Lincoln’s truck isn’t in the driveway, and for a split second I consider turning around and heading home. But that would be the cowardly way out. I am many things, but a coward isn’t one of them. Plus, I drove all the way here for the second time today, and I really don’t want to drive back home.

And Abby is right; if I want more from Lincoln, I have to tear down the wall I built.

Squaring my shoulders, I wrap my fingers around the key to his house, remembering the night he gave it to me.

“I don’t like you driving home this late at night,” he’d told me.

“What would you have me do?”

“Stay here. It’ll save you time—time you can use to study—and you won’t have to get up as early and drive another hour back here.”

I blinked. “You want me to stay here? All night?”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but it was a big deal, and when I didn’t immediately answer him, he said, “It was just a suggestion. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” I blurted, before he had time to rescind the offer.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. You’re right. It’ll save me a ton of time.” And I’ll get to see you more.

Lincoln pulled a kitchen drawer open and rooted around until he found what he was looking for.

“Here.”

He handed me a gold key with a metal cowboy hat keychain attached, and I remember feeling like he’d just given me the world.

“Don’t lose it.”

I’ve never showed up unannounced before. Lincoln has always been home when I’ve popped in, or he’s known I was on my way. I’m not sure how he’s going to react when he finds me here, but Abby did say to mix things up a bit.

Shoving the key in the lock, I twist it and push the door open. Everything is the same as when I left earlier today. I shrug my coat off, hang it on the hook by the front door, and toss my book bag on the couch. Normally I’d grab a fuzzy blanket, curl up, and study, but tonight I’m here for a different reason, and my heart is racing way too fast to concentrate on differential diagnoses and med calculations.

My eyes dart across the small house. Dishes are piled up in the sink, the trash is overflowing, and there’s a laundry basket full of clothes sitting in the hallway just waiting to be washed.

Might as well go big or go home.

Nothing says I want more like washing someone’s underwear, right?

I grab the laundry basket off the floor and send up a silent prayer that I’m not overstepping any major boundaries.

Three hours later, with a bottle of water in my hand, I collapse on the couch. The dishes are done, the kitchen floor is spotless, and the laundry has been folded and put away. And I didn’t even peek in that box shoved in the back of his closet.

Okay, fine, I peeked, and I still can’t shake what I saw.

I knew Lincoln and I had kept parts of our lives from each other, but I didn’t realize how much until I opened that box. There were two file folders. One for Lincoln and one for his younger sister, Chloe, whom I’ve yet to meet. The files were from the Department of Family and Protective Services, and they were filled with pictures of the young siblings covered in cuts and bruises. And much to my heart’s dismay, there were several more pictures of Lincoln than of Chloe, leaving no doubt that he took the brunt of whatever beatings they endured.

My stomach drops as images of the kids flash through my head, and I take a drink of water. Who hurt them? Lincoln has mentioned his father only a handful of times. He’s never offered me any information about him other than he’s a recovering alcoholic.

There’s also been no mention of his mother in the five months we’ve been seeing each other, but I know from Rhett that she walked out on them years ago. The only people Lincoln talks about on a regular basis are my brother, Rhett, his trainer, Roy, and Chloe. And all I know about her is that she’s about my age and is going to school to be a teacher.

I’ve been so wrapped up in classes and my own life that I’ve never bothered to ask much more about his. I don’t know what he does when I’m not around, other than train and work at The Barn, a place he’s all but forbidden me from going to. “It’s not the safest place for a woman,” he always says. And I don’t know when he sees Chloe, but it’s not when I’m around.

There have been times over the last few months where I’ve thought I knew him well. I see now that it’s all superficial stuff. I know how he likes his eggs in the morning, what types of movies he prefers, and the sounds he makes when he’s about to come. But I don’t know the important stuff: his favorite childhood memory—or his worst, his favorite holiday, his hopes and dreams for the future.

I pick up my phone off the end table, hoping to see a missed call from Lincoln, but there’s nothing. It’s getting late, so I send him a text.

Hey there, cowboy.

Closing out of the messenger app, I pull up my email and scroll through them until his reply comes through.

You didn’t call me when you got home.

His words make me smile. I love how protective he is. I’m sorry. I forgot.

I worry about you.

It won’t happen again. And I’m home now.

Good. I would call you, but my phone is about to die.

Not necessary, big guy. Switching to the camera app, I hold it up in selfie mode and snap a picture of myself cuddled up on his couch with his favorite quilt. As soon as he sees it, he’ll know which home I’m talking about.

I load the picture, hit send, and nuzzle deeper into the sofa. Several seconds pass without a reply, and then minutes. With the phone clutched to my chest, I close my eyes and wait for him to respond. Lincoln hates it when I’m alone, so I’m sure he’ll come barreling through that door any second.

I must’ve fallen asleep because I startle awake to the sound of a loud thud. I fly up on couch to find Lincoln standing by the front door staring at me.

“What time is it?” I rub my eyes and stretch my arms over my head. I can’t believe I fell asleep.

Lincoln looks at his watch and blinks as if he’s waiting for it to come into focus. Then he looks up at me. “One o’clock in the morning. What are you doing here?”

“I texted you two hours ago and told you I was home. Sorta thought once you saw the picture you’d know I was talking about your home and not mine.” I smile, trying to go for light and easy and hoping he doesn’t freak out about me being here.

“Picture?” His brow pinches as he toes off his boots, leaving them beside my shoes at the front door.

“Your phone. I sent you a picture.”

“My phone died.”

Flipping the cover off my lap, I push up from the couch and tuck my phone in my back pocket.

Lincoln walks toward me, and I can’t miss the glossy look in his eyes and the faint smell of beer.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To bed. I’m tired.”

“To my bed or your bed?”

“I was planning on your bed, but if you don’t want me here, I can leave. Have you been drinking?”

He shrugs and holds his pointer finger and thumb an inch a part. “Maybe a little.”

“How many?”

Not that it matters, but I’d like to know if I’m dealing with a guy whose kind of inebriated or completely drunk, although I’m guessing it’s not the latter since he’s still standing on two feet and hasn’t hurled all over the floor.

“Four or five.” He takes a breath and blows it out. “Maybe six. Or seven. I lost count.”

I nod, unsure what to think because Lincoln doesn’t drink that often—especially not like this. Part of me wants to be upset that I was here waiting on him and he was out tying one on, but it’s difficult to blame him when he looks this cute and frazzled. Plus, his phone died, and he didn’t even know I was here.

As if he’s able to read my thoughts, Lincoln takes the ball cap off his head, runs his fingers through his already messy hair and pulls it back on.

“If I would’ve known you were here, I would’ve come home.”

“I know you would’ve.” My eyes move to the front pocket of his jeans, where I see the outline of his keys. “Did you drive home?”

His eyes follow mine, and then he looks back up and shakes his head. “Roy’s youngest gave me a ride while Roy followed behind in my truck.” Lincoln swallows and takes a deep breath. “Adley, I don’t want you to leave, but I’m exhausted, and I had a rough day.”

“Then let’s get you to bed.”

I take a step toward his room. When Lincoln doesn’t follow, I turn around to find him watching me. At first his face is blank, as if he’s not sure what to make of me being here, in his home, walking down his hall. Then something flickers in his dark gaze. Something I haven’t seen from him before. Maybe happiness? Contentment? Acceptance?

“You coming?”

He smirks. “I wish,” he says, taking my outstretched hand.

I laugh, leading him down the hall.

“So, we’re not going to have sex tonight?” he asks.

Nudging his bedroom door open, I step inside, and he follows.

“You had a rough day, remember? Arms up.” When he complies, I lift the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head, and then I pop the button on his jeans and tug them down his muscular thighs.

Lincoln’s body is a work of art. He’s all muscle with defined lines and ridges that I’ve spent hours and hours exploring. There’s a dusting of hair to his chest and a perfectly cut V leading to an impressive erection that is straining against his red boxer briefs.

“He likes you.”

“Oh yeah?” With my hands to his chest, I gently push Lincoln until the backs of his knees hit the bed.

He sits and watches me tug off his socks, but doesn’t say a word. His hungry eyes eat me up as I strip out of my clothes, leaving on my bra and panties. Electricity crackles between us the way it does every time we’re within reach of each other. We’re good in bed. Our chemistry is off the charts, but I remind myself that we’re more than this. I want to be so much more than a warm body in his bed. I want to be his confidant, his best friend, the person he comes to when he’s had a rough day rather than turning to the bottle.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s go brush our teeth.”

I’m in the bathroom, halfway through my nighttime ritual when Lincoln steps into the doorway. I spit into the sink, rinse my mouth, and turn to look at him. “Everything okay?”

He takes in my toothbrush sitting next to his and my facial wash on the counter. “You have stuff in my bathroom.”

“Is that a problem?”

He takes a second to think about his answer and then shakes his head. “No. It’s not a problem.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, watching him step up to the sink.

He makes quick work of brushing his teeth and then stops in front of me on his way out.

Curling a hand around my hip, he pulls me in and kisses my forehead. “I’m getting there.”

There are so many things I want to say to that, but I need to remember to take things slow. It’s difficult to step away from his hard, semi-naked body pressed against mine, but somehow, I manage.

I follow him down the hall, yank the covers back on the bed, and crawl between the cool sheets.

“So we are going to have sex,” he says, crawling across the mattress. His large body hovers over mine. Soft lips skim across my abdomen, along the swell of my left breast and land on my neck.

“Actually,” I say, pulling Lincoln into the crook of my arm, “we’re going to cuddle.”

“Cuddle?”

“Don’t look so surprised; we’ve cuddled before.”

“Yeah, after several rounds of sex when neither one of us can move.”

“Tonight we’re going to try something different.”

“Just cuddling. No sex.” He seems confused.

I push my fingers into his soft, brown hair. “Come on. I promise it won’t hurt a bit. Who knows, you might even like it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

His words are so soft I barely hear them. It takes a couple of minutes, but Lincoln finally relaxes in my arms, his head nuzzled against the tops of my breasts. Draping his arm across my stomach, he pulls me in as close as he can.

“You normally don’t drink,” I say.

I can’t remember the last time I saw Lincoln inebriated. Over the years I’ve seen him drink a beer here or there while out with Rhett or at one of our Sunday family dinners, but it’s never more than one or two tops, and I’ve never seen him even slightly drunk.

There’s a rush of hot air against my skin when he sighs. “Nope.”

“But you did tonight.”

Another rush of air. “Yup.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

He’s silent for so long I have to release the breath I’ve been holding.

Just about the time my eyes drift shut, his grip on me tightens and he says, “Chloe thinks you’re my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

Never thought I’d hear the word come from his mouth. I like it.

Too much.

My pulse kicks into high gear, and with his ear over my heart, I wonder if he can hear what his words do to me.

“Are you?” he whispers.

“Do you want me to be?”

Please say yes. Please say yes.

“I don’t know.”

My heart plummets, and my fingers still in his hair. In this moment I realize Lincoln has the power to truly hurt me.

He looks up, propping his chin on my chest. The glossy look is still there, reminding me he’s intoxicated.

“I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

I find that hard to believe.

He blinks and continues. “I’m scared.”

Oh God. He’s opening up to me, and I’m not sure what to think of it. He probably wouldn’t be saying any of this if he were sober.

“Of what?”

“You.”

We stare at each other for several long seconds before he breaks the connection and finds his sweet spot against my chest. My fingers start circling through his hair, and I bring my lips to the top of his head, closing my eyes while I breathe in his woodsy scent. It’s a smell I’ve grown to love—a smell that brings me comfort because it reminds me of being home.

I feel safe in Lincoln’s arms. Safe and treasured and cared for, despite our futile attempt to keep our relationship light and easy.

I ache with the need to talk to him—to sort all of this out. But it’s a conversation best had when he’s undoubtedly sober.

“Lincoln?”

“Yeah?”

“You scare me too.”

I’m not even sure if he hears me, because a second later he’s snoring softly.