclench, though. I can’t get words out. I can feel her watching me, and the silence between us is far too heavy for two people who just met the day before.

Finally, she ventures softly, “I’m sorry.” A pause, then a faint, worried sound. “Riker, I didn't mean...I know Em’s mom isn’t around. I don’t know what happened, but if I was insensitive, just know –”

“It’s fine.” I can’t stand to hear excuses.

Can’t stand to hear her tiptoeing around invisible land mines. Unspoken traps I’ve put over this topic so that rather than ever having to look at it, I’ll just raze it to the ground if anyone treads too hard.

I don't have time to dwell on the past. There's no fucking point.

I take a deep breath, remembering how innocent she seems.

“Don't apologize. We’re fine. It’s been four years and we’re good. You don’t need to say anything. I’m not some wounded beast with a fucking thorn in its paw.”

“Wrong Disney film,” she offers with a sort of weak, gentle humor that has more understanding in it than I can deal with right now.

I can’t be here. With her.

This soft, young, lovely woman in my home, making herself fit in like she’s the last bit of color to make a stained glass window complete. It's wrong.

Once, that window might’ve been beautiful on its own, but broken, missing shard changes the entire shade of everything. I'm not looking for a replacement.

I’m not ready for how different things look when something and someone new is introduced into my life.

Without a word I turn and walk away from her, heading upstairs.

I’m not running away. Escaping, I’ll admit that. And I almost run smack into Em.

I’m so wrapped up in my own gloom, I don’t hear her coming out of her room, and only stop half a second before plowing into her.

Christ. I manage to pull myself back, and take a shaky breath before offering a smile. “Morning, love.”

“Morning, Daddy.” She’s scruffy in pajama pants and a Lord of the Rings nightshirt, rubbing at her eyes, her tangled hair everywhere. “Are you ready to go?”

I blink blankly. “Go? Where are we going?”

Em frowns slightly. “It’s the first day of class? Remember?”

Class? Oh.

Oh, shit. That's right.

The new self-defense classes at the expensive studio that just opened up down the road.

The martial arts classes we can’t really afford, but when Em said she wanted to learn how to take care of herself, how to be tough, the last thing I could do was say no. Besides, she needs a physical activity to keep her body working as well as her genius mind.

It’s a reminder why I agreed to let Liv into my house, so I can give Em the things she wants and needs. It helps me center myself and calm the hell down, and I offer a smile to the lovely little girl who’s growing up so fast, I'm more than a little freaked that soon I won't be able to keep up with her.

She's got a brilliant enough head on her shoulders to know what she wants. Who am I to deny her?

I'm counting on this place to provide the safety gear they said.

Because if they let her brain get knocked around too much in class without the right protection, a few more people are going to need to learn to protect themselves from me very fast.

I pull her into a hug.

“Em, it’s barely morning,” I tease, ruffling her hair. “Class is tonight. I know you’re excited, but we’ve got time. Go shower up. Our guest is downstairs making a mess of the kitchen, and we’ve got to salvage it for breakfast.”

“Okay, Daddy.” With a tight squeeze, she bounces away and into the bathroom, leaving me standing there just staring after her, wondering what the hell I’m doing.

How the hell I got here?

And what this raw, heavy feeling is in my chest, when I’ve been fine for years and yet suddenly fine feels like a pathetic front thrown up just for Olivia.

Just so I'll believe I’m as okay as I say I am.

Fuck it.

I’m not okay. I’m a single father whose work could mangle or kill him any day, with a daughter who depends on him and him alone, and now suddenly she’s grown up enough to want to know how to fight for herself instead of relying on her old man to protect her.

Everything’s changing too fast. Em's growing up. We have a woman in this house again.

And she's brought all the painfully distracting things I notice. Everything from the softness of her skin against mine to the way her clothing clings to her curves, as if it has an obsession with that soft, smooth flesh to rival mine.

Goddamn it.

Get a grip, I tell myself.

I can’t, I won't let this tear me apart.

I've never been more uncomfortable in my life than I am now, sitting next to Olivia, with the word “engaged” hanging over our heads.

We’ve been avoiding each other all day, me outside fixing a rain gutter that came loose in the last storm, her holed up in her room doing her thing. Whatever it is she does when she’s alone.

And now we’re officially engaged.

I still can’t believe I said that out loud. To my daughter’s new self-defense instructor, too, a man roughly my age named Mike whose wiry build and spry way of moving makes me think of a chipmunk that can never quite hold still.

I just stood there, shook his hand, and told him Liv was my fiancée, we were engaged.

Then I watched the other moms, none of whom know Olivia and very few of whom know me, swarm her with congratulations and excited exclamations and questions about where’s the ring, before I was chided with stern looks about poor planning when you never propose to a girl without the ring.

Why is this my life?

And why do I now have to stop by a frigging jeweler’s soon to find a ring that'll make this bull convincing?

On the bench next to me, Liv looks away from watching Em wrap up her cool-downs and studies me from the corner of her eye. I don’t know how to feel about the fact that on day one, they’re teaching my daughter how to disarm a man with a knife – but I know even less how to feel about the woman watching me as if she wants to say something but is just trying to be polite and not bother me.

She’s trying so, so hard not to intrude on my life.

Why does that annoy me?

“Talk, Liv,” I mutter from the corner of my mouth. “If we’re engaged, people will have a lot of questions about our relationship if you look like you're afraid to even speak to me.”

She frowns quizzically, then blinks as it clicks.

“Oh,” she says softly, looking down at her knees. “I hadn’t thought about that, it's just...you don’t seem to want to talk to me.”

“I never want to talk to anyone much. It’s not personal.”

“I get that. I mean, like you said, we’re supposed to be engaged. It isn't easy.”

Easy?

I've forgotten what this is.

Not when we’re having a conversation in sub-vocal whispers, making eye contact sidelong, set off far enough away from the other parents for some privacy.

Not when she curls her little arm in mine, her fingers so warm through my shirt sleeve. There’s a soft hiss of skin and fabric.

She tends to like these wispy, short little dresses, I’ve noticed. Whatever looks loose and light and gauzy until she moves, and they pull tight and translucent against her curving, delicate body. The pale blue sombre of her dress does just that now, molding against the outline of her hip, deepening into a starker curve as she draws her legs up next to her on the bench.

And she leans into me, tucking her body against my side and resting her head on my shoulder.

My blood ignites and my pulse drums like mad. A strange, wild thud, the lead shocks before an earthquake. Fuck.

I know it’s only an act. It's pretend. It's nothing.

And it’s been a long goddamn time since a woman leaned against me in a gesture so sweet, so trusting, that the simple act becomes so intimate.

Her hair tumbles over my shoulder and down my chest. She bites her lip, peeking up at me.

“We should act like it's easy,” she finishes softly. “At least in public.”

“I know.” I try to make myself relax. “You're right.”

Part of me wonders if I should put my arm around her, rest my hand in that deeply enticing curve where her hip meets her waist, but she looks comfortable and I don’t want her to move from where she is right now. “I was thinking of getting you a ring,” I growl.

My voice sounds tormented. Technically, it is, judging by the insane hard-on that's turning me into a poorly conditioned animal.

She laughs softly under her breath. “Isn’t that going a little far? And aren’t rings expensive?”

I tense, feeling like a boar with its hackles raised. “What? You think I can’t afford it?”

“No, Riker.” And there’s something so innocent in the way she says it that I believe her.

I believe there’s not a single bit of silver spoon condescension, that she doesn’t even think about how her money and family history make other people see her because she’s been too sheltered to understand how bitter the topic of money can be.

She flashes me a faint, sweet smile. “Just thinking it’s not worth spending that on me when I’ll be gone soon. We don't need to go that far with this game, surely.”

Sheltered or not, there’s a subtle undercurrent on it’s not worth spending that on me that speaks to a cynicism and worldly bitterness that has me more curious than I should ever be.

I grunt under my breath and lightly jostle her with my shoulder. “Jewelry stores take returns. Engagements fall through all the time.”

“Is that your story when I’m gone?” she muses lightly, shifting her gaze back to Em. “That our engagement fell through?”

“It’s the easiest.”

“Will it be hard on her?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Em.” She actually sounds worried, and her fingers curl tighter in my shirt. “I know we’re faking, and she knows, but I’m still going to be a part of her life for a while, and then suddenly I'm gone. Won’t it...hurt her? Even more when she has to lie about why?”

What the hell? Is this woman actually worried about my daughter’s well-being?

Olivia Holly is alarmingly good at inching past every line I meant to lay down between us, and damn it, I don’t want to like her, but I’m starting to.

After working her sister’s gigs, I expected another Milah – rich, reckless, self-absorbed, well aware of her status, expecting others to worship her.

I would say Liv is like everything soft and sweet Milah once shed to become the monster she is, but that'd be wrong. Liv's her own person. I can see it in her contemplative silence, in the way she always restrains something behind her smile.

She looks like the untouched, virginal innocent from the outside. Meanwhile, she holds a piece of herself tight and fiercely guarded, deep down, somewhere no one else’s demands can take it from her.

Just like me.

Damn.

I can’t let her get under my skin when I’ll be ejecting her from my home as soon as the Feds and Landon say it’s safe.

Growling to myself, I mutter, “Em’s managed before. She’ll manage again. She’s a strong girl.”

“She is.” Olivia’s smile is warm, her eyes crinkling at the corners, while she watches Em. “I kind of want to be her when I grow up. Do you think I should take lessons, too?”

I snort at the joke. “You? Why?”

“You never know what might happen in this situation. I might need to defend myself.”

“So you think I can’t protect you?”

She blinks. “No, I just thought maybe I want...” She deflates without finishing. “It doesn’t matter what I want, does it?”

“When it comes to keeping you safe, no. It’s not about what you want. It’s about making sure you don’t get hurt, Liv,” I say. “What Em's learning helps a person fight off a drunken idiot, or maybe a mugger or two. A few lessons on how to knock a gun out of someone’s hand won’t save you from people like them. They’re smart. They know how to fight dirty, and in groups. The Pilgrims are killing machines.”

Her smile is sad yet soft. I realize that this conversation wasn’t about the danger from the Pilgrims at all. We’re talking about two things, but we're only saying one out loud.

“But you’ll protect me, right?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I answer, throat dry, as Em breaks away from her instructor and comes barreling at us with her eyes bright and a dozen Daddy, did you sees on her lips. “That's my job. Taking care of you.”

Em is a buffer between us for the rest of the evening.

Over a quick dinner of burgers and fries, she tells us all about learning reverse chokeholds and disabling grips and other beginner self-defense 101 things.

Whatever worries I had with her getting into this ease. I love seeing her glow like this.

So excited. So focused. So alive.

Liv seems curious but restrained. I see her open her mouth several times as if to join in Em’s enthusiasm before retreating back to silence again.

Not just her. We make eyes across the table several times and let Em do the talking.

Once my little girl's showered and collapsed into bed in an exhausted heap, there's no more avoiding it.

It’s just me and Olivia.

I finish tidying the kitchen – Liv tried, but it’s not actually clean – then step into the living room to find her curled up on the couch in a little matching cotton tank top and shorts set that barely covers her chest or her ass. The shorts are powder blue, clingy, and a stark contrast to the bright pink toenails that wiggle with absolute concentration as she stares firmly at a notebook with a pen clutched in her teeth.

Somebody say a prayer for my cock.

I need a damn distraction, stat.

“I think,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, “you’re using that pen the wrong way.”

She looks up, blinking owlishly, then lets the pen go and catches it in her fingers. The middle has teeth marks on it, making white divots in the pink plastic. “Writer's block. Can’t think of what to say tonight,” she says, glancing at me, then back at the notebook with a frustrated frown. “Usually my brain’s more active at night...”

I don’t know what to say to that.

I don’t know what writers do, how that magic in their heads works when they take this idea and put it together into words that recreate the same image in someone else’s head.

I don’t even know if it'd be appropriate for me to point out that she’s just undergone a traumatizing, shocking experience that’s obviously going to affect her creativity.

I’m about to fall back on offering her a drink before bed, something to either loosen up her thoughts or let her set it down and sleep, when she looks at me again. That little wrinkle appears between her eyebrows, right up top above the bridge of her nose.

“Riker? How long are we really going to do this?” she asks. “We talk like it’ll be over in weeks, but I'm not so sure. And I'm not sure you are, either.” She makes a distressed sound, wetting her lips.

I say nothing, guilty as charged.

“Is it ever even possible for me to be safe? Can they really figure out what happened and catch who’s responsible, or am I just...” She shakes her head. “Am I going to keep being someone else’s burden forever? What if someone else gets killed in front of me? Jesus. Those two men are dead. I saw, I watched one get mowed down right in front of me...I...”

I think I realize it’s going to happen before she does.

First her voice cracks, trembling, her lashes shivering, and I push away from the door and settle down on the couch next to her just as she makes a choking sound, jerking like she can’t believe all that spilled past her lips. Then she bursts into tears.

It's a dagger straight to the heart.

Look, I may not want this woman in my life, but I can’t sit here with a stick up my ass when she’s vulnerable and fragile and feeling so unsafe. So I slip an arm around her shoulders, and give her somewhere to hide. I give her someone to hide in.

Me.

Liv's so light, shaking like a leaf, and she makes the smallest bundle as she burrows herself into me and just sobs. It’s one of those ragged, full-body breakdowns that makes someone sound like they’re breaking. I only hope that having me wrapped around her is doing something to help her keep all the shattered pieces in one place until she can pick them up and fit them back together.

They damn sure won’t fit the same way they did before, no.

Still, this kind of release can be cathartic, and what’s left behind might be even stronger than what broke. Someday.

That, I know from experience.

It feels like an eternity while she cries against me, until slowly she goes quiet, her heaving breaths slowing to shallow whimpers, then a tired, drooping sigh. Sniffling, hiccuping, she rubs at her eyes and nose. It’s not hard to see she’s trying to pull herself together.

She stays huddled against me like I’m her only port in a storm. I should pull back, tug my arm from around her.

I don’t.

We remain locked for some time in burning silence.

Me and this stranger, this girl, curled up and tangled around each other like we know each other.

Like we mean something to each other.

I don’t want to admit it eases something inside me, something ragged-edged and tired, to at least be able to do this. To offer shelter, even if there’s not much else I can do now but keep her hidden away from the people who want to hurt her. But finally, she shifts against me, her shoulder against my side, her cheek against my ribs, as she takes a deep breath to speak.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice husky and low with tears, but before I can tell her not to apologize, she continues, “I’m...I’m always burdening someone. Milah, my Dad...now you. Here you are stuck coddling me like a baby, when it’s my bad luck that put you in this situation.”

“Your bad luck did,” I point out. “You didn’t. What happened isn’t your fault.”

“But I wasn’t able to fix it myself, was I?”

I can’t help a faint smile. “Bull. Having the mob after you isn’t something most people can fix on their own, Olivia.”

“Liv,” she murmurs.

“Liv,” I say. It rolls off my tongue like a madness.

“Sorry. Daddy calls me Olivia, and it's wrong.” She grimaces. “It makes me feel really...small. Invisible. Liv sounds like a name for someone strong enough to stand on her own. That’s who I want to be.”

“Well,” I point out, “your old man isn’t here now. You are. And if we’re going to make this work without anyone suspecting our ruse, we’re all going to have to pull together. You’ve already shown you’re smart and can think independently. You’re the one who remembered people would expect us to act like a loving couple in public. Not me.”

Halfheartedly, she pokes my ribs. “Whatever. You look like the type who needs his fiancée to pick on him until he relaxes and remembers how to laugh.”

“Is that my type? Really?”

“Yeah. And glowering at me isn’t changing my mind. You're busted, Riker.”

I hadn’t even realized I was glowering, but now I snort. “I’m not a type. What I am is here to protect you. That’s my job. You focus on making this work and on writing your book. Treat this like it really is your life now. All yours, and no one else’s.”

“But it’s just a lie in the end,” she points out softly.

“So are stories. Guess what? Those still have value. Ask anyone who's ever bought a book.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me like she’s seeing something new and strange, and I don’t know what to do with that. Don’t know what to do with this moment, either.

From the second I met her, I had every intention of keeping her on the outside where she belongs, just a client and nothing real, this paper doll cut out of another picture inserted into all the wrong places in the chaotic photograph of my life.

And from the second I met her, I’ve been unbending in so many small ways for her, because I can’t bring myself to hurt someone who’s already been hurt so much.

It creates an uncomfortable dichotomy between the distance I want and the closeness in the silence between us, in the warmth of her body against mine, in the softness of her flesh where my hand has somehow ended up splayed against her hip. My fingertips just graze the edge of those tiny shorts and come so close to touching naked skin. The air in the room suddenly feels too thin, and I only barely remember to be gentle in disengaging from her and letting her shift to rest on the couch without dropping her, before I’m up and crossing the room to the liquor cabinet.

“Have a drink with me?”

I don't wait for her reply, but I can see her nodding from the corner of my eye.

I take down two tumblers and dump out two fingers of Jack into both, then bring them back to the couch, settle down an appropriate distance from her, and offer her the second tumbler.

She takes it, looking down into the whiskey, then offers me one of those sweet, strange little smiles turned all the sweeter on her swollen pink lips. “Should we toast to something?”

“You have any ideas?”

She considers, then says, “To things that have value...even when they look like they don’t.”

“I’ll take that.”

I clink my glass to hers, then take a sip – while she tosses hers down in a single breath, not even choking or gasping, before wiping at her mouth. She catches me staring, then blinks and blushes.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say, and hide my smile behind the rim of my glass. “I just like a girl who can hold her liquor.”