This is not the time to be hard.

And that is not the woman to be hard over.

But Emma isn't the gawky kid who used to look at me with doe eyes.

She's all legs and energy.

I drape my towel over the couch.

Crouch over my suitcase. Find a clean pair of boxers. Jeans. A black t-shirt.

This room is mine for as long as I want it.

Brendon was welcoming.

He's the only person who gave a shit about helping me piece my life back together.

He asked one thing in return: look out for his little sister.

And here I am, still hard.

But, God damn, the way she stared.

It's different now.

It's been forever.

That must be it.

Because it sure as hell can't be that I want Emma Kane.

That's out of the question.

I repeat the explanation to myself as I dress, but it doesn't stick.

This is my self-destructive streak acting up.

Lusting after the one woman I'm not supposed to touch—

That certainly sounds like me.

I pull out my cell. Consider texting Brendon. Decide against it.

What am I going to say? Sorry, I gave your sister a show. But damn was she into it. Would you mind if I took this back to her room and fucked her senseless?

That isn't happening.

Even if everything was different, Emma is a good kid.

I'm not.

I push my suitcase aside. Sit on the leather couch I'm currently using as a bed. Open my sketchbook to the sleeve I'm doing tomorrow morning.

It takes forever, but, eventually, I concentrate on the gig I need to ace.

Then Emma knocks on my door and all my focus scatters.

"Hey. Hunter. I, uh, Brendon's only stopping by to grab his stuff. And he's got another two hours at the shop first." Her voice is soft. Nervous. "So, um, I… I'll just be downstairs. Studying."

"Sure."

"You mind if I play some music?"

"Go for it."

"Thanks." Her footsteps move down the hallway. Then the stairs.

The house quiets. Then it booms with a heavy guitar riff.

It's familiar.

One of Chase's favorites.

It tugs at something in my gut. Some place that's still empty.

Someplace that's always been empty.

There wasn't one reason why I spiraled into self-destruction.

It was all these little things. Mom mentally bailing on us. Dad checking out with her. My inability to connect. Or understand. Or feel anything stronger than this dull ache that got bigger and bigger until it threatened to consume me.

Fuck, I can't get into this now.

I need to get through this gig.

To survive Emma downstairs.

To find an anonymous fuck to drown my thoughts.

That isn't happening—it's too close to everything.

Right now, work is the only distraction I have.

It has to be enough.

I slip my sketchbook into my backpack. Sling it over my shoulder. Head downstairs.

Emma's sitting on the couch. Her long legs are spread over the leather. Her white tank top is low on her chest. Her lips are fuck me red.

It's not what she's saying.

She isn't saying anything.

She's minding her own fucking business.

I need to do the same.

"Hey." She looks up from her textbook. "I, uh—"

"I gotta—" I reach for an explanation that isn't I have to run away from you because I don't trust myself. Find nothing. "I'm gonna grab dinner."

"For yourself?" She looks up at me expectantly.

I guess it is a dick move, grabbing dinner for myself when she's here. "What do you want?"

"Something good."

"Specifically?"

"Pasta." Her attention shifts to her textbook. "See you later."

"Yeah." I force myself to turn away from her as I cross the living room and slip into my shoes.

But even as I step outside, I can feel her stare.

It's still doing shit to me.

It can't.

I may not be in control of much, but I'm in control of this.

I'm not reacting to Emma Kane.

Even if it kills me.