Would it be weird if, once this is over, I wanted to hire out as a housekeeper?

I’m just saying, I’ve really got this whole morning thing down now.

Riker doesn’t even have to help me with breakfast anymore. I’m up before either him or Em, stealing an hour to jot down some more words each day before the sound of Riker’s bedroom door opening prompts me to start the coffee brewing and figure out what I want to make. I’ve been tearing through online 'cooking for beginners' blogs, and it’s fun to figure out what I can make with the ingredients on hand.

This morning it’s crepes in warm strawberry compote. My crepes aren’t exactly gourmet, and I can’t really get them as fluffy and smooth as they should be, but I’m a little distracted from cooking anyway by the sounds from downstairs.

By now, those rhythmic thuds that scared me so much the first time are commonplace, something I almost anticipate.

Because they mean Riker’s downstairs in the basement he’s converted into a gym, working himself into a sweat, straining every muscle in his feral, inked body against that punching bag.

I shouldn’t enjoy those glimpses I get every day so much.

I shouldn't, but I do.

He goes running or takes his frustrations out on the punching bag, then comes up shirtless and drenched in glistening lines that make his entire bronzed, weathered body glow.

Pure wild. Pure heat. Pure man.

I’m not used to feeling this way.

I can't lie, I haven’t really dated. Or kissed. Or anything.

Daddy kept me so sheltered. I never really had a chance to go out with boys or even let anyone get close to me. It wasn’t long before I realized that anyone who tried was more interested in either Daddy’s money or Milah’s fame than me.

Once, I let this skeezy blogger with boyish good looks buy me a couple dinners in Seattle. It lasted three whole dates before I wanted to gag myself with a spoon. Our last date was nothing but him feeling me out about my sister's antics. Oh, and he didn't even pick up the tab on the way out.

Disappointing. Humiliating. Typical.

Is it really so surprising, this silly crush on Riker?

That I'd turn to a grown man? Not another little boy.

Here I am, the eternally wistful virgin, in way over my head. Lost sneaking peeks at a man twice my age and wondering if I’d ever be brave enough to let him break me the way I know he could.

I just...

I just want to know what he tastes like.

All that ink and muscle and darkness.

Just one taste of his skin when he’s a mess like I know he is right now, like I can visualize in my mind’s eye. Just to find out if his skin feels as rough as it looks, with that taut, weathered texture stretched so tight over hard muscle.

If his body would burn my lips with its heat.

If I’d like the taste of sweat licked from the chiseled edge of his pecs, heady and dark and hot and wild, and maybe then he’d catch my chin in his hand and tip me up into a kiss that says, fuck yes, sweetheart.

“Smells good,” Riker actually says from the doorway, and I jump, nearly screaming out loud.

My face goes volcanic with heat, realizing the very man I’d been fantasizing about is standing over my shoulder, the tart scent of the very sweat I’d wanted to taste invading my senses.

If I were the heroine in my book, Eden in Alaska, this is the moment when I’d take a risk.

I’d lean back into him, like scripted characters do.

Close that distance between us, let myself feel the fire of him soaking through my robe, the dampness of sweat filming us together until we fuse in skin-on-seething-skin.

I’d say something soft and flirty, because I can’t even lie that I’ve been writing Riker into that damn book and trying to turn Eden into everything I’d want real life to be. Now’s my chance to take those daydreams from paper to reality.

Now’s my chance to ask Riker if he could ever see me as more than a client, a job, a burden. Now’s my chance to say something.

Too freaking bad this is real life, where nothing goes according to plan.

“Uh.” I get out one mushy syllable.

Real smooth. And then the smell of burning crepes hits me.

Oh, crud, the crepes! I’ve left them sizzling too long, and I hastily flip them out onto a plate and flash him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, caught me off guard, but I don’t think I burned them too bad,” I rattle off a little too quickly – like I’m trying to talk fast enough, loud enough, so my thoughts can’t seep out on their own and go arrowing off into that way too perceptive brain of his. “Still trying to get the fluffiness right, but they should taste okay even if they’re flat and probably too thick.”

“It’ll be fine. You did good, Liv.”

Oh, but I want to do so much more.

He’s already moving around me, reaching up to open the cabinet over my head, and my stomach drops out and does a few backflips when he’s barely an inch away, his raw heat radiating, my entire vision filled with the hard stretch of muscle flowing down his arm to his shoulder to his chest and waist and then those jackhammer hips as he pulls down plates and cups.

I can’t remember to move until he’s pulling away with a stack of dishes and moving to set the kitchen table. God.

Then I steal a glance over my shoulder at him, holding my breath because I’m afraid if I let these sharp, shallow things out, he’ll hear me panting. My toes are tingling, too. I feel so stupid right now because he has no idea all he has to do is stand close to me to turn me into this trembling inexperienced mess of want.

When he speaks again, though, it jerks me from my reverie.

I whip around quickly to face the stove again and gather up the plate of stacked flat crepe wraps, the bubbling pot of strawberry compote, and the tubs of whipped cream and cottage cheese.

“So,” he says, moving around me with an almost familiar fluidity as I start arranging breakfast on plates and pouring out compote and cottage cheese, “I don’t have to go into the office today.”

“Oh?”

I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s spooning sugar into coffee cups.

It makes me bite my lip at how he remembers I like mine with a whole six spoonfuls of sugar, and a hefty dash of milk. He finishes splashing in the milk and retrieves the Moka pot, catching my eye once again as he works.

“We’re between jobs right now, other than you. Landon’s out scouting some new contracts and everyone else is either doing field work or taking downtime.” He finishes pouring the coffee and then opens the fridge to retrieve a bottle of orange juice. “That includes me. Everyone’s up on their firearms certifications and we’re not due for a mandatory refresh day at the range. I can’t go scouting with Landon because we can’t risk the Pilgrims spotting me and tracing me back to you. So he told me to stay home. Keep an eye on you. Once we drop Em off at school, it’s just you and me for the day.”

“Oh,” I say again, more faintly.

Just him and me.

I don’t know what to do with that. I'm not sure if he wants me to do anything. I'm not even sure how to survive it.

Riker’s such an enigma, this calm wall of withdrawal who only occasionally demonstrates mild irritation and allows nothing through but his love for Em.

He’s occasionally given me a moment of gentleness, of softness, when I needed it most – but right now I can’t tell at all how he feels about spending an entire day alone with me when I’m about to spin apart into a thousand showering threads of nervousness.

I can't decide if this is an invitation or a warning.

He might just feel like he’s babysitting. Might even disappear into his workshop and leave me alone to write all day, both of us lingering in our separate corners.

How did I ever get this emotionally invested?

One day, I was frustrated at being in this situation, and the next I'm somehow blending into this house until it feels so right and wonderful and easy and simple for the two of us to move around each other. We're here in the kitchen in perfect sync, as if we’ve been living together our whole lives and know each other so well we can read each other's minds. Like we’re the front and back covers of a love story without all the chapters in between.

I don’t know when I started wanting those chapters.

I don’t know when I started wanting this act to be real, but that wanting builds inside me with such intensity, it takes up all the space I need to breathe.

And I can’t help but wonder if this is infatuation, damsel-in-distress syndrome. Something.

Something about falling for the man protecting me, the man taking the place of my father in my life to become my shield.

Or is it just that there’s something about Riker? And I’d be helplessly drawn to his quiet, stony magnetism even if I’d met him on the street somewhere on a normal, idle day?

He glances up from pouring orange juice. Intensely sharp, green eyes capture mine, blazing into me, and I realize I’ve stopped moving. Ducking my head, ears burning, I start ladling compote onto the crepes I’ve laid out on each plate.

He remains silent for long moments, then asks, “You want to go somewhere, after we drop Em off?”

I almost drop the pot.

I do drop the spoon in the pot, and scramble to catch it before the handle slips down into the sweet-smelling strawberry goo. “Go somewhere?”

“Yeah.” He slides past me, his body almost brushing mine, and my toes curl. Completely oblivious, he starts sorting utensils out of the drawer. “You’ve been stuck in this house day in, day out. Thought you might want to get out for something other than Em’s classes. With an escort, naturally.”

“S-sure.” Act natural, I tell myself.

Act natural, don't turn into a flustered, giggling dork...

I put all my focus into the crepes. Cottage cheese, strawberry, fold, more strawberry, whipped cream. Keep it together. “Where did you have in mind?” I ask coolly.

“Don’t know, sweetheart.” Powerful shoulders shrug, muscles rippling in tanned, ink marked lines. “Coffee shop. Do you need to do any shopping?”

I bite my lip. I've been biting it since hearing that rough edge in his voice when he says sweetheart.

“Maybe. I kind of want a new notebook and some colored pens so I can make some color-coded plot charts.”

“For your book?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a little strip mall about a mile from Em’s school.” He sets the orange juice down, folds his arms over his chest, and leans one angular hip against the table, watching me while I focus obsessively, almost manically, on a stiff repetition of cheese-strawberry-fold-strawberry-cream. “There’s a café and an office supply store. We could stop by.”

“Sounds good!” I flash a smile that feels almost plastic. My eyes feel too wide, my lips stretched. “You going to put a shirt on first?”

“Eh?” He glances down, as if he has no clue what he's doing to me. “Oh. I was waiting for Em to finish her shower.”

I glance up. I can hear the water shutting off, the squeal of the faucet, pipes draining. “Sounds like it’s your turn. Hope she left you some hot water.”

Not even a half-smile. He just gives me another of those penetrating, unreadable looks, then pushes away from the table. “Yeah.”

I have no idea what to say to yeah, but I don’t have to.

He’s already walking away, ducking out into the living room and toward the stairs. And I’m left standing there, clutching a pot of warm strawberry compote to my chest like it’s a life preserver that can stop me from sinking deeper and deeper into this wild, breathless feeling I get around him.

I’m going to spend the day alone with Riker. Oh.

Oh, crap, I think I’m going to hyperventilate.

This is not a date.

It's nothing, just a simple shopping trip out.

So why did I go out of my way to look pretty?

Like, I even spent half an hour on my makeup to get that natural, wet-dewed look that most guys can’t tell is makeup at all, pairing it with “windswept” hair courtesy of the cool setting on my blow dryer. It's all wrapped up with a double-layered sleeveless slip dress, one sheer sheath of gauzy white over a pale-blue linen underlayer. Add in strappy cork wedge heels with flowers on the ankle ties, and I look like I should be lighter than air.

Instead I feel heavier than a stone, as I sink down in the passenger’s seat and watch Em disappear into the school with one last wave over her shoulder.

I know I’m making too much of this.

Riker’s completely calm in the driver’s seat, eyes locked on the road, as he drives the Wrangler out of the school’s lot. I’m trying to remember the last time I felt like this.

All I remember is being seventeen. Going to junior prom at my academy alone and standing against the wall watching Matt Anderson dance with Milah because I was too afraid to ask him out and Milah was never afraid of anything at all.

She’d already graduated and yet she’d somehow still managed to upstage me without even trying.

I never resented her for it. I’ve always admired how brave and messy and wild and open and free Milah is, even if it gets her into a lot of trouble

That night, she’d spent hours making me look so pretty, in a soft white silk dress that poured all the way to the floor and made me look like mist when I walked. She’d dusted my shoulders in sweet pearl shimmer and taught me how to purse my lips until just by breathing, I looked like I wanted a kiss.

And then she’d been my prom partner and shone so bright in her slinky gold dress she’d completely eclipsed me. I don’t think Matt even saw me when he came over to ask her if she’d like to dance.

I’ve never envied how brightly Milah burns. She’s the sun, and I’m a tiny star.

I just want to meet someone who thinks the quiet and distant stars are beautiful, too.

“Something on your mind?” Riker asks.

I jerk from my thoughts and bite my tongue on the obvious answer.

You.

Because Riker, quiet as he is, seems like someone made for secret starlit nights, not bright and blazing days.

I clear my throat, straightening in my seat, and glance at him. He’s as crisp as always in that mix of dress-up and casual that suits him so well; a tailored shirt in palest blue with darker gray pinstripes outlines the power and elegance of his frame, the collar open, the sleeves cuffed to let those burly forearms bristle free. Even on a day off he’s wearing slacks, his shirt neatly tucked in and belted, long muscled legs spread beneath the steering wheel. But rather than dress shoes, he’s paired them with a pair of biker boots that makes me wonder if he rides, or if it’s just a style thing.

Maybe because my brain cannot handle the idea of him straddling a motorcycle with his thighs spread wide and taut with all that power quivering between his legs.

Okay, Liv. Out of fantasy-land. You’re supposed to be talking like a normal human being.

“Just stuck on a plot point, I guess,” I tell him. “I’ve been trying to work it out for days.”

“You need to whiteboard with someone?”

Not with him, I think. Not with the way he looked at me when I talked about the kind of stories I write.

Not when that brutal, unanswered question about Em’s mom is still there, and it feels like it would be cruel to ask Riker, of all people, whether or not I should kill my characters off for some tragic effect when happily-never-after must be very real for him.

“Maybe later,” I deflect with a smile. “I don’t think my thoughts are organized enough for that right now.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

And that’s it.

We don’t say another word to each other, not even when he pulls in to park not far away at this charming little collection of shops that’s less a strip mall and more a small village of uniquely designed stores clustered around each other. Even in the coffee shop – a warm-toned place in different shades of wood and amber cooled by tall, leafy ferns everywhere – we’re silent, standing next to each other stiffly.

We look up at the menu while the sounds of brewing coffee bubble around us and we’re wrapped in the thick, heady scents of coffee beans and sweet things.

The only time we speak is to place our orders – a minty frappe for me, a strong dark black Arabica for him – and he stops me when I reach for my debit card, his hand electric and rough on my wrist.

“I've got it, sweetheart. Sit.”

My heart skips a beat, my pulse spikes, but he only shakes his head subtly and lets his hand fall away before fishing out his own card from his wallet and paying for us both.

Such a simple gesture, and not a dull kindness.

He may have just saved my life.

Right. I can’t use my card. Because we don’t know how sophisticated the Pilgrims’ tracking is, and God only knows if they might ping me using my card somewhere.

Right then and there, I vow I’m going to track down every penny Riker spends on me and pay it back in full.

I sneak a peek at the receipt as he pockets it. $4.63 for my frappe. I make a mental note.

I feel numb. And not just because his simple generosity reminds me of the danger I'm in.

The energy is different. Every breath, every second, every glance. I'm staring at this beautiful, broken man holding up my whole world and losing my mind.

It's gutting.

It's extreme.

Heck yes, it's even kinda ridiculous.

But it's one of those things where my only choice is react. Feel. Savor.

While we wait for our drinks, milling around, not looking at each other, I take advantage of his inattention and dig out the pocket scratch pad I keep in my little purse and jot down that amount.

Come to think of it...shouldn’t I be thinking about what it’s costing for Riker to feed an extra mouth, too? I haven’t been going with him on the grocery trips he’s started making since I’ve started cooking, and if I’m being honest, I’ve never been grocery shopping in my life.

Google, I decide firmly. I’m going to Google how much food costs and work out an average of what I owe him.

God, how did I end up so sheltered I can’t even guess the cost of a loaf of bread?

No matter where my life goes after this mess is over, there are so many things I need to change.

So many things I need to learn. I can’t just keep bouncing between people who want to take care of me, without knowing how to do anything for myself.

“Liz?” penetrates my thoughts.

“Liz!” Someone calls louder.

Its not until Riker bumps me with his elbow that I realize they mean me, and the barista had written down Liz instead of Liv on the coffee cup. The paranoid part of me says that’s a lucky accident, because I’m not even sure I should be using my real name in public. Who knows who might overhear and rat me out to someone who wants to kill me?

Look at me now. Liv Holly, international spy.

I fetch my frappe, and Riker’s right after me with his Arabica.

We find a little booth right by the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, letting us look out over a sunny day, a palm-lined street, and beyond the road's safety barrier, a sloping hill leading down to a sandy shore and a glittering stretch of reflective blue.

If this were just a normal day out, it'd be gorgeous. The water’s never so bright and sparkly in Seattle, more of a muted slate blue that’s calming but doesn’t quite have the same breathtaking brilliance as these California seas.

I can’t help but watch, letting the shimmer of the waves hypnotize away my worries. A welcome distraction from the tense silence stretching longer and longer while Riker and I sip our drinks and look anywhere but at each other.

I want him to look at me, though.

Want him to look at me so much, to see me, and it takes everything in me to risk a glance at him before offering a shy smile and murmuring, “This is awkward, isn't it?”

He pulls away from watching the other people in the café and blinks at me, then offers me a rarely vouchsafed smile – easy, dry, a wry and charming realness that changes his entire face and brings warmth to those cool eyes.

“Yeah, sweetheart. It is.” His eyes crinkle around the corners as he chuckles, sliding one hand back through his silver-streaked hair. “Glad you said it first.”

He’s got to stop doing things like that. He’s got to stop giving me these little freaking bits of what makes him human when I just know the second I get too close, he’ll pull away again. Tentatively, I offer, “I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”

“Wrong,” he growls, and he’s not smiling anymore. But he’s not closing off, either, a hint of cynical humor lingering around his lips that diffuses my nervousness. “Stuck, that is. I’m just trying to figure out how to make this easy.”

“Easy? What do you mean?”

Riker says nothing but idly drums his fingers against his thigh several times, his knee shifting restlessly.

For such a still, quiet, immovable man, there’s a disquiet under his skin, a tension that makes him seem slingshot ready to snap whenever he has to sit still. Only in public, though, I realize.

At home – can I really call it home? – he eases off, but in public, it’s like he’s always on the alert for any danger that might come near.

Finally, though, he says, “I'm talking 'bout how we relate, Liv. We’re not friends. We’re not lovers. You’re a client, but you’re also someone occupying a space in my house – but damn if you’re not more than a guest, too. You’ve made yourself part of our daily lives. Here we are, pretending to be engaged. We touch, we hold each other, we fake all those little things for show.” The flat, matter-of-fact way he recites it shouldn’t hurt, but it’s like little needles sinking into me. Only for his gaze to suddenly hit like daggers, slicing into me as he looks at me head on. “And we know nothing about each other.”

I blink. Surprised. Not what I expected.

My voice stays calm, hopeful, but calm when I ask, “Do you...want to get to know me?”

He’s still looking at me in that sharp, piercing way that sees everything. Like how nervous I am.

Like how easy he can make my heart race and my skin prickle and this deep, drawing, wonderful feeling start deep in my stomach before it melts lower, pooling in this tiny, sweet point like happy pain, throbbing and hot. It's almost embarrassing.

How much I want to know him.

How afraid I am to ask.

“Something like that,” he says slowly, warily.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Riker.” I wet my lips, then reach across the table and tentatively cover his hand with mine, praying he won’t jerk away when we’re still supposed to be engaged. “We can be friends. Just friends. It's okay. I mean, I think it'd even be easier for Em if we were.”

“Friends?” His entire body stiffens like a gargoyle turning to stone in the sunlight. His hand curls into a clenched fist under mine, but he doesn’t pull away. “Why are you bringing Em into this?”

“Because I adore her. She’s brilliant, funny, sweet, and you’re so lucky to have such an amazing daughter. And I’d like to think she and I are friends already, even if you and I aren’t.”

Even if his fist is a coiled knot under my palm, I still curl my fingers against it, trying to coax, to soothe, just asking with the softest touch for him to loosen up and let me in just the slightest.

“I'm not trying to convince you. But you know how smart she is. You know how perceptive she is. You can’t think she’s missed how tense you are around me, or how unhappy you are to have me in the house. How do you think she feels, when you’re so stiff all the time and obviously disapprove, but she still wants to be my friend?”

His eyes narrow. “She shouldn’t want to be your friend.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re leaving,” he says, and for a moment his voice fades into a soft growl as he looks away, glaring out the window. “Em can’t take more people leaving her.”

If I weren't studying him so closely, it might come off rude.

But there’s so much pain in the tense line of his shoulders, in the harsh knit of his brows, and I can’t help but wonder.

Em can’t take it…or you can’t?

Gently, testing, I stroke my thumb along the side of his fist. “Just because the job will end doesn’t mean I’ll stop being Em’s friend when it’s over.” I cover his fist with my other hand, then cradle it in both. “Or yours.”

He shifts another tense glance back, just barely looking at me. But he’s still not pulling away, and slowly that tight-curled fist is relaxing, the hard ridges of his knuckles easing.

“If we can all be friends,” I add softly, “the next few weeks will be that much easier.”

A grunt. And then he turns his hand underneath mine. Every warmth in the world rushes through me like a flooding wave as he curls his hand around mine.

I bet for anyone watching it looks like we just had a lover’s spat before I talked Mr. Grump down from his sulk. But they aren't in my world.

No one will ever know what a leap that hand capturing mine is. No one will ever know what it does to me, or how deeply it melts me. No one on Earth can measure the speed of my heart.

And it's nothing compared to the insane second he finally – finally! – admits, his voice raw, “Don’t know how to be your friend, sweetheart. But I’ll try.”

A smile lights me up inside. “Trying is good.” I let my fingers tangle with his and remind myself to breathe. “And if you mean it, may I ask you something personal?”

“Only if it’s not mandatory I answer.”

“No.” I shake my head quickly. “I just want to know, but I won’t get angry if it’s too much for you.”

He heaves a deep sigh, less exasperated and more patiently tired, and cocks his head toward me. “Too much? I'm over that. You want to ask me about Em’s ma, don’t you?”

Oh, Jesus. Busted.

I cringe. “Is it that obvious?”

“Not so much that you need to turn that shade of red.” His faint smile makes me redder. “We’ve just been talking about why I don’t want anything confusing Em. Can't be hard to guess her mother’s the one who left us and that’s why I don’t want her to feel that pain again.”

Then I take a deep breath and drop the inevitable. “How did she leave you, Riker?”

“Cancer,” he answers simply.

Nothing simple about it.

That one word is a gut shot, like every letter is made of cruel barbs meant to hook and hurt the speaker and the listener. My heart wilts before he even speaks another word.

“Four years ago. But she was already leaving us before that, if I'm honest, I...” Riker pauses, a fresh scowl on his face.

For a second, I'm worried it's meant for me. But then I see it's clenched, pointed inward, and I hurt so bad for him. “Fuck, Liv. It just didn't work. What else can I say?”

He’d started off answering like it was just cold, empty data. Now, he trails off, and his fingers clench again – only this time they’re wrapped up in mine and he’s holding my hand so tight, so tight, and I wish with all the world I could give him strength through that touch, strength enough to ease the rough and aching edge to his words when he drops the next bomb.

“We were about to divorce, Crystal and me, when she got the diagnosis. We just weren’t right for each other and while we tried not to fight in front of Em, it was still hurting her. And then Crystal...we didn’t know until she was already stage four. It was in her lungs, her lymphatic system, and I couldn’t leave her that way. She was the mother of our girl. Once, when we were younger and different, I loved her more than life itself, even if that love was gone by then.” His throat works, a hard swallow, his voice thickening. “I couldn't fucking do it. I couldn't walk away. I wasn't going to leave her to die alone.”

Oh, Riker. It's a physical burn in my chest.

My eyes are brimming, but I blink hard, trying to shove the stinging feeling away. Trying to be strong for him while he cuts himself open and bleeds.

This isn’t my pain. I’m not going to make this about me when he’s baring his soul.

I only hold his hand tighter, stroking both my thumbs over his weathered skin and coarse hair on the backs of his knuckles, leaning in close to listen.

“It was the right thing to do,” I whisper. “And it’s not your fault. It can't be.”

“Maybe not.” His jaw is hard, a jutting line of self-recrimination. “But I feel like I did everything wrong. I couldn’t save Em from the hurt. And I couldn’t save Crystal from dying. And I couldn’t save myself from realizing that I’d thought I was ready to let her go...and I was wrong. I was powerless.”

“Riker.” I want so much to leave this chair and go to him, wrap him up, comfort him, but we’re in public, and this hushed conversation is all low seething words and secrets told in the open air. “Sometimes there are things in life you can’t save anyone from. But I think it’s part of who you are that you tried. You gave everything.”

“Trying isn't shit. I have to save Em from more pain. Don’t you get it?” He’s still so tense, but there’s something almost desperate in the way he looks at me. As if he thinks I have the power to break him, instead of the other way around.

Holy hell. And now, he’s almost begging me not to. “Well, we're trying now,” I tell him, twirling my hand in his. “Trying to get to know each other. I don't know you that well, not yet, but I know two things: you're a good dad. And a good man.”

“You want to know who I am, Olivia? Really? Truly?”

Those words come like three neat, savage gunshots. They don't stop me from nodding fiercely.

“I'm an asshole trying to keep his head above water with way too goddamn much weighing him down. I've got room for two E-words in my life: Emily and Enguard. Not entanglements, not emotions, not extra baggage. So if we’re going to be friends, I need you to get why I draw lines. Not for me. For her sake.”

I won’t lie: that hurts.

It hurts so bad, crumpling up that fledgling hope inside me, that sweet quiet wanting, before it even had a chance to bloom into something beautiful.

I’m not even sure what he’s trying to guard against when really there’s nothing between us but my own wishful thinking, and yet it feels like he’s saying if he wasn’t so afraid of me, wasn’t so afraid of me leaving, or confusing his daughter...

There could be.

Only there won’t ever be.

Because Riker’s a wall I don’t know how to scale and I can’t bring myself to hurt him more by trying to batter through his defenses. He’s equal parts infuriating and irresistible.

Make that unattainable, too.

So all I can do is smile. Smile, damn it.

Even if it feels like a sickle cutting through my heart, I do, and I squeeze his hands reassuringly. “It’s okay,” I say softly. I’m proud my voice doesn’t break when I feel like I’m going to lose it any second. “I understand. I won’t do anything to hurt either of you. You have my word. My promise. Friends don't let each other down..”

It’s nothing but quiet after that, but it’s not the same hostile, defensive quiet as before.

I don’t know if everything’s changed or nothing has at all, but when Riker voluntarily asks me about my story for the second time, I’m willing to tell him a little more.

All about an innocent girl named Eden who’s shipped off to Alaska for work as an assistant museum curator, and although she thinks she’s going to Juno or another big city, instead she’s dumped off in a tiny town only accessible by private plane.

One where people are expected to fend for themselves on generator power and with plumbing that doesn’t work half the time, where people subsist on hunting and fishing and gardening without easy access to grocery stores.

City born and raised, she’s helpless. Completely dependent on her host – the very man she’s been sent to coax into selling a priceless antique heirloom her employer wants for his museum collection.

By the time we finish our coffees and move on to browsing the office supply store, I can see Riker trying not to wrinkle his nose when I describe the hero as a handsome, rugged lumberjack of a man with brown hair, silver streaks at the temple, and the wounded snarl of a bear with a thorn in its paw.

Yep, my book boyfriend is a beast-man. Surprise.

It’s not hard to tell he wants to say something but keeps holding back, and it makes me restrain a smile.

My voice stays as bland as possible as I tell him how the hero tries to chase Eden out, but instead a life-threatening blizzard leaves her trapped there, forced to learn how to fend for herself and stand on her own two feet when it’s all hands on deck to make sure everyone in town weathers the blizzard safely.

Of course, my heroine and enigmatic hero fall for each other desperately, passionately, trapped together day in, day out.

Riker outright rolls his eyes with an amused snort. “Typical romance. It's too neat, sweetheart. Shit like that never happens so clean in real life.”

I grin and sail right past my dilemma with the ending as the checkout counter gives me a convenient moment to break off. I have to say, I’m pleased with myself.

I know I said I wouldn’t make any complications, but I’m pretty sure I just turned describing my book into flirty banter, and...and Riker actually seemed to find it funny.

Even in a ridiculous, dry way. He cracked a smile. He cracked.

Flirty banter with a friend isn’t crossing any lines, right?

Things seem easier, at least, on the drive back home. I have a new day planner that I’m going to turn into a plot blocking workbook through colored pens and sticky tabs, and Riker seems more comfortable with me now that he’s told me why he’s so careful and I’ve said I understand. I guess now that he knows where the lines are, I’m not so dangerous anymore.

Was I dangerous before?

Am I awful now for wanting to know if maybe, just maybe, some small part of him saw me as more than just a job and a nuisance?

That’s still on my mind as we pull up to the house – but we can’t pull into the drive because there’s a car already there.

Riker’s tension comes back immediately, like a third presence in the car, wary and battle-ready.

Thankfully, it's not a total surprise.

I already know this car. No one else on the entire West Coast drives a pink Bugatti Veyron, because no one else can afford one – and that’s saying a lot considering we’re sharing a demographic with Hollywood.

Even before we park the Wrangler on the street and get out, I know who’ll be waiting for us, even if I don't know why.

Milah.

She’s standing on the doorstep, completely exposed and alone.

As if two men didn’t die trying to get to her and a lot more aren’t trying to murder us both out of some weird blood grudge. She's there, tapping her sparkly translucent pink heels impatiently and filing her nails. As Riker and I open the gate, she glances up, then lets out an exasperated sigh and curls her hand on her hip.

“Oh my God, finally!” she calls, twisting her lips in a pout. “I’ve been waiting for ten minutes.”

“Your life must be over,” Riker says flatly, while I scowl.

“What are you even doing here?” I ask. “Where’s your escort?”

“Waiting at the airport for both of us, duh.” She flicks Riker over with an appreciative look. “You too, if you want to come. And the kid.”

I'm too shocked to ask questions.

Riker folds his arms over his chest in his way that makes a huge bulwark out of him, as if he’s settling in and prepared not to move no matter how much anyone pushes at him. “Where exactly would we be going?”

“Vancouver,” Milah chirps. “My other other vacation house. I was going to take Livvie on a little girl-on-girl sisters’ getaway for some stress relief, but we could make it a group thing. Landon said it was okay.”

Riker looks distinctly unimpressed by Milah’s double entendre. I’m just embarrassed and wondering if she’s drunk, high, or in the mood to make trouble because she’s bored.

“I don’t think so, sis,” I say. “Doesn't seem wise. I’m supposed to be in hiding. Not jetting around.”

“Actually,” Riker says grudgingly, “one of the best ways to keep you hidden is to move you around. I’m just not sure one of Milah’s houses is a good idea. They’d be watching them.”

“Not in Vancouver,” Milah says sourly. “C’mon, Riker. I’m blonde. I’m not stupid. We’re talking international borders, even if it’s just Canada. No one’s going to fuck around with that. Plus, we’d be taking my private jet, so no passenger manifest or TS-Asshole tracking.”

Riker and I exchange skeptical looks.

It’s not hard to tell we’re both thinking the same thing: this could be a great idea or a disaster.

When neither of us say anything, Milah flounces off the front stoop and over to me, wrapping both her arms around one of mine and pulling with a sulky little whine.

“Come oooon,” she keens, dragging me off balance. “It’s just two days! And I really need the company to keep from going stir crazy.”

I know what that means. Stir crazy is like code for when the withdrawals start to hit, and none of her employees or handlers are willing to risk their jobs standing up to her when she starts fiending – and her groupies will just enable and possibly even supply her.

What she’s saying without saying it is that she needs me. I sigh, leaning into her and meeting Riker’s eyes over her head.

Please, I mouth, and he sets his jaw, then makes an annoyed sound.

“Fine,” he says. “But I’m not pulling Em out of school early. You can wait.”

Milah pouts harder. “But –”

“Wait,” Riker repeats tightly, sweeping past Milah to unlock the front door with sharp, jerky movements. Milah sticks her tongue out at his back.

“Asshole. It's always the Daddy types,” she says, and I bite back a faint, fond smile.

He’s not an asshole, I think to myself.

He’s just a beast, and you’re the newest thorn in his paw.