Dan and I stare one another down over beers at the Underground. It’s Sunday night. An entire twenty-four hours plus have gone by without me uttering those golden words back to her, and even though initially I hadn’t thought I’d say them, I’m starting to feel like an ass for not even acknowledging them.

“Has she texted?” Dan sucks the foam off his beer.

“No. She wants to. I can feel it. She’s as cerebral as she is emotional.”

My brother thumps out a silent laugh. “In other words, the perfect package.”

“Who would that be?” a voice calls from above, and we look to find Rowen and Lane looking pressed and cleaned and ready to get laid for the night. They take a seat at the table without bothering to ask first—and if history is any great teacher, I opt to hold onto my beer just a little tighter.

“So what’s new?” Rowen pegs me with a hard look.

“You know, don’t you?” I’m not one for games, but I’m not one for repeating what Ember said, at least not lightly.

“Know what?” Rowen glances to Lane just as the waitress comes by and quickly takes our order.

Lane thumps the table with his hand once she leaves. “Spill it. The girls are acting strange, and we want to know why.”

Dan grunts while examining him, “Why would the girls be acting strange? And even so, what would that have to do with my brother?”

Rowen takes a breath. “We were all together, and I happened to ask Ember if she made a love connection—on the show. She giggled like a kid and so did Sophie and Vi.”

He leans in on his elbows, that death glare that borders on a threat. “What’s up, Dex? Something tells me you have news.”

“Or you will soon,” Lane adds.

“I do.” I give a quick sweep of the vicinity and not so much for Ember, who I’m certain is artfully avoiding me, but for Scarlett, who is actively pursuing me. I’ve already ducked and evaded three times since that assault yesterday afternoon. “She said it. I have earned my steak. Ember loves me.” My entire body burns as I say those words. What in the hell is happening? I’ve had girls say those three toxic-laced words to me before. Hell, I’ve said them to Trish and Scarlett, never meant them in the traditional sense—they were a means to an end. Something you say, something people say back. And now here I am with an ache as heavy and wide as a mountain. I undeniably feel something, something other than obligation to parrot back a few words.

“Shit!” Rowen gives up a genuine belly laugh, as does Lane, and the adolescent doling out of high fives commences. “I’m buying.” He drums his hands against the table. “Next week we’re hitting the Pinewood Steakhouse. That Porterhouse is on me.”

Lane shakes his head. “Un-freaking-believable, dude.” Lane socks me hard on the arm. “No wonder they were freaking out. You did it. You were right. Even the hardest of hearts is pliable in your twisted hands. I guess the hard part is coming up then.”

The all-around jubilation at the table dwindles down, and it’s all eyes on me.

“What’s that?” I move my beer around in a circle, anything to distract me from the truth that’s about to come out.

Rowen hardens his stare. “You let her down easy. Ember is a sweet girl. She might have a bark—”

Lane cuts him off, “Hell, she has a bite. But she has a heart, too. You have to do the letdown with kid gloves. And for God’s sake, keep our names out of it.”

Rowen snaps his fingers, his eyes popping wide as if a bright idea just took a crap on him. “Tell her your ex is in town, and you’ve rekindled things with her.”

“Yes.” Lane gives me a shove, and I nearly fall off the chair. “Tell her you’re sorry, but that the flame never quite went out. She’ll understand.”

Rowen nods. “Ember Sparks does not want to be anybody’s second best. She’ll practically kick you out the door.”

Dan lifts a brow. “Well, little brother? What says you?”

I think on it long and hard as the band cues up in the corner, getting ready to blow the roof off this place for the next six hours.

“I think I’d rather drink bleach. There’s no way I’m dragging Scarlett into this. She’s psychotic. That’s like summoning a demon.”

Rowen and Lane exchange a pained look. “I get it,” Rowen says. “We watched the video. Hell, TMZ is running it twenty-four seven.”

Lane shakes his head. That look of pity on his face says it all. “Dude, you are going to need a restraining order. Don’t wait until you find her living in your bedroom. Crazy chicks only get crazier. And it’s never pretty in the end. You’d better nip this in the psychotic bud.”

Dan shoots me with his finger. “That’s what I said. You don’t need to invite crazy to the party. They just show up. Nine times out of ten you need to call the cops to chase them away.”

I take a breath and hold it. “Scarlett Stafford is a spoiled brat who has gotten every last thing her broken heart desires. She’s not interested in taking no for an answer, and she would only hope I’d call the cops. Police show up—she gets PR out of the deal. Everything is win-win. In the end, she’ll probably write another song about it. I’m nothing short of an emotional muse to her.”

“So make it work for you.” Rowen shrugs. “Take her to dinner and try to talk some sense into her. That way the two of you can dive into where things went wrong. She can’t be that insane. She’s just hurt. She’s an artist. They’re the ultra-moody type. If she’s as spoiled as you say, she’ll get you to do her bidding anyway. Give her one meal and get it all out. The longer you avoid her, the more you’re putting her off.”

As much as I’d like to refute it, I know he’s right. “Maybe I will, but I think I owe Ember something first.” My heart riots in my chest as if it were readying to blow out like a bad tire. The meal comes and goes without any more talk about love, about Ember, about Scarlett and that cry of desperation.

I head home to an empty dark house and lie in bed wondering what it might feel like to fill this place up with someone who knows how to put a smile on my face, who happens to put one on my daughter’s face, too. I would love to have Ember here beside me night after night. I’d love to have her in my life in a solid way, not as a nanny or someone who fulfills my sexual desires on a few random nights, something more. And as much as I want to believe I don’t know what that looks like, I do. I had a ghost of an idea with Scarlett, even though that turned into a hellish roller coaster that I wanted out of before she ever began looking sideways herself. I had it with Trish, but that was entirely something else. The bottom line is that I was never in love with either of them. I was in lust, then I was quickly out of it. With Trish, it took an entire legal team to loosen me from those matrimonial shackles. With Scarlett, it might just take the same minus the matrimony. What if I go all in with Ember and it fizzles out? What if I lose interest? What if she loses interest? I’m not sure which would be worse.

I love Chelle. There isn’t any refuting that. But that isn’t romantic love. It’s blood. It’s a God-given, God-breathed bond that’s inextricable. But with Ember, there’s an underlying fear of losing her before I ever really make her mine. An entire earthquake of damning emotions runs through me, eliciting a riot of worry, a wall of concern long enough to circle the earth. I haven’t felt so deeply terrified about losing someone since—

A fist knots up in my throat as I reach over and pick up that bear my sister loved so much.

I fight the tears off as best as I can. I don’t want them. I’m sick of being massacred by the pain. She’s free of her pain, and I’m still hostage to it. But I’d gladly take the brunt end of the deal for her. Hell, I do it every day. But what I can’t live with is losing Ember. I can’t have her running around this planet without me—not while I still have a fighting chance with her. No matter what it takes, no matter how hard it is to push that boulder out of my throat, I need to tell her how I feel.

And I will.

When the time is right.

Now to get rid of Scarlett.