I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover, but it wasn’t from the alcohol, it was from the guilt. My head throbbed, and my eyes were blurry. God, I hated myself for dashing out of there last night after he’d asked me to stay. I could’ve been honest with him about finding his loaded gun and asked him if he was suicidal. What was wrong with me? How could I claim to want to be a psychologist if I ran away at the first sign of trouble?

I also should’ve just opened up to him, told him I used to be on Dancing under the Stars. Maybe we could’ve connected. He would’ve probably understood how fame distorted reality since he was also in the public eye. A brief fantasy of grabbing brunch after incredible morning sex, maybe topped off by a walk on the beach later in the day, filled my head. We’d fall into a deep relationship before either of us really knew what had happened.

But more than likely, opening up would’ve just led to nothing.

But I didn’t feel sorry for stealing his bullet. Granted, he was a Marine, so I was pretty sure he had more ammo around the house. At least if he had a weak moment, he would have to reload his gun, and even that short delay could potentially save his life. I’d missed all the signs that my mother was suicidal, so I refused to regret being proactive.

I did entertain the thought that my action could’ve possibly put his life in more danger. An intruder could break into his place, Grady could reach for his gun, think it was loaded, and then shoot, and lose his life. But that was the chance I’d taken, and my gut told me that he had a higher likelihood of committing suicide than of being robbed.

I Googled him the second I returned home. He had been so beautiful before he’d been injured. Kind of looked like a young Elvis Presley but with a way better body. I was still attracted to him, even with his disfigurement and scars. In a way, it made him sexier. More badass.

My fingers shook as I clicked away. I glanced around my room—a dust bunny perched on my nightstand, last night’s costume in a pile on the floor, a day-old coffee mug on my desk. I definitely wasn’t neat like Grady. I wondered if he had always been that clean and organized or if being a Marine made him that way.

I hoped he didn’t think I’d left because of his injuries. I shuddered, thinking I could have possibly made him feel like he disgusted me. Maybe I was being conceited—he clearly knew he had a great body and could get any woman. Maybe he’d been relieved when I’d left.

Another link took me to his official webpage. I laughed when the page loaded—it played that song “Grenade” by Bruno Mars. I loved that Grady could keep a sense of humor about his injuries. On second thought, that song would make a good rumba . . .

I missed dancing, connecting to the floor, expressing the emotion of a song. For years it had been my outlet, kept me sane when my family life was chaotic. But after my mom killed herself during my last night on the show, the memories of me dancing had been laced with tragedy.

Wow, Grady wasn’t the only one who needed therapy.

Despite all my intense work on myself, I was cognizant enough to realize that I was completely screwed up. I’d never been in a healthy relationship. And my own interaction with my father was complicated. He’d become distant after my mom died, not that I blamed him.

And he refused to talk about my mother.

I tried to tell my father once how much I needed to share memories about her with him, but he claimed it was too painful to remember. I thought it was more painful to forget.

I closed my eyes, and replayed last night over again, haunting questions increasing my anxiety. Would I ever be able to find a man who was emotionally present and responsible? Would Grady ever recover from war? Could he move on from his traumas and find happiness in a normal, stable life? A man like that, so strong and sexy . . . I wondered what it would be like to be his.

But I’d never know. I’d closed that door before it was even cracked.

After stalking Grady, I finally closed the window, determined to push him out of my mind. I logged in again to my student services account, hoping the hold on my account had mysteriously vanished in the night, but unfortunately it remained.

Something was off. My father hadn’t even returned my text.

A thought chilled me. Was he avoiding me?

I rummaged through my notebook to find my passwords. Finally, I was able to log in to my trust fund, a fund I had set up with my earnings from Dancing under the Stars. I had made my father trustee.

The blinking screen seemed to take forever to refresh. But there was no mistaking the negative balance in glaring red.

-$359.

What in the world? This had to be a mistake. I had checked last quarter and had over thirty-five thousand dollars. Definitely more than enough for this final year of school.

I shot off a frantic text to my dad. Maybe he was in Vegas or on one of his benders? I would not wait for him to respond. First thing tomorrow morning, I would head to the bank. No one else had access to these funds— except my father.

And he would never touch it.

Would he?