Arriving at O’Hare three hours before our flight, a jittery mix of nerves and excitement churn in my belly. What are we doing? Running away? Starting over?

“I assume you have your passport?” Trick glances over at me as we get out of the cab.

“Yes.” I grin because he still hasn’t told me where we’re going, and I haven’t asked.

We check in and snake our way through the snail-paced security line. I’ve now discovered we’re headed to Los Cabos, but Trick assures me it’s not our final destination.

“Lunch?”

I nod as we walk to a bar and grill down from our terminal. It’s now after noon so the place is packed. We opt to eat at the bar to save time.

“Two lemonades.” Trick orders for us while we look over the menu.

As I glance from the cob salad on one page to the grilled portobello sandwich on the next page, something familiar catches my attention on the TV behind the bar. My eyes flit side to side over the words of the closed caption.

My father.

I grip Trick’s arm and he follows my gaze. My father’s being escorted from the hospital through a crowd of reporters and photographers, arm in a sling and his face banged up. It’s hard to tell to what extent because of the bandages and his sunglasses.

The words on the screen flash across too fast. I can’t make sense of it all.

“… home invasion … Senator Carmichael was assaulted in his sleep … suspicious malfunction in the security recordings … no one knows how the intruder made it past the guards …”

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

Trick looks back at his menu. “I think I’m going to get the turkey club. What are you getting?”

My breath catches in my throat as I inch my head to the side, eyes wide. His gaze eases from the menu to me. He knows the question, and the longer he stares at me, emotionless, I know the answer. My eyes slip to his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs with a deep swallow, then my eyes go back to his.

“I’m only going to say this once.” He pauses as if to make sure I hear the serious depth of his voice, or maybe to make sure I hear the unwavering tone of it.

I nod once with slow apprehension.

“No one will ever get away with hurting you. Understood?”

My blood turns to ice; my mind reels. I was so out of it last night. That’s how he managed to sneak away without me knowing. My God, he thinks this is tit for tat. He broke into the home of a U.S. senator and assaulted him in his sleep and—

“Darby?”

My eyes focus again. Trick gestures to the bartender waiting to take my order.

“Um … cob salad, Italian dressing.”

He smiles then turns to put our order into the computer.

“Hey,” Trick calls to the bartender. “Can you change the channel?”

The bartender grabs a remote under the counter and flips the channel to some daytime talk show.

“Thanks,” Trick says. Turning toward me, he scoots my stool closer to his and cups the back of my head, bringing my face a breath away from his. “What he did to you is not okay. I don’t even want to know if it was the first time he laid his fucking hands on you. But I can promise you, it was the last.” He presses his lips to my forehead.

“But you could go to jail,” I whisper with a shaky voice.

Trick releases my head and sits back, chuckling. “Did you see my picture on the TV?”

“He probably doesn’t know who did it.”

Trick takes a drink and crushes a piece of ice between his teeth. “Oh, he knows, but he also received a photo of you sleeping last night, with your face looking the way it does.” He looks at my face. “Well, before I covered it up for you this morning.”

“You’re blackmailing my father,” I whisper, looking around us.

Trick rubs the back of his fingers under his chin. “Absolutely not. I just sent him the photo. Whatever conclusions he makes are all his own.”

I pull my phone out of my handbag. The battery went dead last night and I don’t remember turning it back on after charging it. There has to be a message from my father or Nana. But when I turn it on and check, there’s nothing.

“I should call him.”

Trick shakes his head and laughs. “And say what? That you’re sorry someone hit him?”

“He’s my father.”

“He’s a sperm donor.”

I flinch. His comment stings … the truth can do that.

Trick leans in, squeezing my leg with his hand. “If you want to stay, just say so.”

As my tongue brushes my lip, I rest my hand on his. This isn’t a question that should have to be answered. “I want to be with you.”

“You can be with me if we stay.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to stay.”

Trick skims my cheek with his thumb, an ease to his facial expression. “Me neither.”

We land in Los Cabos and Trick informs me we’re renting a car to drive to Todos Santos, our final destination. Then he informs me we’ll only use the rental until he arranges to have his motorcycle shipped down here. In this moment the reality of what we’re doing hits me. I told Nana I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, but I told my work I needed an extended leave for personal reasons—I didn’t actually quit. But … I’m still in. Wherever Trick goes, I go.

“Let’s get a cab to the nearest car dealership.”

Trick takes our luggage from the carousel. “We’re not buying a car.”

“Well maybe we’re not, but I am. It rains in Mexico too.”

“That’s why we either stay in or wear our rain gear for the bike. Come.” He takes off toward the doors.

“We can’t have sex on the back of your motorcycle.”

He stops, allowing me to catch up. Pursing his lips, his eyes trail down my body. “I beg to differ, but if that’s why you want a car, then…” he turns and continues through the doors “…suit yourself.”

“Typical guy.”

“What’s that?” he asks, hoisting our luggage into the back of the taxi.

I smile. “Nothing.”

Trick stares at my new purchase with his hands resting on his hips. “It’s a chick mobile and a bait and switch. There’s no way we’ll be having sex in the back of that thing. You should have bought the Escalade.”

I hand him the keys to my little red Saab. “Yeah, well we’ll give it a go once we get out of town a ways.”

He snatches the keys and slips on his sunglasses. “If we’re out of town, no need to cram in the back. I’ll just fuck you on the hood.”

I open the passenger door and look at him over the frames of my sunglasses. “The hood will be too hot from the engine.”

We both say “trunk” in unison and hop in the car.

He starts the car and puts his hand on the gear shift. I put my hand over his. He looks at me.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

I lean over and kiss him. It’s slow, our tongues making lazy strokes together. His hand moves from the gear shift to my face and when I start to pull away he holds me to him, dropping the softest kiss ever to the corner of my fat lip. “For wanting to make memories with me.” I smile.

“I love you, Darby Roth.”

My brows peak. “I’m not your wife, yet.”

He puts the car in gear and pulls out. “You will be … soon.”

My initial grin snaps into a grimace as my enthusiasm grows so big it pulls at my lip. Every ounce of my being does a happy dance. If this is karma for all the years I tried to find friends, tried to fit in with no avail, then I love her. Karma and I are BFFs … well, after Trick of course.

We roll down the windows and let in the warm breeze. I’m in paradise and it has nothing to do with Mexico.

“Why Todos Santos?”

“Have you been?” He gives me a quick sidelong glance.

“Nope, have you?”

He shakes his head with a mega-watt-just-for-Darby grin. “My parents met in Todos Santos.”

“Seriously?”

He nods, eyes on the road ahead. “Christmas break their senior year of high school. Their parents rented places next door to each other on the beach. His family was from Utah, her family lived in Minnesota. They both told the story the same way … love at first sight.” He chuckles. “I hated hearing it over and over again. Now I’d give anything to see their eyes light up as they narrate every word, both sharing parts of the story like lines of a play.”

“So how’d they end up …” I hate even saying the word. The thought of Trick and his family homeless cuts so deep, especially after seeing that picture he drew of them. It was them having everything and nothing at the same time.

“Homeless?”

I nod.

“They wrote letters and talked on the phone until after they both graduated in the spring. My dad even switched his college plans to attend school with my mom. So the summer before their freshman year of college they met up in Colorado to camp for four weeks in the mountains. Neither set of parents approved, but they were both adults so there wasn’t much they could do.”

Trick pauses and I want to ask more questions but I know he’s not done with the story. He works his lower lip between his teeth, so I wait.

“A week after they started college my mom found out she was pregnant with me. Her parents campaigned for an abortion, and his basically disowned him. His parents found religion…” he glances over at me “…and I say that because had they actually found God there’s no way they would have disowned their own child over the creation of a life.”

“I take it they decided to keep the baby.” I grin and he does too.

“Yes, I’m here.” He sighs as if the story has only just begun. “My dad had planned on majoring in business and working on Wall Street, and my mom was studying music and had dreams of attending Juilliard. So with both parents against them and having basically nothing except a baby on the way, they moved to New York. My dad got an entry level job on Wall Street, aka as a janitor, and my mom taught piano lessons through a music outreach program in the city. They had a one room apartment…” another glance over at me “…not as in one bedroom, as in one room. Even making rent on it was a struggle for them. Then I came along and with no insurance they brought home a baby and a truckload of hospital bills. By the time I was five the outreach program had shut down and three weeks later my dad lost his job … I guess when Wall Street isn’t doing well even the janitorial staff is affected. Neither one could find work and eventually they were evicted.”

I hate hearing this because there’s such a misconception about the homeless, as if all of the people who end up on the street are addicts and lazy people with no work ethic. I will never look at a homeless person the same way again.

“So why didn’t they go home?”

Trick shrugs. “Neither one had talked to their parents since they left for New York. Five years later I don’t think they felt like they still had family. I’m sure pride was a big factor too. My dad was a proud man, even with nothing but the clothes on his back, he was still a proud man. He was never a panhandler and hated it when he saw my mom doing it. She had a child to feed and would toss her pride aside and beg for money to buy food. I admired them both for what they believed in. My dad never let the circumstances define him, and my mother … I think she would have asked family for help, but she loved my dad too much to ever do that to him.”

I wipe away a few tears. I’m sure it would never get made into a movie, but right now I feel the story of Trick’s parents, the forbidden, unstoppable love, and the way they truly lived out their “for better or worse,” was just … beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful love story I have ever heard.

There’s a cloud of somberness over the rest of our drive to Todos Santos. I imagine Trick’s mind stays with his past, maybe the times he remembers, maybe trying to figure out the parts he doesn’t. I think about my own life and what different paths we both took to get here. I would never say it out loud, but a part of me envies what he had growing up. It sounds crazy, I know it does, but he had two parents who loved each other and adored him. I had everything I needed and plenty I didn’t, and thankfully, so very thankfully, I had my nana. But I am the poster child for money can’t buy happiness.

Everything about Trick’s past spirals back to his parents. How did they both just disappear? He was still a child, fifteen, but still a child—their only child. It doesn’t make sense that they would leave him without a single word. But it also doesn’t make sense that they would both just vanish or die without a trace. But every time I mention my suspicion or lack of understanding to Trick, his pain makes me feel like I’m stomping on their graves.

“What do you think?” Trick asks as we pull up and stop on a dirt drive.

I hop out and scuff my flip-flopped feet across the hard dirt to an old wooden gate painted rustic red.

“It’s all I could come up with on short notice…” Trick walks up behind me “…we’re just renting it. I know it’s nothing huge—”

“I love it.” I turn and throw my arms around his neck. He hugs me back, lifting me off the ground. “I love it … it’s perfect.”

He chuckles. “You haven’t even seen the inside, and it’s dark. You can’t see much out here either.”

Releasing him, I practically bust through the gate to see more. The house is authentic Mexican architecture, with arched doors and windows, adobe exterior painted what looks like a muted sand color, and traditional tile roof. I walk a few more steps then turn a complete circle in awe of the lush gardens and fruit trees.

“Don’t act impressed. I know you’ve seen places much fancier than this.” Trick hangs back a few steps and his rare moment of insecurity saddens me.

I shake my head. “I’m in awe of the moment … this moment in my life.” Retreating, I place my palms on his cheeks. “It’s everything. It’s the house, these gardens, and us. I don’t ever want to leave.” My mind registers what I just said, but it only takes a moment to realize … it’s the truth.

Trick grabs the back of my legs and lifts me up. My hands in his hair, his lips on mine, and this world—our world—it’s paradise. He moves to my neck and I moan. “What are we going to christen first?” he mumbles along my skin.

I giggle. “If you don’t stop, I think the dirt beneath our feet will be first.”

“Suit yourself.”

My stomach flips as he starts to lower us to the ground. “Trick! I’m not serious.”

He sets me on my feet and nips my neck, followed by a smack on my ass. “Get inside. Between this and the backseat sex that never happened you’re being a tease today.”

I try to turn the knob. “It’s locked.”

“The owner said he’d leave a key under the planter.”

Bingo!

We walk through the doorway and find the light switch. It’s surprisingly spacious with modern appliances, handcrafted stonework, and Mexican tile.

“There’s no furniture.”

“It’s a rental, not a vacation home. I’ll grab our luggage.”

I walk out to the covered courtyard, welcomed by the rhythmic, lapping waves of the Pacific and the glassy reflection of the moon off its dark surface.

“Well, it’s our lucky night. Someone left a lounge chair.” Trick sets down our luggage and hugs me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

I glance off to the right at the wicker chaise lounge with a weathered blue cushion. “We’re going to sleep on that?”

“We’ll pull it inside. It’s just for one night. At least it’s a roof over our heads.”

Ouch!

I turn in his arms. “Absolutely.” I grin, not wanting to seem like a spoiled little rich girl for a single second. “Let’s check out the rest of our place.”

He kisses me. “Mmm … our … I like that.”

We take our luggage upstairs to the master bedroom. A full wall of windows and double doors opening to a private terrace and a picturesque view of the ocean greets us.

“Wow!”

Trick’s lip twitches when I look over at him. He’s pleased and so am I.

He sets down our suitcases. “We’re never leaving.”

I laugh. “Uh yeah, … never.”

I have a small glimpse of the magic Trick’s parents had between them as Trick holds me in his arms on our gifted lounge chair, surrounded by darkness. It really doesn’t matter where we are … it only matters that we’re together.

“Trick?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you have such an aversion to women?”

His neck stiffens as he takes a deep swallow. “My past.”

“The part you remember?”

“The part I don’t.”

“How can that be, if you don’t remember?”

He sighs. “After my accident, Grady talked with people who either lived near my building or worked in the area. One guy who owned a food truck that he parked on the corner of my building told Grady he occasionally saw me coming and going, usually with a woman, but not always the same one and they were definitely older than me. Grady said everything about it seemed off. He thinks those women were taking advantage of me in some way, probably something to do with the drugs. So between dealing with my memory loss and trying to stay clean, I’ve found it in my best interest to avoid women outside of a professional capacity.”

He laughs. “The truth is my female clientele were a bunch of rich bitches that always wanted more than what I was willing to give them. They’d fuck a gay man just to prove they could. It’s laughable; it didn’t matter how much makeup I painted on their face, the ugly on the inside always seeped through. So the makeup on my face, the ‘icy’ fuck-off attitude you felt, it was my defense—my way of protecting the part of me I don’t know. The less connection women feel with me the better. That’s the thing with memory loss, it makes you feel vulnerable.”

“So why me? I mean, obviously you lumped me into the same group as the rich bitches at first, but then you had a change of heart. Why?”

“You slapped me that night.” He chuckles. “I don’t know if a woman has ever hit me like that before and at first I thought you were just offended. I’ve seen that look too many times … it doesn’t phase me. But the way you stood up to me … stood up for yourself, it was just so fucking … hot.”

“Hot?” I laugh.

“Yes, hot. As in gloves are off let’s go eight rounds in the ring.”

I bite my tongue. That night after I slammed the door in his face, I was so turned on I could barely think. The tension between us that night, it was sexual. I thought it was just me.

After a few minutes of silence, I lean up, kissing the angle of his jaw. “The women, in New York, maybe you were sketching them. Did you ever think of that?”

“Grady did, but I’ve never sketched anyone for money, so that wouldn’t make sense. I mean, I sold my art, but I never did ‘special requests.’”

“Well maybe you did and you just don’t remember.”

He kisses the top of my head. “Maybe. Goodnight, sexy.”

I nuzzle into his neck. “Goodnight, I love you.”