“Finish line, I win!” Mia tap dances her little blue plastic game piece across the board, flying past mine.

“Perfect score, lucky girl. Guess I owe you a treat?” My fingers ruffle her hair before she's standing up and screaming.

Honestly, she deserves it. I think she knows numbers better than most kids her age, and she's given me a crash course in children. Before I started this gig, I wasn't sure I'd enjoy it.

Now, I can't imagine doing anything else with my time.

I get up, walk over to the fridge, and retrieve a cherry-apple juice box. I also grab a tea for myself, something to wet my throat. The kitchen is extra dry this time of year, or maybe I'm just used to the high humidity mom always insists on at home for her skin.

I reach for my phone and tap the button, illuminating its screen. Almost six o'clock.

Marshal is late. He's usually inside fixing dinner by now, giving me a chance to make a run to my parents' house and check up on them.

“Hey, honeybee, want to help clean up? I need to bring your daddy in before he freezes.” She nods enthusiastically and I smile again, watching as her tiny hands reach for the trivia cards, piling them back into the empty game box.

It's New Year's Eve tomorrow. Another turn of the calendar. Possibly the year Marshal decides to treat me like a human being again.

He's kept his distance since the morning I thought he'd turn me out. Still can't figure out what changed his mind. Haven't mustered up the courage to ask either.

I'm here, I'm being paid, and for the first time since college, I'm doing something on my own. That means a lot. So much, maybe, it's hard to ask the burning questions.

I shouldn't rock the boat. Just be happy.

If only every contact with him didn't feel like Russian roulette. I'm flying blind. There's no telling what sets him off, might make him think I'm not good enough after all, and turn me back out to nowhere.

It's ridiculous how nervous I am closing in, bundled to the brim. Winter resumed its assault after Christmas. The winds are extra frigid, especially after sunset, blowing wispy snow across the short path connecting the back door to his workshop.

My knock sounds muffled through mittens. But it gets his attention.

Marshal jerks the door open a second later and pulls me inside, an anxious flame in his blue eyes. “What?”

“Thought I'd see if you're coming in to fix dinner soon. Or should I take Mia into town and grab something?”

Marshal shakes his head, turning away. It's much warmer in here and it shows.

He's been at it for most of the day, so long and hard he's stripped down to jeans and a tight grey muscle shirt. He's wearing a few dark blotches, the same oily smudges on his tree trunk arms, imperfections merging seamlessly with the dense, dark inks stenciled on his skin.

Sweet Jesus. I didn't realize how tattooed he was. This is the barest I've seen him without those flannel shirts and thermal suits he wears.

Danger echoes in my head. Every second I keep my eyes on him, there's a siren blaring louder. A warning and a slow moving heat pooling between my legs, thieving my breath away. I think it's the cost of admiring this feral, ripped, blue eyed beast.

“You seem busy. You're sure you don't want me to just get pizza or Chinese tonight?”

“She's met her junk food quota with Christmas. Can't you cook?”

My blood warms, and it has nothing to do with standing close to his wood burning stove. “Didn't realize that was in the job description.”

“Shit changes, Red. Welcome to life,” he growls, ignoring me as he stomps toward his workbench, wiping his hands on a rag. “I know there's plenty of food in the freezer. Make us something tonight?”

I don't move. I'm not saying anything until he turns around and finally looks me in the eye. “Try again. You're missing a very important word.”

There's a long pause. For a second, I'm worried I'll have to walk out to salvage my wounded pride, and order a pizza after all. I'm not slaving over dinner for this ungrateful beast who thinks he can bark and bring the world to his knees.

“Please.” He sighs, bright blue eyes shifting in his face, just short of a full sarcastic roll. “Please, Red. I'm sorry this is coming out wrong. I've got the holiday weekend to wrap up this job. People get pissed if I don't get their crap back to them on time.”

Better. But I'm still not buying his excuses.

“I'll see what I can do,” I say quietly, mulling how far I want to test the waters. “Should I plan on food for tomorrow, too? New Year's Eve?”

He blinks. Almost winces. I don't know why it sends a shot of guilt through my heart.

“No. Leave that to me. I'll be done in another hour or two, and I'll put her to bed tonight. Just worry about dinner.”

Of course. He never misses his nightly ritual. The few times I've been over late, trying to tuck the little girl in, he intervenes, telling me their story time is sacred. It would be adorable, if only his eyes weren't so scary.

Just like now. Watching while I linger in his personal space, staring at the picture hanging on the wall. Weird because the only decorations in his house are a couple pictures of a newborn Mia sitting on his mantle.

This is the only frame containing anything different. Four men, dressed in desert camo and laughing, a younger Marshal in the middle. His signature blue eyes stare out, missing the thick dark five o'clock shadow he wears now, smiling like I've never seen.

“When was this?” I ask, stepping closer, nodding toward the picture. There's a darkness in his eyes, a hesitation, like the words are at the tip of his tongue but he just won't let them come.

“When you learned it's none of your damn business, Red. Now, leave me alone. I've got a lot to finish.”

Typical Marshal. Rude, but predictable. I turn, regretting my stupid question, wondering why I thought he'd give an answer that doesn't resemble spitting in my face.

I take one last quick glimpse of him before wandering back into the cold, shutting his door. He's hunkered over his desk again, a wrench in his hand, but he isn't moving.

He's staring into space, his blue eyes narrow, but full. I think he's more annoyed with himself.

Regardless, I don't wait around to find out. I shut the door and race into the house, where Mia is wrestling Whiskey on a kitchen chair, her juice tipped over and dripping sticky red stuff on the tabby cat's tail.

For once, I'm grateful for the mess. I'll take every distraction I can get this evening so I don't have to dwell on Marshal's haunted eyes.

* * *

It's well over an hour before he comes in. By then, I've got Mia in her bath, dropping a few toys in the bubbles to keep her company.

I read on my phone in the bathroom, listening to her splashing for background noise. Even Whiskey stands on the edge of the tub, giving honeybee a skeptical look every time she tries to coax him in. Nobody pays any attention to the heavy footsteps in the kitchen, the scrape of the chair, the loud stab of a fork on a plate.

I hope he likes simple. It's chili mac tonight, one of the first things mom taught me how to make. I dressed it up as healthy as I could with lean beef, but I can't work miracles. Thank God for the salad kit I found buried in the fridge, still fresh.

Of course, I'm not really sure why I care whether big daddy likes my cooking.

He practically put a gun to my head and told me to make dinner, and then let me know exactly how welcome questions are in his man cave.

Infuriating. As much as he is mysterious. I can't stop thinking about his six feet something of frustration, dipped in ink as rude as his tongue, heart as hard as the rest of him.

I hate how my ears prick up every time he stomps around in the kitchen, devouring his food, the small TV mounted to the corner playing the evening news.

I hate it even more how I'm halfway hoping he'll come here, giving me a chance to redeem my ego before he puts Mia down for bed.

And I hate it most how hard it is to get his muscle shirt and savage looks out of my brain. It sticks like his bulging muscles, his smudged cheeks, his arrogant eyes a silent interrogation just for prying into His Highness' secret kingdom.

God.

“Ms. Sadie?” Mia clucks from the tub, poking her hands up from the bubbles laying them on the edge.

Too adorable. I temporarily forget the grudge against her father. “Yeah, honeybee?”

“Do I have a mommy?”

I stop cold. An awkward smile hides the speechless, painful twist in my guts. Whatever else I was ready for tonight, it wasn't answering this kind of question.

Hell, I don't even know how.

“Sure you do, Mia,” I try. “You're here. Everybody born on this planet has two parents. At least starting out...”

“Then...where is she? Why's daddy all alone?”

My heart skips a few more beats. Crap.

Such hard, damning questions spoken in such an innocent voice. I don't even know where to begin, even if I had the answers. After today, finding out anything from Marshal is as likely as him spontaneously discovering a conscience.

“I...I don't know, honeybee. Ask your father. Those are big questions.” I'm being dead honest. I reach for the towel, ready to lift her out of the tub, hoping she forgets the conversation once she's dried off and dressed.

She's very quiet as I get her ready for the night. But I figure it's just my imagination once I hear her familiar sing-song humming, just as I finish sliding on her PJs.

Her little hand is tucked in mine when I open the bathroom door. My heart leaps into my throat and collides with a gasp. Marshal blocks my path, his steely blue gaze a few seconds away from lighting something on fire.

“I'll take her from here. Good dinner, Red,” he says, bending to take honeybee. I watch as they disappear into her room, and linger in the hall until I hear his deep voice soften, asking if she remembers what chapter they stopped at last night.

Story time never had so many unanswered questions. None of them have anything to do with the mischievous genie and magic wishes he reads to her either.

I've lost my fight. I don't want to confront him anymore over earlier, much less dig at secrets that will just piss him off more.

Exhaustion hits in a wave. I head straight for my room and shut the door, turning out the light.

It's cooler than ever underneath the blanket. I fall asleep still trying to get warm, half-hoping the icy silence in this house just brings peace. It certainly isn't making anybody comfortable.

* * *

The next day is a blur. He's already in his shop before I wake up, leaving a list on the table with a few random groceries written down.

PICK UP. PLEASE.

At least he remembered the important word.

Progress? Who the hell knows.

I head out early, grabbing Mia.

She loves being out and about, bundled up in her new purple coat. We turn a few heads in the crowded store. The people who notice us take a sixty second break from their holiday shopping sprees to stare, wondering what the hell I'm doing with the Castoff's daughter.

I give them daggers right back, especially the ones who linger uncomfortably on the little girl.

She doesn't deserve this, pricks. Leave her the hell alone. I keep it to myself, but barely.

The others don't recognize us because it's too weird for them to contemplate. Or maybe they're just sucked into their own worlds.

When we get home, he's parked at the table, a thick mug of dark roast steaming between his hands. “You got the ham like I asked?”

I empty it onto the table, glaring as Mia crawls onto his lap. “Yeah. Ten pounds, like you asked. Seems like a lot for the three of us.”

“Always freeze the extra for soup and casseroles. Plus I'll want to have my fill tomorrow. Thanks for the groceries, Red.” He stands, carrying the slab over to the fridge. I hold Mia while he puts the groceries away, rubbing a mewling Whiskey under the table.

“I wasn't expecting you back so early,” I say. He gives me a look like I should have. “What's wrong? Are you actually taking a day off?”

“Work can wait. It's too damn cold out there now and I need to chop more wood for the stove. Besides, it's New Year's tomorrow. I'd be an idiot if I missed it with my favorite person.”

Mia chirps happily and laughs in my arms. He walks over, ruffles her hair. I've never noticed how many features they share. The little girl is truly his. Dark haired, blue eyed, and beautiful.

Almost nothing inherited from her mom, wherever she is.

“I'd like a chance to check in with my family if you'll be here most of today. I've only been by a couple times this week. Also have a couple books I really need to pick up from the library, before it closes early.”

Marshal nods. He takes Mia off my lap, bouncing her in his arms until she giggles. “Go. I've got our food covered tonight and tomorrow. You're welcome to the midnight snacks. Whatever you want. We're just missing champagne.”

His eyes go to the sparkling cider on the table. It's non-alcoholic, of course, a likely concession to his daughter. Not that I've seen him drink much, which surprises me, considering the rudeness strapped to him like a boulder.

“I'll be back in a few hours,” I say, feeling a weight lift as soon as I'm in my coat and out the door.

The drive to my parents' place goes fast. Our small town skews older, and plenty of people are spending extra time indoors, enjoying the transition from one year to the next with peace and quiet. I grab my books at the library and then head over.

I park in my usual spot, walking in on a familiar scene. Mom and dad are in the living room, in front of the TV, watching an old movie on Netflix.

It's more surprising Jackson and Ginger are here, especially since their car wasn't in the driveway.

“Nice of you to join us, sis. I was beginning to wonder.” Jackson's voice makes me tense.

Well, tenser. I'm in no mood for his crap today. If he still wants to fight over the job I've taken, I swear to God...

“Happy New Year, dear. Or is it too early?” Mom stands, hugs me, strangely tired today. “Sit down. You're just in time for the Hitchcock marathon.”

I smile, flashing dad a look. He actually seems hopeful today. There's good reason. Watching artsy films all day on New Year's is a tradition stretching back to my childhood. Something mom has always done.

I take a seat, grabbing a soda off the counter, careful to keep my distance from Jackson. We watch the black and white film in silence.

Hitchcock is a master of unease, but that isn't why I'm biting my lip by the end credits.

My brother won't stop casting glances. Each one leaves me guessing, wondering what he's really up to.

“Think I'll head upstairs for an hour or two,” mom says quietly, once the movie ends. “I'm feeling oddly inspired. Something about the year rolling over, I suppose.”

It's hardly that, judging by the smirk she's been wearing since I stepped in. I don't want to contemplate what's happening in her head, or if it'll lead to a new outburst. Dad smiles at us and rises with her, whispering something about keeping her company.

My eyes go straight to the big painting on the wall. It's an elk standing quietly in a snowy forest, a cabin behind it, tucked into the pristine blue mountains beyond.

Probably a scene mom remembers from growing up in Montana. It's been there since I was fourteen, one of her finest works, a relic from her natural phase that also sold like crazy.

“I remember that year,” Jackson says. He's caught me looking. “Happiest I've ever seen her. Mom's muse was strong then. She had something new coming out every week, sent pictures of everything to base. Only thing I looked forward to more than cookies, I think.”

Smiling, Ginger nuzzles into him, rubbing his arm. It's the one that's deformed, forever scorched by the hellish sacrifices he made on Afghan soil. Asshole or not, I appreciate him, even if he spends his hero capital a little more freely than I'd like.

“Yeah, well, maybe she'll get back to it someday.” I hope to God I'm right. “Is it just me or does she seem...normal today?”

“Give it a few more hours, closer to midnight. Dad made her stop those timed work exercises because they made her so anxious. Stressed her the hell out. Her sense of time is all screwed up, but who can blame her? There's no stopping the future. It grinds on and people do whatever the fuck they want.”

My eyes narrow. I fold my arms, suddenly sensing cold. “Care to explain what you're getting at?”

“Nothing, sis. Nothing at all.” He pauses. “I've basically accepted your decision, in case you wondered. No point in getting bent out of shape anymore. You're a grown woman. You'll make your own mistakes. If you want to make bank for awhile babysitting for the bastard who almost broke my jaw, be my fucking guest, Sadie.”

He's always been a jack(ass) of many trades, but I think the one he's mastered is leaving me speechless, choking on my own guilt. I sit there helplessly as he stomps past, swiping a beer from the kitchen, a sad looking Ginger shooting me apologetic looks.

They get to me more today than his disgusting attitude for some crazy reason. “I think I'd better go. Mom and dad won't be coming back down, anyway.” I grab my purse, digging in the front pocket for my keys.

“Stay! I'm sure my lovely husband didn't really mean anything by it...” She's fighting so hard. Probably because she wonders what things will be like next year, with a newborn. Fair, I suppose, as much as it annoys me. “I said he didn't mean anything – did you, honey?”

Jackson aims an annoyed look at his wife. His eyes are on her as he rejoins us, stopping short of the sectional end where she's parked for the evening. He turns, his pissed off gaze softening. “Ginger's right. I've been a royal asshole, and I'm sorry. Stand up, sis, will you?”

I humor him. I'm glad I do because a second later, Jackson does something he hasn't done since his pre-army days, when he was still that smiling, lean kid with a chip on his shoulder and big dreams.

He embraces me. And he means it.

Hello, heartbreak.

“I'm sorry. You deserve better than I've given the last few months. That's done.” Jackson's arms go tighter, bringing me back to a kinder, gentler brother I thought I'd lost in the war.

The tears break, rolling heavy down my cheeks. “No, no, I'm sorry, too. I should have come clean right away, working for him.”

“Forget it.” He's smiling when he pulls away, an understanding I didn't think he had on his lips. “Things keep changing. Mostly shit we can't control. Mom, dad, babies getting closer by the day...maybe it's just the season making me think, but I've realized something lately, sis. I need to roll with the punches. Shut up and adapt. Because there's no use trying to control how they land. Usually just makes it harder.”

Grabbing his hands, I give them a squeeze. Ginger comes up behind him, very moved, and wraps her hands around his waist. There hasn't been a family moment like this for...God knows.

I still feel a little guilty, but it's that soft, antsy butterfly guilt. A refreshing break from the forced kind my brother usually makes me feel.

I don't want to leave.

“How long will you be around tonight, Sadie?” Ginger asks, a hopeful note in her voice.

I open my mouth to answer, but I'm silenced by the earthquake upstairs.

Mom screams. Something crashes on the floor so loudly it rattles the whole house. Dad's voice, frantic and fighting to stay controlled, trying to calm her. The usual.

Hell is here after a break, leaving us gawking at each other, frozen.

Jackson is the first to go running. Ginger and I follow behind him, taking the steps by twos, only a few paces away. We barge into their bedroom and see the mess – a bigger one than usual.

There's an entire canvas on the floor, a fist-sized hole punched through it, dripping wet paint everywhere. Mom steps over it, gives us a dirty look, and skirts past us, muttering. “This is why I can never get any work done. Too many damn spectators.”

“What happened?” Jackson finally asks, stepping forward. We join in, helping our father lift the huge canvass off the ground, and prop it against an overstuffed bookcase.

“Oh, you know. She tried to work, I encouraged her, and she freaked. Artist's block.” The same cold patience he's had forever sticks in his voice, but it's unusually frayed.

Dad looks away, but not before I see him nudge up his glasses, wiping a secret tear. My heart goes to pieces for the second time tonight, this time without any warmth.

“What can we do?” I ask, laying my hand gently on his shoulder. Ginger backs me up, stepping around us to bend down on the floor, collecting smaller debris.

“Just...everybody out. Enjoy yourselves. It's New Year's Eve, dammit. It's nobody else's problem but mine.” He's trying so hard to be brave. Then he moves to the spot where Ginger is. Something crunches under his shoes and I wince.

“I can't leave you alone, dad,” Jackson growls. “Let me clean this up, unless you want me to go down there and calm her?”

“That's the only thing I'm good at. Most of the time. You stay here and sweep, if you're really bent on helping. Thank you, son.” He reaches into their closet and pulls out a broom, passing it over.

Our father heads out, but I don't hear footsteps making it downstairs right away. He's made a detour to the guest room, the only place he can get a moment alone. Somehow, it makes this worse.

“Here, let me help,” I say, taking Ginger's place on the floor, picking at the mess of beads, pebbles, and fallen brushes. I feel like a helpless idiot just standing and watching.

Grunting, Jackson pushes another canvass over, smaller than the last. There's a huge paint blob stuck to the floor, more dried than the rest. He swears under his breath, then looks at his wife. “Shit. It's gonna take a while to get this off. Sadie, you wanted to help?”

I nod.

“Do us a favor, we're planning to spend the night here anyway with the car in the shop, but Ginger's got a doctor's appointment the day after tomorrow. Dee's place is closed for New Year's. Probably won't have time to grab our other vehicle. Can you swing by again? Just park the truck for Ginger while I'm at work, and she'll pick it up?”

“Sure can.” I smile. I like feeling useful. “Just text me the time and place. Blank check, too, if you want me to square it away with Dee.”

“Beautiful. I owe you one, sis.” He returns my look, the new understanding we cultivated over the past hour still there. “Oh, and I'll keep my distance. I'll leave the vehicle trade off to Ginger. If that means you've got to bring along the Castoff or his kid, so be it.”

Ouch. I haven't contemplated how I'll handle that. Especially with Marshal ramping up for his mystery trip, supposedly ASAP after the holiday blows over.

“No worries. I'll be by to grab it. Anything else?”

My brother shakes his head. Ginger hands me the keys and thanks me again. Then I head downstairs, casting a quick glance at dad, still licking his wounds in the guest room. He's sitting on the bed.

I worry about him. It hurts that I'm not here anymore to share the punishment, but I gave it six months. I had to move on. Medicine and this nanny gig are a future. They're also the first time I enjoy getting out of the house because I'm accomplishing something.

But still, I can't help it. Guilt burns like napalm in my chest.

I stop, staring at my father's silhouette. Why does he look so small and alone?

I take a few steps inside, rapping at the door gently. “You're sure you'll be okay?”

He turns, a fake smile on his pale lips. “It's nothing, babe. Just another day. Your mom will be better tomorrow, and so will I.”

I try to return his warmth, but it isn't easy. What he really should say is, nobody knows.

Mom's moods are near unpredictable. Avoiding her triggers isn't easy. Nothing helps enough, short of taking her away from the only thing she loves. No matter how hard this gets, none of us have the heart to force her into a facility.

“Take care of yourself, please. Not just her.” I round the bed while he leans in, grudgingly presenting his cheek for a kiss. “I'd better go. I'll check on her before I'm out the door just to make sure everything's okay.”

“You're a good girl, Sadie. I'm sorry as hell you had to put up with this for so long.” Whatever guilt I carry around, it's nothing compared to the looks he gives me at times like this. “I wish we hadn't pulled you out of school. It was a damn waste. I never should've let Jackson strong-arm you.”

“Nonsense, dad. It was my choice.” Maybe not completely, considering the intense pressure, but no one ever forced me to fall into line. Family matters most. I don't regret putting life on hold to help, however hopeless it turned out to be. “Jackson's been very nice to me today. Whatever happened months ago, or just the other week, it's water under the bridge.”

His eyes flicker hopefully beneath his bushy salt and pepper eyebrows. “I'm glad. Happy New Year, Sarah.” He uses my real name and sends butterflies dashing through my belly.

“Happy New Year.” My fingers give his a parting squeeze, and then I head down. “It'll be better than the last. It has to be.”

Mom is in the kitchen fixing tea. She watches the kettle slowly steaming, her lips an impatient line. “Leaving already? That figures.”

I stop next to the door. What do I say to this crazy person I still love?

“I've got to go, mom. Work. I'll be by next week. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Wait!” She barks the one word that makes me freeze with my hand on the doorknob. I turn, a chill darting up my spine, wondering what's next. “How is he?”

She doesn't mean dad. Jesus, she can't mean...

I give her a rough look, trying to understand. Her head is a mess since she started losing it, true, but I can't fathom why she'd want to know anything about Marshal.

“The Castoff, I mean,” she says, stepping forward, confirming my worst fears. A freshly poured mug smokes in her hand. “Don't be coy with me, dear. Surely, you know what makes him tick by now.”

“Mia, I suppose.” It's as good an answer as any.

“Hm, yes, the little girl. I figured he'd be the weird, overprotective type.”

“Mom, it isn't like that. He really loves her. It could be a whole lot worse, for both of them, I mean.”

She wags her eyebrows, taking a pull off her tea. “So, he's lonely. Compensating for some great tragedy by showering affection on his darling girl. A shame.”

What the hell does she mean? I blink, a small voice in my head begging this to end. Whatever this even is.

“It's terribly predictable. I thought your squeeze would be a lot more interesting with the big dark secret that made him lash out at your brother, turning the town against him. These men, always the same.”

Did she just say...squeeze? “Whoa.” I put my hands out, every part of me in full flight at the mere suggestion. “He's my boss, mom. I'm his nanny. Nothing more.”

She shrugs, taking another sip so full I'm surprised it doesn't scorch her mouth. “So you say. Come back when you're ready to deal with a few more hard truths, Sadie. I'll be waiting.”

I'm so done. “Happy New Year to you, too, mom.”

I don't remember the last time I was so glad to climb into my car.

The relief is far from instant, even on the road, putting comfortable mileage between the circus my parents call home.

A sunburst flush on my cheeks smolders in my half-heated car. Cold weather makes it easier to feel than ever, and I wonder if there's any merit to my mom's insane words.

Every mile closer to Marshal's cabin, new questions charge through my brain, taunting and unpleasant.

The images in my head are even worse. They're Marshal in all his tall, steely-eyed muscle shirt glory. They're tattoos like beds of thorns, sharp words, and stubble that will burn like thistle on my skin.

They're everything I imagine he's doing when my back is turned – the lewd glances I sometimes feel sauntering up my legs, stopping at my ass.

They're fire and ice, January and July, a loving single father with a stoic heart and a hidden beast who will demolish me if our lips ever meet.

Okay.

So what if I can't deny this sick attraction? This weird, messy spark between us?

The rude questions rattling around in my brain are another matter.

Them, I'll defy until my dying breath. I'll toss the grains of truth hidden in my mother's crazy psychobabble on feral ground. A place where they'll never, ever take root.

Because if they do, if I start acting on heart stopping what ifs, we'll both have a lot more to worry about than who's spending evenings with Mia.

* * *

“Five...four...three...two...one! There it is, Happy New Year!” The screaming grin on TV disappears into the thick of Times Square, Auld Lang Syne strumming its bittersweet notes in the background.

It's now past midnight. Another year lost to time's ashes, and a new one in the making.

It's fitting that I spend the first few minutes alone. That's all I've wanted since I came home, saying a few words to Mia. I parked myself in front of the TV as soon as I knew she was in daddy's hands.

I haven't seen Marshal since he took her upstairs. The poor thing didn't last past nine o'clock, passed out on the sofa, a half-eaten candy cane still tucked in her hands. He sent a questioning glance my way before carrying her up, as if to say, everything all right?

I just nodded. Whispered something about an upset stomach, and told him to holler if he needed anything. He didn't hang around to check in with me again. After he came down from tending Mia, he walked straight past the living room, into the kitchen, and then I heard the door click shut.

He's been out there ever since.

I see the soft orange glow of the light illuminating the chill space between the house and his sanctum in the work shed.

It feels wrong that we're both spending the New Year's zenith alone.

But I can't shake the unease I've had ever since I returned.

My stomach growls. Far from upset, I'm starving. I shuffle into the kitchen, searching for any snacks he might have left out. Too bad he's so meticulous everything is in the fridge, the cheese ball he rolled with his huge hands covered in foil.

I grab a box of crackers off the counter and scrape a few bites. It's nutty and flavorful. Surprisingly delicious.

Same with the dips. His homemade salsa nearly bowls me over with how good it is.

One more mark in his sexy column. A man who can make food earns default brownie points, but damn it, I don't need him wracking them up on a scoreboard that shouldn't exist.

I haven't bothered to flick the lights on in the kitchen. The window above the sink catches the light outside. It oozes in from his workshop, another reminder he's out there.

Alone.

Sighing, I put the snacks away and dig through the fridge. There's a six pack of beer in the corner so frosted over it probably hasn't been touched for weeks. I yank off two cans and stuff them into my coat pockets before throwing it on.

I'm not sure what I'm getting into, knocking on his workshop this late. I almost don't expect an answer. But Marshal cracks the door with the same fierce stare I'm slowly getting used to. “Yeah?”

“Happy New Year. It's past midnight. Here's a present.” I reach into my pockets with both hands, holding up the beers. “How about a quick toast? Assuming I'm not interrupting anything, of course.”

A low growl shakes his throat. I wonder if I've barged in on another secret ritual, another part of his life that's meant for his eyes only. He answers my question, stepping aside so I can enter, snatching one of the beers out of my hand.

“Grab a seat, Red. Happy to see your bellyache is better.” He drags a chair out of the corner and props it in front of his bench, where he plops down next to me. He waits to sip his drink until I'm facing him, a glint in his eye that says he knows the upset stomach thing is BS. “Why are you really out here?”

“I didn't want you to be alone. Nobody should ring in the New Year without some company.” My voice is so quiet, popping my beer open sounds like a bullet ricocheting. So do our cheers.

We clink cans and then take long sips. Another growl slips out of him, but this time it's a satisfied one.

“How thoughtful,” he rumbles, clasping his can between his legs. “Too bad I don't need your sympathy, Red. Don't tell me you feel guilty for wanting a night by yourself? Everybody needs a break sometimes.”

I look down, eyes to the floor so they don't get lost deeper in his storm blue eyes. “It isn't that. It's just...what's the matter, Marshal? Really? You spend so much time out here by yourself. I know you're not working.”

His eyes darken a shade, bright skies becoming stormy seas. Guilty.

“I'm not trying to upset you,” I tell him. He's in no rush to answer my awkward questions. “If it isn't any of my business...if this is your private retreat, or something, just say so and I'll –“

“It's bullshit, is what it is.” His words are as deafening as an avalanche. “I spend half my time with Mia. Another forty percent with memories of men who died in combat years ago. The last ten goes to clients who don't give a shit beyond getting their machines fixed, and jackoffs in town who'd love to see the Sheriff fish my carcass out of the river one fine day.”

“Jesus.” I think I already regret this. “They're haters, Marshal, but I'm not sure anybody wants you dead.”

“No? That'd be a big fucking relief for them, I'm sure. Easy. Maybe the Castoff schtick will take me down like Frankenstein or Dracula someday. Everybody treats this place like it's fucking haunted.” He guzzles half his beer, wiping his mouth. Then he lifts his hand and points to the army picture on the wall. “Don't worry yourself, darling, I'm not planning on doing nothing I shouldn't. On the contrary, I'm still alive and kicking. Plus I'd never leave my little girl. Some other boys aren't so lucky.”

“No? What happened?” It oozes out in a whisper. It's hard to keep my eyes on his when they're so incredibly fierce.

At least he doesn't look offended. Thank God. “Botched mission. A real sloppy prick who made some big promises about catching a Taliban lieutenant got good men killed. The raid was supposed to be a cakewalk. I knew in my guts it wouldn't be, and the intel was wrong, but fuck...our commanding officer wouldn't hear it. Our source's reputation was iron-clad, you see. He insisted, ignoring obvious dangers.”

My eyes study his, diving into the pain. It's hard.

I can't tear myself away. Lifting my beer, I gently sip, ready for the gentle buzz to sooth the restless itch in my veins.

“I still hear their screams in my nightmares, Red. Adam, Erik, Zane...they didn't deserve to die like that. Gunned down with their fucking faces melted into vapor by the airstrike that came, without even checking to see if my boys were clear.” He sighs, pushing a rough hand through his hair to bring him back. “I limped away untouched. That's war, though. Sorry for the gruesome image.” He drains his beer and then collapses the can with a vicious squeeze.

“It's fine. I've heard stories from my brother, too. He had it just as bad...came home with a nasty burn. He spent weeks in the hospital getting therapy, skin grafts...” I close my eyes, hating the ordeal Jackson went through, shortly before his honorable discharge.

Marshal doesn't say anything. He gets up, walks across the room, and reaches under the table on the other side of the shop. There's a fresh six pack, chilled from the crisp air in here when the stove isn't going.

He cracks two new beers and hands me one, reclaiming his place. “Fuck bad memories. It's the New Year, isn't it?”

His voice lights me up. The sudden optimism in his voice is a pleasant surprise, however faint. “Right. There's plenty to look forward to. If all goes well, I'll be one step closer to a real career. I hope you make mad money on that big job coming up, too. And Mia, well, she'll be a doll at preschool. I just know it.”

Marshal stares into his beer, taking a long sip. When he looks up, his features have darkened just as mysteriously as they warmed a minute ago. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I like to focus on the present, one minute at a time. Think I'd be a whole hell of a lot crazier if I didn't.”

“Not me. I'd be a goner without goals to work for.” I suck down more beer, its liquid courage adding a defiant note to my voice. “Different strokes, you know?”

He grins, setting his beer down next to him. “Yeah, Red. I do.”

The look in his eyes aimed down at me is new. It's hungry, ferocious, and understanding all in one. It's not the look of my boss or some drunken tough guy who's short on company. It's the way a man sees a woman, the kind of eyes I ignored through high school and college, always too afraid to let it take me away.

“Red?” Marshal's voice drops, and so does his hand.

Pure heat. He gently cups my chin, turning it to face him.

“What?” You already know, I tell myself, and it's amazing I'm not terrified.

“Come the fuck here,” he growls, lifting me up with his strong hands.

Then they're around my waist, joining me to his tight, hard, unrelenting muscle.

His lips are on mine, and those sparks resonating in his deep blue eyes are more numerous than stars.

They're everywhere. Crackling in my tongue, electrifying my flesh, turning that hot, slick urge at the ends of my nipples and between my legs into a beautiful discord.

His tongue presses against mine. I think I moan, and he definitely growls.

His savage hand sweeps down my low back, clasps my ass, and squeezes.

What. Is. Even. Happening?

I can't tell where he begins or I end. That goes double for this new reality, where I'm honest-to-God kissing the Castoff.

I'm kissing Marshal. Marshal freaking Howard.

A dangerous temptation that's now swallowed me like a pit, and I have no clue where it ends.

He breaks the kiss, more reluctant thunder hanging on his lips. “Happy fucking New Year. Had to make it count. Now I think we'd better both turn in.”

What now really means is, before I fuck your brains out.

I nod, too lost for words, pinching his massive arm one last time. It's like I'm trying to check that he's still real and this isn't a dream. “Agreed. I'll help you with dinner tomorrow. Goodnight, Marshal. Thanks for...a memorable start to the year.” That's so lame, but I don't know what else to say.

We share one more look before I remember how my legs work. Then I slip out in the cold. It's close to absolute zero when there's hellfire in my blood.

I was wrong about his stubble.

It isn't harsh or prickly or overwhelming at all. It's soft, but rugged. Tenderly harsh. Another contrast. Enigma, plus one.

Quintessentially Marshal.

And it's left me marked. I'm secretly craving its sweetness, but not on my cheek. I imagine its friction going new places guaranteed to bring me to my knees if I let this not-so-innocent New Year's kiss become more.