Asshole.

Simon is a fucking asshole. The next time I see him, I’m punching him in the face.

How could he hurt Lauren like that? Hell, how can he do that shit to his wife?

Lauren and Truffles are all settled in my guest apartment; they’re welcome to stay as long as they like. I don’t blame her for not wanting to be at her own place right now. I understand how it is to realize you’ve fallen for a liar.

He used her. How far would he have gone with her? Jerk.

Hopefully after a goodnight’s rest, she’ll feel okay, even though I know better than that.

I shower, slip into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, then mosey on into the kitchen for a drink. A bottle of sparkling wine from one of Gramps’s collection. He left me a few bottles. Fifty, to be exact. A hefty start to my own wine collection. I pop the cork, take a whiff, and pour myself a full glass of the bubbly.

Mmmm. Nirvana.

A tap at the door startles me. Lauren?

I walk to the door, push the curtain to the side, and see Lauren, one hand gripping her suitcase handle, Truffles cupped under her arm, both of them shivering.

Immediately, I swing the door open. “What’s wrong?”

She gives a half-smile. “Can we stay here, instead?”

Both her and Truffles serve me an irresistible set of puppy-dog eyes.

“Is there something wrong with the guest apartment?”

“Never mind. It was silly of me to ask.” She spins back around, begins to walk toward the apartment.

“Lauren, wait.” I follow after her, my bare feet hitting the cold concrete.

She whirls around. “I-I just don’t want to be alone, Jaxson. I’m tired of being alone.”

Tears stream down her face and for once I see Lauren’s tough facade come crumbling down. It’s far more than Simon—he is just the coup de grace. The mortal blow to an already existing wound. The final push that sends her over the edge.

I’m here to break her fall.

“Come on, I’ve got plenty of space. Of course you and Truffles can stay in the villa.”

I let her choose a room, one that has furniture, of course. She picks a room closest to the kitchen, one equipped with a full-size bed and an adjoining bathroom.

I turn to leave her to get settled and she says, “I didn’t pack any pajamas. I only grabbed other stuff and clothes for work.”

“Okay, I’ll give you something of mine. Will a T-shirt and sweatpants do? They may be a little big on you though.”

She smiles. “That’ll work, thank you.”

About an hour later, Lauren joins me in the kitchen, the tantalizing scent of bacon and eggs most likely enticing her.

Her hair is wet, and she looks cute in my V-neck T-shirt and sweats even though she’s practically swimming in them. I try hard to keep my eyes in check; I can see her nipples through the shirt beckoning my mouth, tongue, hands…me.

So I focus on the task at hand.

Food.

“You hungry? I hope you and Truffles like bacon and eggs. It’s just about all I have right now. I’ve been eating out a lot.”

She toys with her hair. “Truffles fell fast asleep on the bed while I was in the shower. But, I on the other hand, love bacon and eggs.” She surveys the food sprawled all over the counter. Diced peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes. “Wait, are you making an omelet?” Her eyes gleam.

“Yes, and all of these veggies are from the garden. Nana loved using fresh from-the-garden veggeis when she cooked.”

She joins me behind the counter, looking up at me with those hypnotic blue eyes. “Can I help?”

I swallow hard, after getting a subtle look at her cleavage taunting me through the V-neck tee. “Sure.”

We cook together, her standing so close to me, driving me insane. Honestly, all I want to do is lift her up, prop her up on the counter, and finish that kiss. And more.

Stand down, soldier. Having her here may be harder to handle than I thought.

When she sets the table, she notices the blue scarf I placed on the chair.

Her scarf, from that day at the airport.

“You saved my scarf?”

I know my face has turned an obvious shade of red. “Yep. Well, in my defense, I meant to drop it off at the airport lost and found, but forgot. It’s been in my carry-on bag all this time.”

She holds the scarf for a minute, a faraway gleam in her eyes accompanied by a lingering smile. I wonder if she’s recalling that day we first laid eyes on each other. More than ever I think I should have run after her right then and there. If I had, surely by now, we would be an us. The thoughts I’ve had of kissing, touching, holding her, would be thoughts no more.

She’s here now, don’t let her get away this time.

When we sit down to eat, she eyes my wrist and says, “Jaxson, can you tell me about your tattoo?”

My tattoo. Something that’s always hard for me to talk about. But she’s poured her soul to me about so many instances in her life. Shit, I just witnessed her getting her heart broken; surely I can share the details of my tattoo.

A small drawing of a motorcycle on the inside of my wrist.

I swallow my sip of water and take a deep breath in and out, praying that I get through the story without her seeing my sensitive side. “I had a best friend since grade school, Brad, who got killed in a motorcycle accident three years ago, two weeks before he was to be married. He was like a brother to me and his death took a lot out of me. About six months after he died, I walked into a tattoo shop, looking for a way to honor him. And this”—I run my fingertip along the tattoo—“is was what I came up with.”

I let out a deep breath, the pain of Brad’s accident hitting me all over again.

Lauren’s eyes glisten, “Oh, Jaxson, I’m so sorry. And what a sweet way to honor your friend.” She runs her index finger on the tattoo, her touch sending static to my brain.

Damn. She’s electrifying.