My body is jelly after our epic lovemaking session, and I fall into the deepest sleep of my life almost immediately. An unintelligible shout wakes me. Next to me, Wills kicks the blankets off his naked body, uncovering mine as well. I bolt upright and shake his shoulders.

“Wills! Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

He dislodges my hands. In an unrecognizable voice, he growls, “Drop the gun!”

Mon Dieu. He is dripping in sweat, dreaming about the stalker. What should I say? As my internal debate rages, he pins me to the bed beneath him.

“Wills!”

In response, his fingers dig into my upper arms. “I’ll make you pay for what you did.”

At his words, my body goes cold. I scream his name over and over, then kick his shin, the only area to which I have access.

He stills. Blinks rapidly. Then, wide-eyed, shakes his head. “Emilie. What?” He flings himself away from me, his arm over his eyes. “Christ.”

I roll my shoulders. Turning on my side to face the tormented man beside me, I whisper, “Do you have nightmares often?”

He remains immobile. “Sometimes.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No,” is his clipped response.

The depth of his trauma petrifies me. “You should see someone. A therapist can help—”

In a burst of motion, he jumps out of bed and looks around for his clothes. While grabbing his jeans, he says, “I’m fine. I don’t need a therapist.”

“What are you doing? Come back to bed.” I pat the mattress. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

His eyes travel the length of my body. He swallows, and in that instant, I know he is at war within himself. I open my arms to him.

His hands ball into fists. “You’re in over your head, Emilie. I could’ve hurt you.” He shoves his legs into his jeans.

“No, Wills. Stay. We can talk about it.”

“And then what? You can kiss my demons and make them go away?” He laughs, an empty sound that causes my breath to lodge in the back of my throat. “I don’t think so.”

He zips his jeans and heads for the door, picking up his shirt along the way. Before I can manage another word, he is gone.

I collapse onto the bed. How did our fabulous night turn into this? I know in my bones that Wills could not physically hurt me. I just need to convince him of this fact.

One thing is for sure, though. I will never wake him up again.

Sunlight streams in from the windows overlooking the ocean. Memories of our time in the hammock and in this bed flood my brain. I shift, the delicious soreness between my legs bringing a satisfied smile to my face.

Which slides away when I remember his nightmare from early this morning. I glance at his empty side of the bed and sigh.

We had such a breakthrough last night. He was so sweet and loving. We need to get back on track and figure out how to move forward.

Checking the clock, there is plenty of time before we need to head out to the airport. I refuse to let him wallow with just his demons for company.

After showering, I head to his hotel room. Standing outside his door, my arms and legs tingle in anticipation of his reaction. I raise my chin and knock. A minute later, the door opens and Wills stands at the threshold wearing only a pair of shorts. In this light, the dusting of blond hair on his arms and legs seems almost golden. He is a living, breathing sculpted work of art rivaling those in the Louvre. With so much more depth. And pain.

Employing bravado that I do not feel, I ask, “May I come in?”

His hand flexes around the door, then he opens it wide. Sending up a prayer of thanks, I enter his room. It has a sofa and a large bed, and the TV plays “Ninja Heroes.”

He begins, “Listen, I want to apologize for last night.”

“Shh,” I say, placing my finger on his lips and hoping he is referring to his nightmare and not what preceded it. “You cannot control your dreams.”

In a flat voice, he replies, “I hurt you.”

“You did not. You would not. I honestly believe that, Wills. I trust you with my life.” I touch his forearm.

He jumps at our point of contact. Swallowing, his gaze rakes me from head to toe, taking in my jeans, my midriff-baring pink shirt and nude pumps. “You shouldn’t.” His tone is more like a question.

I rub my hand up and down his arm, relishing the goosebumps that form on it. “But I do.”

His mouth opens and closes. “Fuck.” He grabs me by the waist. “I can’t resist you,” he growls as he picks me up. I wrap my legs around his waist as he brings us toward the sofa.

His mouth covers mine on the short walk, the frenzy of his tongue driving my hunger. He deposits my feet on the floor and turns me so my hips are aligned with the sofa’s arm. “Pull your jeans and panties down, Ems.” My hands are only too willing to rush to do his bidding, while the rustling of his shorts tells me he is doing the same.

Naked from the waist down, I step out of my pumps and kick my clothing aside. “Put the shoes back on,” his plea is whispered directly into my ear. I immediately comply to the sound of a foil packet opening.

His arms encircle at my waist, his right-hand dipping down to test my readiness. If I could find my words, I would have let him know I was instantly wet when he opened the door for me. Instead, I moan.

“God, you’re fucking amazing.” He kisses my back and guides me to bend over the arm. His knee comes between my legs and his cock rubs all around my sex. “So hot.” He lines himself up with me and enters my body.

“Wills,” I manage, pushing backwards.

In this position, I can do little more than accept everything he gives to me. I reach my arm back, grabbing onto his butt and relishing how his glutes flex with every thrust into my body. I turn my head upward and his lips crash down on mine again. Our tongues mimic what our bodies are doing. The shimmer of an orgasm begins from deep within me, causing me to break the kiss.

“That’s it, Ems.”

His passion-filled voice is my undoing. My body explodes around him, forcing an incoherent scream to leave my lips. Wills thrusts into me once more and stills. He roars as he spills into me.

Soon, too soon, he kisses the back of my neck and pulls back. I test my legs until I am sure they will support my weight. I watch him tie off the condom and head to the bathroom, then he returns to my side wearing his shirt and a smirk. “Those pumps blow my mind.”

“They are not called ‘fuck me pumps’ for nothing.” Our laughs fill the room, all thoughts of nightmares banished. For now.

A while later, we lie together in his bed. Placing my hand on his chest, I play with the chain around his neck, kissing here and there. My tongue outlines the tattoo over his heart. He has another one on his bicep, which I saw last night when he carried me into my suite.

“You are amazing, have I told you that?” As he speaks, he tangles his legs with mine, holding me in place. Always seeking control. Or to hold his demons at bay.

Banishing that last thought, I reply, “Only about one-hundred times last night, but I never will tire of hearing that from your mouth. And you, Wills, are more than I ever could have imagined.” Everything I learn about this man pulls me deeper and deeper under his thrall. From his pain to his perseverance. “Tell me the stories behind your tattoos.”

He studies me for a long moment and tucks my head under his chin. “This one,” he taps my hand on his chest, “is a stylized Zodiac symbol for Gemini, my sign. It also was my sister’s.”

He does not say anything more. I lean back from his body and take a long look at the symbol gracing his pectoral muscle. Gemini, meaning “twins.” I inhale. “Was your sister also…”

“My twin. Yes.”

“You said she was your younger sister.”

“By three minutes.”

My heart suspends beating. Twins have so much in common that they do not share with others—I have twin cousins and have seen it first-hand. He lost his other half. Warmth rushes through my body that has nothing to do with the passion we shared overnight. “Oh, Wills, I am doubly sorry.”

He swallows, his arms coming around my body. This is not a passionate embrace, and I return it, trying to provide some measure of comfort to this complicated, sweet, wonderful man.

“Did you two look alike? I mean, I know you were fraternization twins and all, but did you share any attributes?”

His swift bark of laughter catches me off-guard. “That’s ‘fraternal twins,’ Ems.” He laughs again. Laughter while talking about such a sad subject must be good. I file the correct term away, not even fully understanding or feeling embarrassed about my misstep. When he recovers his breath, he says, “Our eyes were the same. And our noses. She liked to say I had a girl nose.”

I cannot resist. My finger follows his very masculine nose from top to tip. “I like your nose. It suits you.”

His mouth opens and he closes around my finger, giving it a little nip. “Of course, I told her she had a huge boy nose.” He chuckles again and his blue eyes become unfocused.

I want to know as much as he will give me. “Care to share?”

He looks at me as if he forgot I was at his side. “I was remembering her wedding. In my toast, I said something along the lines of I was so glad she finally found a guy who could overlook her obvious male nose and put up with her.”

I smile. “I bet your parents had a handful with you two. Did you ever pull anything over on them?”

He turns his head away from me, his body growing taut under my fingertips. A few moments later, he clears his throat. “We were your typical siblings.”

There is more—much more—to this story. Although his posture screams for me to let it be, I cannot. Maybe I will be able to help him heal this part of his life? “I remember you told me about your Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes. Who was your Daddy’s favorite? Did his daughter have him wrapped around her finger, or did his strapping son get all of the attention?”

On the pillow, his head turns to mine. His body flips from unwilling to hostile with the flare of his nostrils. “My father always pitted us against each other.”

I cannot imagine growing up like that. True, Maman and Papa pushed Gerard and me to do better, but they never had us competing against each other. “I am sure your father wanted the best for both of you.”

“He wanted us to fall in line, not color outside of them. When I told him I wasn’t going into the Marines like him—” He stops. I resume tracing his Gemini tattoo, urging him to continue. I sense this is more important for him to talk about than even he knows.

After a protracted silence, he continues, “My sister and I shared our own language, just like you’ve heard about twins doing. It was really more of a shorthand. She called me ‘Brot,’ for brother-twin. In return, I started calling her ‘Three,’ since she was born three whole minutes after me. We referred to our father as FPU, for Father Parental Unit. It drove him nuts.”

I meet his eyes and he continues, “Even at her funeral, the flower arrangement I ordered was in the form of the number three. Mom burst into tears when she saw it. FPU told me he expected I would’ve treated my sister with more respect, especially since she died instead of me.”

I suck in a gasp. Tears coat my cheeks for such cruelty from the person who was supposed to love him unconditionally—his father. My family could not be more different from his. “How awful.”

He wipes my tears away with his thumbs, staring at the moisture. “FPU never approved of tears, either. Said they’re a waste.” He rubs his fingers together.

“No, they are not. They show the depth of your feelings.”

His shoulders rise in a shrug. How did we go from making love to discussing tears? I play with what must be his sister’s dog tags on their chain. It is so fitting that he wears them. Maybe his other tattoo will have better memories? “What about your other tattoo? Can I see it?”

He turns onto his side so that his right bicep is up, and I lean back to examine it. It sports two very intricate tribal bands that are interwoven. They look slightly familiar. “Gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” He returns to his back on the bed and pulls me to him as if he needs me to breathe. “Do you remember Jared and Roberto?”

“Of course. Jared was with Cole and me when we were in Paris together last Thanksgiving.” They were added to Cole’s security detail after Wills was shot in the shoulder by Cole’s crazy stalker, Starr. Then she killed both men, before Wills eliminated her. Their funerals were filled with so many people. And tears. Now that I think about it, however, none of those tears were from Wills.

“Both Jared and Roberto had tribal armband tatts. I designed this one to honor them.”

Now that Wills has explained it, I remember seeing Jared’s tattoo when he was guarding us. I did not know Roberto too well, but I seem to recall seeing his armband tattoo, too. Wills may not show his emotions to the world, but they are imprinted on his body. “You are such a good man.”

“No, Ems, I’m not. If I were, we wouldn’t be here right now. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.” He motions to his tattoos. “People die around me. Because of me.”

“None of this was your fault. You saved Cole and Rose from Starr.”

He emits a sad chuckle. “Yeah. And Jared and Roberto paid the price. Not to mention I have my sister’s death on my hands, too.”

I am at a loss about how to reach him and make him see all these deaths are not his fault. I do not know how to do that, so I do the only thing I can do to make him feel better. I kiss the corner of his mouth, caressing his tattoos. He is not resisting me, but he is not encouraging me, either.

“Let me make you feel better.” I kiss down the side of his neck. When he lifts his head to give me better access, I know he is accepting my comfort.

Which turns to passion once his arms encircle my waist.

Following another amazing round with Wills, I leave his room to get my things. My body is sore in all the right places, while my heart hurts for what he has had to deal with. The nightmares he fights. I know he will always keep me safe, no matter what he thinks. The way he handled my body tells me that more than words.

Peering at my reflection in the mirror, I apply another coat of UC Cosmetics lip gloss in pink, and sigh. Filming their commercial was alright, but I wish they had listened to my suggestions. Once I put on my jewelry and adjust my belt, I am ready for the airport. Where I will need to face the paparazzi again. And so will he. My heart is heavy for the pain he carries.

While I wait for him to get me, I check my emails. Monsieur Price sent me one marked “schedule.” I open it to find out that my movie cameo is scheduled for later this week, and I have a little break before heading down to Miami for the Ratatat shoot. The dates stretch through October. On a whim, I forward the email to Wills.

I prepare for the usual surge of excitement about the possibilities of new gigs, but it does not come. Excitement about spending more time with Wills elicits a different type of surge throughout my body.

I revisit the very unusual question Wills recently asked me—Do I like being a model? Do I? It is all know. It is what I do. That has to be enough. I guess.

Closing my eyes, I shove such unwanted thoughts into the back recesses of my brain and open my Instagram app. I become engrossed with responding to my followers’ questions about how to improve their outfits.

A knock at my door almost makes me drop my phone. I cross my suite and answer the door. Wills stands in the doorway wearing dark blue jeans that ride low on his hips. A light blue button-down shirt is untucked, with a duffel in one hand. My mouth goes dry.

“Ready?”

I croak, “Oui.”

On the street, he opens the limo door for me, and I slip inside. “Wills,” I stop him from shutting the door. “Ride with me.” I pat the seat next to me.

He stands outside, his eyes darting from the front seat and back to me.

“Please,” I say in English. When he does not move, I repeat in French, “S’il vous-plaît.”

His head falls backward and he mutters something under his breath. The only word I understand is “French.” Whatever, it worked because he now sits next to me. “Ems, I am supposed to be your bodyguard, and bodyguards don’t ride with their clients.”

“You are so much more than my bodyguard, and you know it.” I want everything with this man. He is my future. I want to introduce him to my family. Maman will love him, because I do. The realization makes me suck in a breath. Now is not the right time to tell him, though.

Since his family is in LA, we should start by meeting his. I cannot accept his description of how he and his father interact. “I would like to meet your family.”

He pulls back from me, his eyebrows pulled together so they form a harsh “V.” “What brought that on?”

“Couples meet important people in each other’s lives. I want to introduce you to my family, but they live in Paris and I will not be out there for a few more weeks. Your parents live in LA.”

He makes a choking sound. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

Too soon to call us a couple? I need to give him a little glimpse into how I am feeling. “Wills, we have known each other for over a year. After what happened last night, and this morning,” I say with a smirk, “I definitely want us to be exclusive.” Demons be damned. I am one hundred percent certain about us.

“Ems, there isn’t anyone else in the picture and, yes, last night was mind-blowing. But, I can’t let myself get too close to you. Even if it’s not my intention, I will hurt you. I think I proved that without even trying to this morning.” He glances out the window. “And, believe me, you don’t want to meet my parents.”

I sigh. “I am willing to go slow, but I want to know you. All of you. If not your parents yet, I would like to meet your friends.” I kiss his cheek, hoping to erase the tension I caused by bringing up exclusivity as well as his parents.

“I don’t really need to be around that many people. I’m fine alone.” He huffs and looks out the window. “I keep to myself basically.”

Sounds lonely. He has been through so much—losing his twin and partners, all within two years. At that moment, I vow to bring happiness into his life. Not with parties and events, because I know, first-hand, how fake they can be. But with real connections. I reach out to smooth his tense jaw. “You met my friends Lizzie and Val. And you already know Cole, Rose and McKenna, of course.”

He blows air through his mouth. “I guess I could introduce you to Zak. He was Cole’s personal trainer and he’s going to be my right-hand at Complete.”

“I would like to meet him. Seems like we have another thing in common.” When he does not respond, I continue, “Our professional lives kept us on the go and prevented us from making too many friendships. Which is why it hurt so much for me to miss Rose’s bridal shower. Thank you, again, for letting me be a part of it, even if it was by FaceTime.”

“Glad to have helped.” He takes my hand and kisses it.

“I want to help you, too. Out of bed as well as in it.”

He smirks. “You do a good job in it.”

Heat creeps up my cheeks. “As do you. And on sofas, in the shower—”

His lips take mine in a kiss that leaves me breathless.

Wills strokes my cheek. “We’re almost at the airport. I hate to say this, but you need to get ready for them.”

By “them,” he means the paparazzi. I push my head back into the limo’s seat, closing my eyes for a second. Blinking, I look into his worried ones. “Oui. I am ready to give them their photos.”

“I’ll be right behind you, Angel. We’ll get through security and into the VIP lounge in no time.”

Angel. “It is all good so long as I am with you.” I lean over and kiss his lips, taking his strength into my body. Soon, the limo stops, Wills puts on his sunglasses and slips out and holds the door open for me. Showtime.

I place my hand into his offered one, and suck in my breath at the energy transfer. His hand closes around mine as I step onto the pavement. When I stand, he releases me, whispering, “I have our luggage and I’ll be right behind you.”

I nod, don my professional smile and begin walking toward the front door. Various passengers walk in front of me, but no reporters. Yet.

“Emilie Dubois!”

And there they are. I keep my head focused ahead, on the airport doors. Let them get their photos.

“Do you have any comment about Llitzy House dumping you?” What? I must have misunderstood the question. Left, right, left, right.

“Are you jealous that Geonna is with Rinaldo?” What are they talking about? Left, right, left, right.

“Give us a smile, Emilie!”

Maybe if I stop, they will take their pictures and leave me alone. With Wills. I stop. Smiling as if I were on the catwalk, I am blinded by flashbulbs.

“Do you have any comment about this?” A photographer holds up a magazine, but spots dance in front of my eyes. Blinking, my vision clears.

My hand flies to my mouth. “Qui est-ce?”

The front page shows a photo of Rinaldo embracing Geonna. The headline screams, Geonna Broz named new face of Llitzy House. Below that, the subhead twists the knife. Emilie Dubois loses both her man and her contract to Geonna. In the upper left-hand corner, a photo is circled in red. It shows Rinaldo and me sunbathing together on the deck of his friend’s yacht off Ibiza at least two years ago.

What is going on? I do not understand. No matter what, I cannot let them see my confusion, so I maintain my smile and my silence. The paparazzi grow in numbers and surround me. Smile. Breathe. I cannot walk without going around—or through—someone.

As if sensing my distress, Wills appears at my side. In a tone I have never heard from him before, he barks, “Let her pass.”

More flashbulbs go off in my face. I remain smiling. Motionless. Someone thrusts the tabloid at me, which I tuck under my arm. Next to me, Wills uses his duffel bag to keep them from pressing in on me.

“Come on, Ems.”

He barrels forward. I walk side-by-side with him in the space he creates, my body language never changing. Not providing them with any ammunition that the cover means anything to me. Because with Wills in my life, it does not.

Once we enter the airport, paparazzi in tow, Wills calls over a representative. She escorts us over to a counter on the far end of the hallway. Soon, we are through ticketing, security and sitting in the VIP Lounge, away from prying eyes.

“Wait here. I’ll get us drinks. Lord knows, we need them.”

While Wills gets our beverages, I look at the tabloid the photographer gave me. Rinaldo holds Geonna, his lips on her neck. Her casual outfit of skinny jeans and crop top mirrors mine, although she is wearing Jimmy Choo sandals rather than Louboutin stilettos. Her bag is Llitzy House.

The photo of Rinaldo and me is years old. Right after it was taken, our schedules sent us off in different directions for months. Whenever we got to see each other afterwards, we were sent out to do publicity. He loved the cameras and all the attention. When I tried to get him to go different places, like a museum or hiking, he balked. Not because he did not like the venue, but rather he knew the paparazzi would not be there. Even on the yacht, we knew the photographers were watching. He lives for them, unlike me.

I trace his profile. He is handsome, oui. That is what first drew my attention to him. But Wills is gorgeous, and so much more. Until Wills, I did not know what I was missing.

He returns and hands me a vodka tonic and takes a big gulp out of his martini. With one more swallow, he slams it back and places the empty glass on the floor. His hand rakes though his hair, which has grown out quite a bit.

“That was a shitshow.”

“They were doing their jobs. It was much more intense this time, though. Because of this.” I hold up the tabloid.

He rips it out of my hands and stares at it, his cheek moving from the inside. He crumples it up and throws it on the seat next to him, his hands balled into fists. I place my hand on his thigh.

My phone pings with an incoming text and I fish my cell phone out of my Kate Spade bag. “Lloyd Price” is the sender. I take a deep breath.

Llitzy House decided not to renew your contract. They’ve signed Geonna. When you land, come right in to the office and we’ll discuss next moves.

I lob my phone back into my purse. “The tabloid is right. I lost another contract to Geonna.”

“I’m sorry. Come here.” He opens his arms and I crawl into his lap. How can someone so open and sweet to me be so closed off from the rest of the world?

“Want to talk about it?”

“Llitzy House did not renew with me. They hired her. It is not just a rumor after all.”

He strokes my back. “And how does that make you feel?”

I consider his question. “I feel.” I inventory my feelings. I am not tearing my hair out, crying or screaming in anguish. “Disappointed. Like I let my Agency down. But, also relieved. How can that be?”

He squeezes me. “You didn’t let anyone down. If anything, your Agency didn’t fight hard enough for you. And as for feeling relieved, well, maybe you need a break.”

“A break? From modeling? It is who I am.”

“You’ve said that before, and I have to disagree. It’s not who you are, it’s what you do. How long have you been modeling?”

“Ten years.”

“That’s a long time.”

I cock my head at him. “It is. A lot of frequent flier miles.”

He smiles. “Not to mention constantly watching everything you eat, exercising all the time. Being perfect for the paparazzi.” He strokes my hair. “Missing important events.”

He is voicing thoughts I have not had the courage to even think. My voice drops. “I like being a model.”

“I’m sure you do. And you’re great at it. But, I’ve been watching you over these past two weeks. You know the most excitement I saw from you when you were working?” I shake my head. “When you saw the starfish family.”

“They were cute.”

“It’s okay to make changes.”

“Changes? What else can I do?”

“I don’t know what’s in here.” He taps my heart. “I remember when we went dancing at the club’s grand opening and met Lizzie. You two talked about her business. Did she always want to design furniture?”

“I do not know. But her stuff is amazing.” I bite my lip. Dare I say it? Wills squeezes me again. In a tiny voice, I admit, “I like giving style advice.”

He kisses my forehead. “I bet you’re fantastic at it.”

A fluttery feeling takes over my chest. “Well, my Instagram followers appreciate it. Although, they do not know it is me.” At his puzzled look, I elaborate. “I set up the account under a different name. I did not want to attract followers because of my name. I wanted them to like the advice.”

He chuckles. “My girl is smart.”

My girl. I like that.

“How many followers do you have?

I shrug. “Somewhere around a hundred thousand.”

He chuckles. “That’s all?”

I play with his fingertips. “I love helping people make tweaks to their outfits. Did you know I am the spokesmodel for the charity Wear Your Win? It helps people who have been out of the workforce to dress for interviews.”

“Sounds right up your alley.”

“I love it.” My eyes land on the crumpled tabloid. “But what can I do with this skill?”

“I’m sure there are plenty of outlets. Haven’t you been contacted as a fashion influencer for your Instagram account?”

“Oui. But, of course, I could not take them up on any offers given who I really am.”

“Sounds like you have a gift for helping other people, Ems. Maybe that’s what you need to focus on next. You’re exactly what I’ve been calling you all this time, an Angel in disguise.”

He says it with a smile, but his words have me thinking that the life I am returning to might not be the one I left just days ago.