One hour.

Sixty minutes.

It wasn’t much time, and yet, as I pulled the metal chair in at the table, nodding to the guard, I couldn’t help but feel as if these would be some of the longest minutes of my life.

“Piper.” Giselle’s voice was high, loaded with emotion. She rushed across the room from a door in the corner, her baggy green top swimming against her small frame. Her hands reached for her daughter, and she snatched Piper from my arms, pressing her to her chest.

The little girl snuggled in, and I felt something. Like a bite from a mosquito. Being a parent seemed to come so naturally to her, despite her circumstances.

Or perhaps it was because of them.

Perhaps the warmth and life of her daughter was the very opposite to what she’d been experiencing in here.

And she’s had nine months to practise, I told myself. I couldn’t be jealous of that.

As Giselle held Piper in her embrace, I looked at this woman, this mother, as if seeing her with new eyes. Back then, she’d been … like Bella. A bitter taste flooded my mouth. Here, though? She was different. Harder round the edges. And yet one thing shone through it all—love. She loved Piper—I didn’t doubt it for a second.

How much pain has letting her go caused?

“How is my beautiful girl?” Giselle pulled back to look at her, brushing a slight curl from her forehead. “Is that a bruise?” She glared at me. “You bruised her?”

I’d forgotten about that. Yesterday at Everly’s house, she’d hit her head on the table leg as she was crawling. She hadn’t even cried, and the mark was really very small. “She hit her head—”

“My poor baby.” Giselle clutched her close again.

I rolled my eyes. “Giselle, cut the act. I’ve been to your house. There’s no way she didn’t suffer a few bruises there.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my house. It’s our home,” she emphasised the word.

“A home where you sell and distribute drugs?”

Her eyes shot daggers at me. “How dare you?”

“How dare I what?”

“Act as if you know shit about being a parent when really, you’re hurting my little girl?”

I should back down. She was living in extreme conditions; she wasn’t being rational.

But something about the way she spoke, as if I didn’t care, as if I let Piper bruise herself on purpose—that sent prickles along my spine.

“Your house was a mess. Things were broken, rundown. There was dirt everywhere, and where have you been?” I flung my arms out to the side in question. “In jail. What sort of a mother gets herself in a situation where she has to leave her child like that?”

“What sort of a father doesn’t take responsibility for his little girl?” she asked, her voice raised.

I felt the eyes of the guard on me. I lowered my voice. “You didn’t tell me she even existed.”

“You never called. You never wanted anything but to pretend I was your dead fucking fiancée,” she spat. “She is my baby, Cameron. Mine. You’ll never take her away from me.”

“And I’ll never goddamn try.” I pushed back from the table. This was not what I’d signed up for. I thought by taking Piper to visit her mother, I was doing a good thing. This was just plain abusive. “But I don’t have to stand here and take this. If you’re not going to be civil, I’m taking Piper and we’re getting the hell out of here.”

“No,” Giselle squeaked. Her voice was small, like thin, tempered glass, ready to break. “No, I’ll be nice. I’m sorry. I’ll be nice.”

“Giselle …” Damn it. What was I supposed to do here?

Piper looked up at me and smiled.

“Please, Cameron?” Giselle asked, a sugary sweet tone to her voice.

“Okay.” I folded my arms, settling back into the chair. “Okay.”

For the next fifty minutes, I watched Giselle and Piper interact. Giselle made cooing sounds. Piper cooed back. They crawled around the ground, taking it in turns to follow each other, and I had to admit, it was kind of … nice. It was nice to see Piper so relaxed, having fun with a woman she clearly knew and loved. It was also surprising to see this side of Giselle. A softer side. A caring one.

One I never expected.

And when the hour was finally up, a part of me hated that I was taking from Piper the one thing she seemed to crave the most.

* * *

Time passed, and the week fell into a routine.

In the mornings, I woke to the sound of Piper’s playful shrieks as she threw every stuffed toy I placed in the top of her crib onto the floor, one by one. Regular as an alarm clock, I counted on her to shoot me awake, my heart pounding in fear before it returned to its regular pace once I realised her screams weren’t those of terror. That they didn’t belong to Bella or Dad.

Then, I fed her breakfast, and she played around on the floor for a while I checked my phone, researching whatever parenting dilemma had come to me overnight, mostly using Everly’s blog and occasionally the Facebook group she let me into. Should a nine-month-old be speaking yet? How do you stop babies pulling televisions on themselves? What happens if she gets bitten by a spider—how will I know? My mind was constantly on alert. It felt as if I were walking Piper along the edge of a volcano, and any moment, the smoke that thickened the air would hide the rim and we’d tumble into the molten lava below.

Once the research was done, without doubt, we wound up on a walk that just somehow led us to Everly’s house.

She never seemed to work, but she said she was studying, with a part-time job at night to help pay the bills. I presumed that was the blog, and didn’t ask further questions. Instead, I helped her in the garden for six solid days, until finally, the dirt was laid and the sleepers were in place. We’d even turned the soil, added fertiliser and watered it all down. All that was left to do was for her to select her plants and put them to earth.

At night, I punched that bag in the garage, getting all the anger, the hurt and the confusion out of my body, sweating it, bleeding it until I had nothing left to give. My new set of gloves arrived in the mail, and I broke them in, each thud of rubber a jolt to my heart.

And I had no reason to be there, but on the morning of the seventh day, I slowed the pram out front of Everly’s house again. She was on the deck, waiting, and she invited me in without mentioning the garden. Even though I had no obligation, no sense of duty to help this woman, I was there, and she didn’t seem to think that was weird. I didn’t know what to make of that.

A cocktail of scents reached me as I walked through the doors. Garlic, banana, basil, and was that chocolate? I parked Piper’s pram then followed Everly through to the kitchen, shaking my head. “What is going on in here?”

The kitchen bench heaved under the weight of junk food. Cake—I was sure that was cake in the corner. A pizza on a wire rack. Cookies with chocolate chips dotting their surface spilled from an open jar. Some kind of strange bread littered with green and red had steam coming from it on a rack on top of the stove. And there in the oven, chips were cooking. Pickles were out on the bench.

Pickles, fries … all that was missing was the ice cream.

She knows.

Somehow, Everly had figured out my fake online identity.

I should never have told her about my aversion to junk food. Or was it Piper? Had I mentioned her name in the Facebook group when I’d asked one of my many questions?

“Today we are going to conduct a taste test,” Everly said, a smile on her face as if perhaps she wasn’t mad at me for pretending to be someone I was not. “I have here an assortment of junk food, and some healthy food, too. You’re going to try one, then the other, and tell me which is better.”

“Everly …” So maybe she didn’t know. But was this really a good idea? “What time did you get out of bed this morning?”

“A little personal, don’t you think?” She parked her hands on her hips with a challenging stare.

“I meant to have time to make all this.” I gestured to the spread.

“This?” She shrugged. “It’s not as exciting as it looks. I baked some last night, some this morning.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but—”

“But what?” she challenged, her arms folded across her chest.

From the first moment I met her, I’d sensed she had this inner strength. In this kitchen, this close to knives, her fierce determination was something I just didn’t want to mess with.

“Sit.” She pointed to the stool at the bench.

“Yes, ma’am.” I meekly pulled out the seat, sat down, and slid it back in.

She grabbed a long blue piece of material from where it was draped over the couch and proceeded to fold it in on itself before sliding the silk over my eyes.

“Hey, what are you—”

“It’s a blind test,” she explained, tightening a knot at the back of my head. “To heighten your sense of taste.”

“Is this really necessary?” I groaned, but there was a smile on my face. “I get it. Carbs taste good. I’m not saying they don’t. I’m just saying that they’re not worth the trouble.”

“If that’s what you truly think, then you don’t know the first thing about real trouble, Cam.” Everly’s voice was as sugar-sweet as the treats on the bench. “But you’re about to find out. Open your mouth.”

“Wha—”

I didn’t get to finish the question. Something crumbly and I hated to admit it, but kind of delicious was shoved in. I coughed, then covered my mouth to stop the sweet, chocolatey chunks from falling out.

“Not bad, huh?” Everly asked.

“Huh.” I pressed my fist against my chest as I swallowed the biscuit down. “I think I’m setting myself up for some kind of heart attack.”

“I can just imagine,” Everly mused, and I heard the quiet falling of her feet as they padded around the kitchen. “Try this.”

This time, something soft and moist was put in my mouth. “Banana cake,” I said, nodding. At least it had fruit in it.

“Banana bread, actually,” Everly corrected, and I snorted.

“Banana bread is a myth. It’s a word people use to justify eating cake for breakfast.”

“You are such a meanie.” Everly sighed. “What did banana bread ever do to you?”

“Masqueraded as something it wasn’t,” I replied, and as I did, guilt tugged at the corner of my mind once more. Just like you did with that false Facebook profile.

“Try this.” She pushed something else into my mouth.

Only, this time, her fingers went farther.

Cold assaulted the top of my mouth, cold and sweet and melting, while the touch of the tip of her fingers was hot. Smooth.

On instinct, I clamped my lips down, trapping her there, my tongue darting out to taste. Sweet. As sweet as the damn treats she’s been putting into my mouth.

Her breath was warm against my lips, and as she slowly slid her hand out, I reached for her side. I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t fight this tension any longer.

Her body jolted against mine. Our chests connected, and my body turned to fire and ice, cool still in my mouth, heat raging through my groin.

“Cameron,” she breathed, and my name on her lips was like a song, soft and sweet.

And then?

Impact.

Our lips melted together, soft and luscious. She wrapped one hand around the back of my head, pulling me closer, letting me know she wanted this just as much as I did, and when her mouth parted, I tasted her sweetness again and again, my tongue meeting hers in a passion that was the ocean in a storm, the surge of the swell and the crashing of the waves as they met the hard, sandy shore.

I ran my hands down her back and slid them over the curve of her waist, revelling in the roundness of her arse as I found purchase there and tugged her toward me. Her pussy collided with my cock, and I pressed her close, closer still, loving the way her body seemed to mould to mine. She was my complete opposite, and perhaps that was why she tasted so damn good—like a treat I shouldn’t have. She was soft where I was hard, sweet where I was bitter, loud where I was quiet. She was the perfect storm, and I was ready for the rain.

“Cameron,” she murmured again against my lips as her hand roamed under my shirt and ran up my back, tracing over the muscles there, and damn, it felt nice to be touched like that—softly, reverentially, and yet with a greedy kind of desire. It was as if I were the treat and this woman was eating me up. She was taking control.

Not like Bella.

Bella was never like that.

Fuck.

And there it was.

My lips slowed. My hands slid back to my sides. What was I doing? I belonged to Bella. Always had, ever since we met. Since she moved to the apartment next to mine. Since a bag of her groceries broke, tins of tomatoes toppling down the stairs, and I’d gone scrambling to save them.

Since forever.

Until forever.

After the accident, I’d buried myself in my misery. I drank until it didn’t hurt anymore, until Mack snapped me out of it, and then I buried myself in work and the gym instead.

But this was different.

This wasn’t a place to bury my head.

This meant something.

This meant something else entirely.

I tilted my forehead down, resting it against Everly’s. I pursed my lips, air coming out long and slow. Damn it.

Damn it all to hell.

I wrenched the eye mask off, the silk slipping through my fingers. Everly’s eyes were wide, her lips swollen. God, I did that.

I did that.

I was the worst guy in the world.

“Cameron …” This time, her voice had a very different tone to it. “What just happened?”

“Nothing.” The lie tasted bitter in my mouth. I ground my teeth together, the clench of my jaw sending an ache through my skull. “I just … I can’t do this. Not now.”

She shook her head slowly, stepping back. “Not now. Another time. When Piper’s—”

“Not with you.”

It was like I’d slapped her.

I could see the imprint where my words connected with her face. Her cheeks . . . so red. I did that too.

I pushed the chair out and stood, scrubbing my hand over my jaw as I stared at the garden we built together. I didn’t want to hurt her. Not when she had so much going on in her life already. “I … I’m sorry. I’m not completely over my ex.”

“I know.” Her voice was small.

I don’t know what to say.

My phone rang, breaking the heavy silence between us. I pulled it from my pocket, the name on the screen sending a panic pulsing through my body.

“Yes?”

“Hi, it’s Eleanor here from Magenta Recovery Centre.”

“What’s happened? Is everything all right?” I gripped the phone tighter.

“It’s Donald,” she said. Oh, shit. My heart stopped beating. “I’m so sorry, but we’d like you to come in.”