It should be easier working my second job schilling lingerie, but it's not.

It's slow.

My thoughts keep flitting back to Hunter.

I want to hate him.

I'm trying, so hard, to hate him.

But my heart isn't in it.

I focus on fixing the displays in the front of the store. The newest one is particularly beautiful. A black chemise with lace cups and sides and a matching thong.

Classy. Elegant. Upscale.

It's interesting, seeing what different women pick out.

Sheer white chiffon for a honeymoon.

Slick red satin for a girl's night out.

Soft pink lace for a date with a smart, worldly guy.

It's there, in the sale rack—the lingerie set I bought for Vinnie.

Really, it was for me. Lingerie is always for women, so we can feel better about ourselves. Men appreciate it, sure, but they can't tell the difference between La Perla and H&M.

This bra and panty seemed elegant. Mature. Subtle.

Like the kind of women he'd want.

When we flirted, it was never compliments about my tits. It was teasing about art or music or wine.

I was in over my head, pretending I knew what he was talking about, but I didn't care.

I was so into him.

I loved that he was older. That he was wiser. That he was a consultant with a schedule that had him traveling constantly.

I felt important the first time he invited me over.

I dressed up in my fancy new lingerie and a classic black sheath.

He cooked this fancy Halibut dinner and poured glass after glass of wine.

Then it was dessert and cocktails.

Amaretto and vodka and vanilla cake.

I drank too much.

Got fuzzy.

It all blurs together now.

His smile.

The ever so slightly condescending tone to his voice as he explained Plato's Allegory of the Cave to me.

The sigh as he leaned in to kiss me.

His hands under my dress.

My palms against his chest as I tried to push him away.

The way he pretended he was okay to stop.

The change in his posture when he stopped pretending.

I still remember that look in his eyes.

The one that said I'll take whatever I want, so you might as well give it to me.

I did.

I froze.

It was easier to close my eyes and tell myself it was okay.

To convince myself I wanted it.

That he was sloppy.

That it was a bad date.

Not a sexual assault.

But…

My fingers curl around the pale pink bra. This one isn't my size, sure, but it's the same garment.

It's been so long that it's on sale.

It was trendy then.

Now it's out of season.

The nylon lace is rough against my fingertips.

It's a familiar feeling—most of my bras are made out of nylon—but this exact fabric, this exact pressure…

For three months, I've been telling myself this doesn't matter.

But it does.

Only…

What the hell do I do with that?

I can't wallow in it. I'll fall apart.

I can't share it with anyone. Brendon will kill Vinnie and I can't ask Kaylee to keep this from him. I can't put that on her shoulders.

Hunter…

I thought I could trust him.

But I can't.

Not if he's going to run away when I need him most.

I set the bra on the rack. Scan for something that actually suits me. Something that will make me feel like I'm attached to my body.

The black chemise in the front of the store is perfect.

Practical but still sexy.

Still Emma Kane.

I slip into the dressing room to try it on.

I stare back at my reflection until it's a blur of black fabric and pale skin.

It's beautiful.

But it's still so fucking weird.

I buy the lingerie. I tell myself it's an important first step. That I'm reclaiming my body.

But I'm not sure I believe it.

At home, I lay the chemise on my bed. Next to my dress for Hunter's party. I'm not in the mood to celebrate him, but I'm a woman of my word.

I text Dean to make sure everything is prepped. Despite the tattoo artist's aloof act, he's an excellent party host. And he's really insistent about celebrating birthdays in style.

I move to the bathroom, lock the door, strip out of my work clothes.

I never spend a lot of time staring at myself naked.

I have my insecurities, sure, but I'm usually happy with my body.

Right now…

I feel so naked.

I mean, I know I'm naked.

But I've never felt that way. I was never awkward or shy. I'd walk about the house in nothing. Leave my underwear everywhere. Skip panties if I'd gone too long without doing laundry.

Now, I can't even look at myself in the mirror.

I step into the shower. Turn the water on. Try to scrub away the day.

My hair needs a gentle touch—I'm taking a break from dying it every color in the rainbow to let it grow out, which means it's a classic but plain shade of brown—but I'm rough. Impatient.

I scrub until I'm raw.

I still remember showering that night. Wanting the water to erase everything, but feeling just as violated.

I'd watched enough Law and Order SVU to know I was doing all the wrong things.

I should have gone to the hospital, done a rape kit, filed a report.

But that would have meant admitting what had happened.

And I couldn't.

I can barely think it now.

I linger in the shower, water pounding the tension from my back, until someone is knocking on the door.

Hunter is saying something.

I turn the water off and wrap myself in a towel.

He knocks again. "You okay?" His voice is soft. Caring.

He's only asking about the shower. About why I'm spending an hour locking myself into the bathroom.

He's not asking about his bullshit rejection.

But I still want to pour my heart out.

His proximity brings safety.

When I close my eyes, I can see myself in that chemise. In front of him. Inviting him to touch me.

Fuck, I want that so badly.

I want that to be okay.

"I have to get ready." I cinch the towel tightly.

"That isn't an answer."

He isn't getting one.

I suck a breath through my teeth. Muster all the I don't give a fuck I can manage. Step into the hallway.

He's standing in jeans.

Only jeans.

He slides one hand into his front pocket. Runs the other though his hair.

His pupils dilate as his eyes trace my body.

It's different than with other guys.

I want him staring.

I want him tearing off my towel, wrapping his arms around me, pinning me to the wall.

Erasing that awful memory.

That can't be that last time someone touched me.

It can't.

His eyes fix on mine. They're so blue and piercing and full of hurt.

I want to wipe it away.

Fuck him for that.

"We need to talk," he says.

No. I know what he wants to talk about. And I'm done. "I have to get dressed."

"Too bad."

I push past him.

His skin feels so good against mine.

He's warm and hard and inviting.

But fuck him for that too.

"Emma." His voice drops to something demanding. "Stop."

My knees go weak. Fuck, maybe it is hot when he gets bossy. Or maybe it's the hurt dripping into his voice.

He is worried about me.

He does care.

Just not enough to pull his head out of his ass.

"Are you going to apologize for your hypocrisy?" I ask.

He says nothing.

"Or tell me you realized I'm more important than whatever it is that's keeping you away?"

Still nothing.

"Then what the fuck could we possibly have to talk about?" I don't give him a chance to respond.

I move into my room.

Slam the door.

Drop my towel.

He stays in the hallway for a moment. Waiting for me. Giving me time to get over my anger, I guess.

Not happening.

I ignore him as much as I can. Don my chemise and my little black dress. Towel dry my hair and apply texturizer.

I hate going out with wet hair, but heat styling is out of the question. My hair is way too fried for that.

Eventually, he moves into the office. His room. Whatever.

He shuts his door.

I focus on my makeup. My heels. My purse.

But, still, when I look in the mirror, I don't see Emma Kane, confident, sexy, badass.

I see a vulnerable girl who can't protect herself.

Hunter is standing in the hallway, both hands in his jeans, black sneakers pressed together.

"You look older." I push my door shut. Hug my purse to my shoulder. "You're turning forty-five, right?"

"Feels like it."

I press my lips together, even though that will mess up my lipstick.

I already feel safer. Less vulnerable.

All it takes is his proximity.

I trust him to keep me safe.

I guess that's what Brendon wanted.

I should hate it.

But I don't.

I really, really don't.