THE MOUNTAIN MANS SECOND CHANCE

 

CHAPTER ONE

SYDNEY

 

“Oooh, where are you going?” Allison asks, her voice a little tinny sounding over the phone.

“Peter won't say,” I reply. “He says it's supposed to be a surprise.”

I push a strand of auburn hair behind my ear and glance at myself in the mirror. As I look at my hair, I realize I desperately need a trim. My formerly chin-length bob is touching my shoulders now, the ends curling ever so slightly upward. Most people probably wouldn't even give it a second thought, but to me, it looks like a wooly mop.

My gaze remains fixed on the mirror and, in particular, at the green eyes that stare back at me. They're my eyes, of course, but as I look closely, my face is that of a stranger to me. Dark eyeliner is drawn across each lid, forming a perfectly stylish cat eye – something that's taken me months to get right. A vibrant red lipstick paints my lips. Golden eyeshadow that's a bit shinier than I'd normally wear adorns my eyes. I personally think it's a little bit too gaudy, but for some reason, Peter likes me in gold.

He told me to look my best when we spoke last, which in Peter-ese, meant wear makeup and dress fancy. Which I have.

My best friend sighs wistfully as if I've just told her the most romantic tale of all time. It's true, Peter is incredibly romantic and he's everything most women want in a man. Rich. Successful. Handsome. Romantic. The list of his positive attributes goes on and on.

“You're so lucky, girly,” Allison says. “I hope to find someone like Peter one day.”

My faint smile can't be seen through the phone, and thankfully so. My parents have already lectured me about how perfect Peter is, and how I would be a fool to screw it up – I didn't need to hear it from my best friend too.

“Yeah, well, I have to get packing,” I say. “Just wanted to let you know why I couldn't make it to Monica's surprise party. I guess I have a surprise party of my own to attend”

“It's all good,” she says brightly. “Monica will understand.”

Hanging up the phone, I stare down at the clothes on my bed, gripped by a feeling of consternation. Not knowing where we we're going makes it hard to know what to pack. A month ago, it was Key Largo on a whim. Today? Who knows. Peter's family owns a private jet, meaning he can literally fly me anywhere in the world he wants to go at the drop of a hat.

My phone rings again and I pick it up, checking the number on the display screen.

“Speak of the devil,” I mutter to myself as I punch the button and connect the call.

“Hello there, beautiful,” Peter coos. “Almost ready?”

“Almost,” I say. “Can you give me some idea of what I should pack? A swimsuit, winter clothes?”

“All the above,” he says. “We're going on an adventure. Excited?”

Not really. “More curious than anything at this moment.”

An adventure. Uh huh. That tells me nothing. I toss a bikini and a few summer dresses on top of the jacket and thick, woolen socks already in my bag. Without any idea of where we're going or what we'll be doing once we get there, I'm just trying to be as prepared as I can.

“How'd the meeting at work go?” I ask.

“Boring, as usual,” Peter says. “Dad is taking his dear, sweet time making the transition.”

“Yeah, it's got to be tough for him to let go after all this time,” I say.

I sit down on the bed and close my eyes, listening to Peter go on and on about the business. McDowell Pharmaceuticals is his dad's company, but his father is retiring and leaving everything to him. Peter is, of course, in a hurry to get things going so he can take over and start putting his stamp on the company.

His father though, as it turns out, isn't so keen on letting go. Instead of spending his days on the golf course, or at the country club, he keeps coming in and looking over Peter’s shoulder, which is driving my boyfriend absolutely mad.

Boyfriend. Huh. First time I've ever called him that, even though it's obvious that's what he is. It still feels weird to me to think the word, let alone say it out loud, though. Things still feel somewhat distant between us, even though we've been seeing each other constantly for the past four months.

Our relationship has been a whirlwind from the day my dad – a doctor who works with Peter's father on some clinical drug trials – introduced us at a gala. From that day forward, Peter has called me at least once a day, and insisted we see each other no less than four times a week. The trips started a month ago, with him taking me to Key Largo for no reason other than he thought it would be fun.

It was definitely fun, and I enjoyed myself, but, he promised me there is so much more to come. If I'm being honest, I'm not even sure if there's a future ahead of us. I'm not really thinking that far ahead right now. Peter, however, is talking about going to Europe once the transition is complete and he's gotten himself on steady footing as the man in charge. He's talked a lot about maybe spending the summer together in Santorini.

Summer. That's still several months from now. Honestly, I'm not sure where I'm going to be next month, much less almost half a year away.

“Sydney, are you listening to me?”

Peter's voice cuts into my thoughts and pulls me back to the here and now. I'd apparently zoned out – tuning him out completely.

“Uh yeah,” I lie. “I'm listening.”

“Then what did I just say?” His tone is serious.

“You were talking about work and how your dad doesn't want to hand over the reins of the company so easily – ”

“No, I'd asked you if you were ready, darling.”

His voice softens, just a bit, but it comes out sounding forced. Peter has no patience for people not listening to him. It's a trait that seems common in powerful, successful men. They expect everyone to hang on their every little word, and when you don't, they feel slighted. Insulted. In that way, he's a lot like my own father.

No wonder he likes Peter so much.

“Yeah. Almost,” I say.

I look at the mess of clothes on my bed and the mess that is my bag, realizing I'm nowhere near close to being ready.

“Good. I'll have a car pick you up in half an hour,” he says.

Half an hour? I want to ask for more time, but not because it'll take me that much longer to finish packing. I'm just not ready to leave yet. I'm still waiting to hear back from a few medical schools I've had interviews with, and I'd much rather hang out with Allie and check the mail every chance I can, not travel to God knows where with a man my parents seemed to like more than I do.

“Okay,” I say.

It's a vacation. I need a vacation before starting medical school. That's what my parents would say. It still doesn't mean I want to uproot my entire world while I wait for the acceptance letters to come. And I know they'll come, it's just a matter of where, at this point.

Thankfully, Allie will feed my cat for me, but I still hate leaving Hermes behind. I walk over to the cat bed I put in the walk-in closet for him. It's one of his favorite napping spots, and when I peek inside, I find my majestic black cat curled up in a loaf position. His golden orbs watch me as I walk over and sit down on the floor with him, scratching behind his ears.

“Don't worry, I'll be back soon, buddy,” I tell him. “I promise.”

Hermes purrs and closes his eyes, resting his head against my palm. I get so caught up in petting my cat, I completely forget about packing. My phone buzzes and I realize that the car is here, waiting for me outside.

“Shit,” I mutter, rushing to grab my bag.

I throw in a few last-minute articles of clothing before hurrying through my condo toward the front door. My heart thundering in my chest, I rush down to the elevator, and down to the main lobby. Waving at the doorman, I exit my high-rise and find the black BMW sitting out front. The driver opens up the door for me, and I climb into the back seat.

Peter is waiting for me and I feel my heart sink into my shoes. If there's one thing he likes less than not being listened to, it's being kept waiting. A look of mild annoyance flashes across his features, but he manages to stuff it down. The irritation in his eyes is gone as if it had never been.

“I thought we were meeting at the airport?” I say.

“The surprises are only just beginning, my love,” he says.

I get myself situated on the back seat and then Peter pulls me into a kiss, holding my face between his hands so I can't get away even if I want to. His lips press against mine as the car pulls away from the curb.

We can't get to the airport quickly enough for my liking.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

JACK

 

“Let's move forward with the sale,” I say.

My office window overlooks the mountains beyond. They're majestic and covered in snow for as far as the eye can see. No other houses can be seen from my place, which is one reason I love it out here. It's just me and the mountains. Oh, and my dog, Gunner.

As if on cue, my chocolate lab lifts his head up and looks right at me. It's technically time for me to take him out to let him do his business, but I've been on this stupid conference call for hours. I'd much rather be out in the snow with my dog, but running a business means you have to make certain sacrifices. Even if I'm in the process of selling the business and everything to do with it.

Bronson Brothers Development was my dad's thing. His brother wasn't even in on it, actually. The name just sounded better according to dad. Looking around at my beautiful, rustic house in the mountains, I can't complain too much. The business gives me everything money can buy and a solid sense of security and freedom, but, there comes a time in any man's life when you have to let go of the things no longer working for you.

Like my dad's business. It would probably devastate my dad to hear, but I honestly don't have the passion or the heart for it. It would probably devastate him even more to hear that the sale of his real estate empire is going to make it possible for me to retire. My father believed in hard work and an honest day's pay, day in and day out. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

At the age of thirty-three years old though, I'm going to retire to the mountains with my dog, be left alone, and be happy. Really happy.

“You sure?” my lawyer, David, asks. “Jack, I'm looking at the numbers, and you could get – ”

“I'm getting plenty,” I say. “More than I'll ever use in my lifetime.”

I've been through this with David time and time again. I want the company, my dad's legacy, to end up in good hands. Capable hands. I want somebody to buy the company who can enhance my dad's legacy and continue to build it.

I know I'm not that guy, so the price tag doesn't matter to me. I already have all I need right here, and more than enough in the bank to keep me going for the rest of my life. I'm never going to want for anything for the rest of my days.

I scratch my beard and wait for him to argue with me some more about it like he usually does. After all, a lot of the people helping me broker this deal are being paid on commission, so it makes sense that they'd try to push for every penny. I've already sold the commercial branch of the company off, and in the process, donated a nice chunk of change to the Sierra Club in the Bronson name, trying to atone for all the damage that was done to the environment as various projects were built.

This last branch is it. The final piece of the puzzle. Once it's sold off, I'll be done, and once I'm done, I can live my life on my own terms.

“Still building cabinets?” David asks me.

“You betcha, I am,” I say. “Need some custom work done? I can give you a hell of a deal.”

David laughs. “Maybe on my vacation home,” he says. “The wife wants to redo the kitchen.”

“Well, you know who to call.”

David is silent for a long time before asking the question everyone asks me – the one he hasn't gotten around to asking until now. Frankly, I'm surprised it's taken him this long.

“Why, Jack?” he asks. “Why don't you retire and just take it easy?”

“I am taking it easy,” I say, leaning back in my Italian leather chair and staring out at the beautiful landscape before me. “Woodworking is what I enjoy. It's not a job, it's a hobby for me; something I actually enjoy doing. A man's gotta do something to keep busy.”

David is like an old friend. Almost, anyway. He is still a lawyer – and my lawyer at that. He'll always put my best interests over a personal relationship. He's a good man, and the closest thing I have to a friend.

“You need to date more, Jack,” he laughs. “You need a good woman in your life.”

“Nah, I'm doing everyone a favor by staying out of the dating pool, trust me.”

“My wife has this friend – ”

“You like your wife's friend?” I interrupt. “She's a good girl? A nice girl?”

“Of course,” he says. “I wouldn't suggest making an introduction otherwise.”

“Then take it from me – keep her far away from me.”

David sighs on the other end of the line. “Don't you get lonely up there in your sanctuary?”

How can I explain that yes, it does get lonely, but, that it's for the best for everybody? Sometimes I miss the companionship that comes from having someone in your life. Finding that someone, however, when you're somebody like me, isn't easy. It's not something a lawyer like David would understand. Hell, it's not something I'm sure anybody would understand.

David's always had it easy though. He grew up with a lawyer dad and got into his first choice of Ivy League schools right off the bat. After that, he went straight into law school. He was always going to make something of himself, there was no doubt about it in anyone's eyes. He was going to be somebody and do important things.

So, when he married a beautiful blonde who came from a wealthy family as well, nobody batted an eye. It just seemed like the natural order of things and most people thought they were the perfect couple. Made for each other. Not everyone is so lucky though – something David doesn't quite grasp.

“After spending years in the desert, fearing anyone I come across might have a bomb strapped to their back, I prefer being alone, honestly,” I say.

It's a trust issue, yes. Not just from my years in the Marines, but also my experience with women. They might not come with actual explosives strapped to their backs, but every single relationship I've been in has seemed like a ticking time bomb. There is always an expiration date on any relationship I've found myself in. Usually, when that end comes, it's never clean. It's messy and it's destructive, leaving nothing but smoldering wreckage, a mound of emotional baggage, and a bunch of DVDs and shirts that don't belong to you.

“Eleanor is going to be disappointed,” David says. “She really wanted you to meet Cassie.”

“Tell Eleanor that I appreciate the gesture, but Cassie deserves better.”

“Better than a man wealthy enough to buy his own small country?” David asks with a laugh.

I cringe at the words. It's not like I wanted to make millions. I never set out to have that kind of money. I have other priorities in my life. I won't deny that my father did extremely well for himself. After years of his company struggling to make ends meet, of literally robbing Peter to pay Paul just to keep the lights on, it eventually paid off and he made his fortune. Because of that, I'm set up for the rest of my days. I just happen to be the lucky beneficiary of all my dad's blood, sweat, and tears. I'll never complain and will remain eternally grateful to my father for allowing me to live the life I want to live. I'm just a lucky schmuck though, that's all.

“I'm a grumpy, crotchety prick, David,” I say. “No amount in the money can make up for that.”

“You keep saying you're such a bad guy, but I've seen nothing to prove that claim.”

“Good. I prefer to keep it that way.”

Gunner is still looking at me with his wide puppy-dog eyes, brown and pure, begging for me to take him outside. I hurry up and end the call before David continues to pester me about meeting his wife's friend.

“Alright, send the papers my way and I'll sign them,” I say. “I'm ready to be free from my dad's legacy.”

“It's your legacy too, Jack.”

“Nah, I inherited at the right time, made a few lucky guesses, and that's all,” I say, scratching my beard. “Now it's time for me to do my own thing.”

I hang up the phone, and as soon as I stand up, Gunner rushes my legs. His entire body is wiggling along with his tail, and he whines just under his breath. He's impatient, but too well-trained to make a huge spectacle of himself.

“Alright, alright,” I laugh, stroking the giant, chocolate brown dog. “I get the picture.”

I was never a dog person until Gunner showed up on my front porch. No matter how many flyers I put up, no one claimed the guy. When he’d turned up, he’d looked like he'd been on the streets for a while. There wasn't enough meat on his bones and he walked with a limp which we later discovered was a broken foot.

After giving him a thorough exam, the vet said he'd probably been outside for at least a few weeks. No collar. No microchip. The shelter was overcrowded, and they took one look at the mutt and broke it down to me – the chances were good, in a small town like this, no one would claim him. Somebody had probably just dumped him to be rid of the responsibility. The vet told me that he'd probably be euthanized once his hold ran out at the shelter.

I took him home that evening, and he's been my buddy ever since. Saved me a few times too. When I felt down and out, ready to just give up on everything, Gunner would rest his head on my lap and look up at me, as if he was intuiting my thoughts. Those chocolate brown puppy dog eyes are often the only reason I get out of bed. He depends on me, needs me, and I can't let him down.

He follows me out the office, his tail thumping against the cabinets in the kitchen. I open the back door, and Gunner rushes outside into the snow drifts that are almost as tall as he is, kicking up white powder as he runs. If the cold bothers him, it doesn't show. Doesn't bother me much either. I stay on the back porch and stare out at the forest beyond the yard, enjoying the silence and the solitude of my house. It's nothing but open land for as far as the eye can see.

There's not even a fence, but Gunner has no intention of running off into the woods. Not after what he lived through before I found him. He stays nearby, always glancing back to make sure I'm still on the porch watching him. I guess because of what he endured before he came to me, he's a little paranoid and wants to keep me in sight at all times. The snow is too deep to play ball with him, but there is one thing I know he likes. I walk down the back steps and wade out into the snow, bending down to make a snowball with two hands. Gunner sees what I'm doing and rushes toward me, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, a wide doggy-grin on his face.

Picking up the snowball, I toss it toward him and he leaps from the ground, into the air, and his jaws close around the icy ball. It explodes in a hail of icy chunks and Gunner lands on his feet with snow covering his muzzle and a smile on his face. His eyes are begging me for more, his enthusiasm making me laugh.

I'm not even sure what I did with my free time before he came into my life. David was right about one thing – it did get lonely up here. For the most part, I prefer it that way. Loneliness and isolation are safe. It's familiar for me. There aren't many people I enjoy spending time with, and even fewer that I trust. No one here in the small town of Redstone knows a thing about me. Which is good. I intend to keep it that way.

Gunner eventually gets tired of the snowballs and finds something of interest to sniff. Small tracks dot the snow all around where he's sniffing. Some kind of small animal, obviously. Gunner continues following them until he gets too close to the iced over mountain road, which in a roundabout way, takes you into Aspen. Eventually. It’s a town I stay far away from for obvious reasons – tourists.

I whistle, and Gunner's ears perk up immediately. He turns and looks at me, a question in his deep brown eyes, Ahh, do I have to go inside now?

“I know, buddy,” I say with a sigh. “I have more calls to make, more work to do. But soon, I'll be free to enjoy my days with you and we can play outside as long as you want.”

Gunner, being the good boy that he is, comes running toward me as happy as a clam. He gets it. He gets me. We're a good team, Gunner and I, and it's incredibly fortuitous that this big lump of fur and wiggles came into my life when he did. It might have saved my life.

He leads the way up the stairs, shaking himself off on the porch. I open the back door and he scampers inside, his nails clicking on the hardwood floors as he goes over to his favorite spot in front of the fireplace and plops down with a long sigh. The fire is going strong, the warmth filling the house, and for that, I'm grateful.

In fact, I'm grateful for everything I have, even if it doesn't seem like it. The living room that stretches out before me is filled with nice things. A stone fireplace keeps the house warm, surrounded by brown leather sofas, and an overstuffed chair that I made the mistake of having an interior designer pick out for me. The chair doesn't feel like me, not really, and it's not overly comfortable to sit in, but it looks nice. So, I guess that's something.

A large flat panel television hangs on the wall that's hardly ever used. In fact, I hardly ever sit in the living room. It's a room I usually just pass through on my way out of the house. I spend most of my time in my office, bedroom, kitchen, or bathroom. The rest of the large cabin goes mostly unused, including the loft up above the living area that serves as a library. It's full of more books than I can ever read in my lifetime. I hope once I'm finally finished with my dad's company though, I can at least put a sizeable dent in the collection.

I walk through the living room, passing it by as usual, and head for the kitchen. This room gets used a lot. Given how small of a town Redstone is, getting delivery is next to impossible, so I cook most of my own meals, as well as Gunner's. Large and spacious with stainless steel appliances and slate countertops, it's the one room I had a say in. A dining room separates the living area from the kitchen – yet another space that goes largely unused. It's an elegant room though, dominated by an eight-person dining table made entirely of locally sourced wood.

Given that I'm not into hosting dinner parties though, I usually eat at the breakfast nook situated in the corner of the kitchen. My laptop is a permanent fixture there as it's one of the few places, outside of my office, that I do my work, mostly because of the view. The nook has bench seating against a bay window, and in the distance, you can see the snowcapped mountains that the tourists flock to on their skiing holidays.

Personally, I prefer seeing them from this distance. The mountains are majestic though – rugged and natural, rising above the earth and dusted with snow almost year-round. Summer is beautiful in this little slice of Colorado too though, when the trees are green, and everything comes alive once more. As beautiful as it is though, winter will always be my favorite season. I had more than enough summer in the dessert.

I sit down with a cup of coffee and open my laptop. I delete a bunch of useless e-mails, and scroll through, only stopping on those for local woodworking jobs.

Checking the clock, I see that I have a few minutes to go until my next call. This one handling the day to day operations of the business until the business is finally sold off. One more week, maybe two, and then I'd be free to do what I loved instead of dealing with this daily rigmarole.

Then, maybe, I can finally, truly relax.

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

SYDNEY

 

“Can you tell me where we're going now?” I ask, once we’ve boarded the private jet.

A woman brings me a glass of champagne, which she hands to me along with a napkin. I didn't ask for any champagne and am not particularly in the mood for a drink right now. I put the glass in the cup holder on the arm of the leather seat. Peter takes his glass and sips it, a devious smile on his face as he glances at me from over the rim.

“Do you like skiing, Sydney?” he asks me.

His question brings back memories from high school. A ski trip to Aspen. Sure, there are others, but this one brings back a lot of memories for me that I push away. Memories I don't particularly want to think about.

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “We're not – ”

My eyes are wide and my stomach churns as I realize I hadn't packed any winter clothing. It hadn't even occurred to me that we might actually be going somewhere other than some expensive tropical paradise because that's usually Peter's idea of a good time. Skiing is more my thing, or rather, was my thing. “Your mom told me about your love of skiing,” Peter says, taking another sip of his champagne. “Said you used to go a few times a year with them. My dad owns a house outside of Aspen, so I figured, why not do something I know you love for a change?”

“I didn't bring anything to wear,” I admit. “Not for winter weather.”

His gray eyes glimmer a bit, and I know there's a flirtatious comment swirling around in his brain that he's dying to give voice to. He holds his tongue though, and for that, I give him some credit.

“We'll pick up whatever you need at the shops,” he says, waving his hand.

A reminder that to him, money is not an issue. Not that money is an issue for me either, but Peter likes to flaunt the fact in everything he does – right down to the Rolex on his wrist he makes sure I see.

Unlike my family, his family is fairly new money. Not that it matters to my folks. Money is money is money. I come from a long line of doctors and surgeons who've all done quite well for themselves. I've never wanted for anything in my life and can admit that I've had a very privileged upbringing.

Peter, on the other hand, is only the second person in his family to have success in business. Well, really, his dad was the successful one. Peter was just earning off of what his father started. Not that I had any doubt he'd be anything less that successful – Peter was a man who took his career, and his potential earnings, very seriously. If there's one thing he's laser-focused on, it's making money.

Allie was right when she said any woman would love to be with a man like Peter. He's six-foot-five, and built like a linebacker from his years of playing college football, still thick through the chest and shoulders –. He still works out every single day, without fail, and follows a strict high-protein diet. His figure is important to him, and it shows. He wears suits that are tailored to his shape, and show off his tight, fit body. Peter can be a bit of a peacock.

His face is just as hard as his body – all angles and sharp edges. High cheekbones that are almost a bit too structured to look real – but they are. It's a family trait as I've seen from old photographs. His entire family are as beautiful as statues, chiseled to perfection, most all of them having nearly jet-black hair and gray eyes that look as if they can see right through you.

I stare out the window of the jet, looking down at the world beneath us. While I grew up with money, my family doesn't own private jets or go on expensive vacations on nothing more than a whim. It all feels so different to me; so alien.

At first, I'll admit, it was exciting. Now, it feels almost irresponsible. Maybe I'm just biased about that since I have my father's work ethic. There's a time for fun, that time though, is structured. It's scheduled. You don't just drop everything to travel to some foreign land because you feel like it.

Peter, on the other hand, lectures me often about lightening up. He constantly tells me to relax and live a little. I'm trying. It's why I'm here on this jet with him now. It's why I keep doing whatever he has in mind for us, because deep down, on some level, I can admit that maybe he's right. Hell, I know he's right. I do need to live a little. This is certainly living, I think, as I look around at the jet. The leather seats we're in, sitting across from each other, are in a group of four. Each side can be folded down into a bed, and yes, when we took off the last time, I was exhausted from applying to med school and I totally took advantage of it. There's a mini bar on one side, fully stocked and flat panel televisions in case you get bored. It blows my mind, to this day, that this is how some people travel. It blows my mind even more to know that this is how I travel now, apparently.

I sip my champagne and stare down at mountains below us. I can't tell if we're still in California or not, but if I want to know, I can pull up all the information I could ever want on one of the televisions, I'm sure. Anything is an option when you have enough money.

“Did your mother talk to you about UCLA?” Peter asks.

I look over at him and blink. “What about it?” I ask.

A sly smile spreads across his face. Setting his glass down, he steeples his fingers and makes me wait for his answer. It's as if he enjoys watching me squirm. Finally, when he speaks up, I can hear the note of pride in his voice.

“My father knows a guy on the admissions board, and he's put in a good word for you,” he says. “You should be hearing from them soon.”

“Thank you,” I say, blushing as I look down at my hands. “You really didn't have to do that.”

“I know,” he says, continuing to smile at me, as if he expects me to fall to the ground and suck his cock as a way to say thanks or something. “I figure you could use all the help you can get. UCLA is a top tier medical school, I'm told.”

“It's a good one,” I say.

I grit my teeth at the comment about needing all the help I can get though. As if I'm not good enough or smart enough to get into a top tier school like UCLA without somebody putting in a good word for me. It irritates me because I work hard and am damn good at what I do. Hearing him speak about putting in good words for me with the admissions boards just strikes me as completely condescending. “It's in my top ten or twenty, for sure,” I say, carefully trying to keep my tone neutral. “Stanford is still my top choice, but UCLA wouldn't be a bad fallback school.”

Not to mention, I stand a good chance at getting into either on my own merits.

“UCLA is closer to home though,” he says.

“Stanford isn't that far off,” I say. Especially when you have a private jet, I think to myself.

“Well, we'll see what happens, won't we?”

Peter cocks an eyebrow as he takes a drink from his champagne flute, finishing the glass. He presses the buzzer for the flight attendant. When she doesn't respond fast enough, he presses it again. Then a third time, harder.

“Dammit. Where is she? ”

The woman scurries out of the back and keeps her eyes low as she apologizes, “Sorry, sir, I was in the restroom.”

Peter continues to scowl as he hands his glass over to her, not saying another word – not even deigning to look at her. The stewardess disappears and then quickly returns, handing his glass back to him with a fresh napkin. Briefly, I catch her gaze and see her wide eyes, and her lower lip trembling. She looks terrified.

“I'm so sorry, Mr.--”

Peter stops her and waves her off. “Just go sit down,” he says. “And remember, you're being paid to be at my beck and call. See that it doesn't happen again.”

“Yes, sir,” she says. “I'm so sorry, sir.”

She starts to walk away, but I grab her arm. She stares down at me, and her eyes are wide, and she looks at my hand on her arm like I'm scalding her. Her name tag says Amy.

“Thank you, Amy.” I speak the words my boyfriend should – but doesn't – offer her. “We appreciate your help.”

She nods and quickly walks away without another word, toward the back of the plane. Out of sight until Peter buzzes her again. Peter shakes his head at me, muttering something to himself that's so low, I can't make it out. I don't even care what he's saying, honestly, so I go back to looking out my window.

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

JACK

 

“What day is it, Mark?” Sometimes being so far off in your own little world had its drawbacks – like forgetting the date.

Mark is my project manager based out of Denver, where the company's corporate offices are located. We have conference calls every few days, but if my phone doesn't remind me, I often forget about them. Today is no different.

“It's the twenty-fifth, Jack,” Mark laughs. “Wednesday. In case you forgot that too.”

I scratch my beard and look at the long, never-ending list of e-mails I need to reply to. E-mails I've been putting off, not wanting to deal with the mundane crap they undoubtedly contain.

“That's what I thought. Shit, I can't believe I forgot,” I say, muttering to myself.

“Forgot what?” Mark asks on the other end of the line.

“Nothing,” I mutter. “Listen, I have to get out of here. I have plans tonight.”

“Plans?”

“Yeah, surprising, I know,” I say. “But, believe it or not, I got plans. The rest of this shit will have to wait for a little bit.”

“It can't wait, Jack, it needs – ”

“It needs to wait until tomorrow,” I say.

My voice sounds harsher than I intend it to, but Mark and the rest of the guys at corporate need to remember who's in charge sometimes. I may not be in the office every single day, but I'm still the one calling the shots. It seems like sometimes, they forget that. “I have to go,” I say.

Mark sighs. “I'll tell Harry to hold off, but listen, they need the paperwork signed to move forward on the project. Can you at least do that?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he sighs, irritation in his voice. “We'll reschedule this meeting for tomorrow then.”

I click off the call before Mark can continue arguing with me and throw on some clothes. Something a little more practical and acceptable to be seen wearing in public, at least. I'm not dressing to the nines though. I just throw on a t-shirt and some dark jeans. “Come on, Gunner,” I announce, saying his favorite words ever – words that get a full body wag and a goofy doggy smile out of him. “Wanna go for a car ride?”

Gunner is up and at the door in two seconds flat, not so patiently waiting for me. A blast of cold air hits us as we open the door, cold enough that it hurts to breathe. If Gunner is affected by it, it doesn't show. He rushes forward, running to my car with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, excitement radiating from his big, furry body. He beats me to the truck, and runs back to me, then back to the truck as if he's trying to hurry me along.

It's not until we were both in the car that it hits me. I probably shouldn't have brought him along. It's not like where I'm going is dog-friendly. I sigh. It's too late for that now. He's content in the back seat, staring out the window before I even start the truck and back out of the driveway.

It's okay, I tell myself. Not like I'll be long. I'll walk him around town a bit, let him stretch his legs. There's a leash in the glove compartment, but I don't need to go inside, I tell myself.

Yet I know it's a lie even as the thought crosses my mind.

I can't go inside with Gunner, so there's that. Maybe I brought him along intentionally, without even realizing it. Maybe trying to subconsciously sabotage myself or something.

We drive for some time down the long road, my music blaring. The roads are slick, but my truck can handle it, especially with the chains on the tires. This isn't my first winter in Colorado, I know what I'm doing. It takes about half an hour to get to the shopping district, which is just a square of local shops and restaurants – nothing too fancy. I pull into a spot on the street, shut off the engine and turn to Gunner, who's eager to get out of the car.

As I look at my furry buddy, I realize that I'm in a pickle. I can't leave him inside, it's too cold. I can't take him with me inside the cafe, they won't allow it. So, it's settled. I just won't go inside.

I attach the leash to his collar and we get out of the truck. He jumps down onto the snow-covered sidewalk, wriggling and dancing like he's the happiest dog on Earth. It's still light out, but it won't be for long. People are mingling outside the cafe, going in and out. Shops are mostly empty, though a few locals are running errands as if this snowfall is no big deal.

Hell, to most of us locals, it's not. A light dusting, nothing more.

“Come on,” I say, walking toward Miss Daisy's Cafe.

I'm hit by the aroma of fresh coffee beans and pie, and I know from experience that they have some of the best pie in Colorado. Just the smell wafting from Miss Daisy's makes my stomach growl and my mouth water. Normally, that's what I'd get. Pie. Tonight though, I just hang outside and savor the memories.

“You're so silly,” she said in that perpetually chipper, high-pitched voice of hers, as she tossed her straw wrapper at me.

The memory is still so powerful. Her voice, even still, rings through my head so loud and clear. Her smile was so bright and warm, it could melt the snow right off the mountains of Aspen. It's why I fell in love with her. She was so genuine, so kind – everything I wasn't. She tried so hard to make me see the best in myself, at all times, but her parents could see the real me. They saw me for who and what I really was.

A voice calls my name, pulling me out of my memories and back to the here and now. It's Miss Daisy herself, standing in the doorway, frowning at me. Miss Daisy, last name unknown, is an elderly woman. She's got gray hair that's curly and wild as if she couldn't care less what her hair does – or what people think about it. She's a little round around the edges, years of making the best pies in the state will do that to a person. Her smile, as always though, is friendly and warm.

“What are you waiting for, Jack? Come on inside,” she says.

I shrug, the leash in hand. “Can't,” I say. “I think Gunner constitutes a health hazard.”

“Pfft,” she scoffs. “I'll determine what is and isn't a health hazard in my own diner. Now, get your fanny inside.”

She motions for me, and I look down at Gunner who looks to me for the answer. Do we or don't we? Finally, with a heavy sigh, I follow Daisy inside and she points to a booth in the far corner, tucked well away from everyone else and off to the side.

There's plenty of room for Gunner to lay beneath the table, and with his dark fur and us being so far back, there's a chance no one will even see him. Not that it matters. If Daisy says it's okay, well, it's her restaurant. She makes the rules. Health Department be damned.

We sit down, and Gunner sits at my feet, just as I thought he would. He's a good dog. Daisy brings out a menu along with a bowl filled with water, which she sets on the ground for Gunner. She scratches his ears before standing back up.

“It's about time you made a friend,” Daisy says. “How long have you been coming here? And always alone?”

“Too long,” I laugh.

Ever since Sydney brought me here, years and years ago, actually. It's the only time I came to Daisy's and wasn't alone.

Daisy knows the drill by now. With a soft smile, she says, “The usual?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say. “And if you have some bacon for Gunner – ”

“Of course. Anything for your friend,” she says with a playful wink.

I come here often, yes, but tonight is different. Some men might toast their exes with booze, but I prefer coffee – the same fresh ground, French roast she introduced me to years ago. I remember that we were sitting at the table across the way, I see it's occupied by a young married couple. Newly married too, from the way they snuggled close, focusing more on each other than on the food in front of them.

Daisy drops off my chicken fried steak, eggs and hash browns. It might be dinner time, but there's no way I'm passing up her chicken fried steak. Day or night, it's easily one of my top three favorite meals. It would probably be the last meal I'd request if I were ever on death row. That with a slice of pie for dessert, which I am very much looking forward to.

“You know, she's not stepped through these doors in years, Jack,” Daisy says. She refills my coffee cup as I continue staring at the front door. “Not since – ”

“I know,” I say. “That's not why I come anymore. I come for the food. And for your scintillating personality, Daisy.”

“Always the silver-tongued devil,” she says and laughs. “If only I were forty years younger.”

“Or I were forty years older,” I say.

It's true that I come for the food, but I also come for the memories. I keep that part to myself, though.

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

SYDNEY

 

“Before we head to the cabin, I figure we'll stop for something to eat,” Peter says.

His eyes twinkle and he smiles as if he's pleased with himself. He probably is. He usually is when he thinks he's done something special. Bringing my hand to his lips, he kisses it lightly.

I look outside at the shops and the square, recognizing instantly where we are. A little shopping district in Redstone, Colorado. It was always one of my favorite places to go as a kid with my family, and later as a teen. Before the car even stops though, I know where Peter is taking me and feel the chill of old memories wash over me.

“My mom told you about this place, didn't she?” I ask.

He holds the door open for me, and I step out of the car.

“She did indeed,” he says. “Said you always loved it.”

I feign a smile to be polite, but on the inside, I'm cringing. Screaming My entire body is tense as we walk toward the familiar cafe, the waves of nostalgia crashing down over me threatening to pull me under. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the churning in my stomach.

Not much has changed about the place. It's still a hole in the wall with one small, brightly lit sign out front. A large window allows you to see inside, and as we walk past, I can smell the coffee coming from the place. I'm in a skirt and blouse, completely underdressed for a wintery escape. Peter throws his coat over my shoulders and that helps a lot, but the cold still stings my face and freezes my lungs in my chest. It's almost hard to breathe. Or maybe, that's just my anxiety.

As we head for the door, so many memories come rushing back, all at once. My heart feels heavy with them. My soul feels even heavier. Peter holds open the door, and I step inside, the warmth of the cafe hitting me, taking me by surprise. It's almost too hot inside, or perhaps my body isn't used to it yet.

Standing in the doorway, I stare into the cafe, amazed at how little things have changed. The tables are still adorned with the red and white checkered cloths I remember from my youth. It even smells the same. French-pressed coffee and Dutch apple pie. Cinnamon and cloves. The sizzling of the fryer as it cooks up something filled with lard, I'm sure. Along with the anxiety, I won't lie, there's a rush of good feelings that come with it to. I glance back at Peter and cock an eyebrow at him.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “I doubt they serve food that's Keto-friendly.”

“I'll deal for one night,” he says. “A small sacrifice for the woman I love.”

He winks at me, and we slide into a nearby booth. It's then that a familiar face steps out of the kitchen, running a hand through silvery hair. She smiles over at us, not remembering – or perhaps not recognizing me, since it's been so long. Daisy's smile and personality are so warm and genuine, and her face lights up whenever she speaks to you. Even if she just met you, she makes you feel like an old, valued friend. It's hard not to smile back at her.

As she walks closer to our table, she cocks her head to the side and I can see the first stirrings of recognition. They're faint, but unmistakable in her eyes. Grabbing the menus, she looks at me, then her eyes widen slightly as she glances toward the backside of the restaurant. It's a part of the diner I can't see clearly from where I'm sitting. When I see the hint of concern on her face, my heart starts to thunder in my chest. It can't be...

No, it can't. It's all of the memories this place is stirring up that's making me paranoid. It would be too big of a coincidence, after all these years – it's just not likely. Like, winning the lottery odds, unlikely. Daisy hustles over to us, menus in hand, putting that warm smile on her face once more.

“Pardon me, but are you – ” she asks haltingly.

“Sydney Bellflower? Yes, ma’am,” I say. “It's been a long time. How are you, Miss Daisy?”

For the first time in my life, Daisy is speechless. She stands there staring at me, her jaw very nearly on the floor.

“I can't – wow, Sydney, you look – so different,” she says, but then quickly adds, “But good. Great, even. A good different. So grown up, I hardly recognized you at first.”

“Yeah, it's been way too long,” I respond. “You look good yourself, Miss Daisy. You haven't changed a bit.”

Her smile is small and faint as she looks down at Peter. Her smile falls from her face completely when she sees us holding hands across the table.

“Thank you, dear,” she says, her voice suddenly without the happy ring to it. I can tell that it bothers her to see me with somebody else. Things change though. Especially after so many years, and so much heartache.

Peter, being Peter, cuts right to the chase. “May we have two waters, please?”

Daisy looks at him, a darkness in her look, but she shakes it off and puts on a smile that doesn't come close to reaching her eyes.

“Of course,” she says and drops off two menus for us to look over. “I'll be right back.”

“Well that was rude,” I mutter.

“What?” He looks up from his menu to meet my gaze.

“I haven't seen her in years, and you didn't even give me a chance to introduce you.”

“The waitress, you mean?” he asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.

My face falls. “Never mind.”

It's not worth the trouble. Somehow, he missed out on the entire conversation, likely deep in his own thoughts. He often did that when the subject didn't interest him. Yet, he gets upset at others who do the same thing to him.

Daisy brings back two glasses of ice water, and I order a coffee.

“This late at night?” Peter asks.

“Their coffee is to die for,” I say. “It's French roasted and – ”

“It's coffee,” he laughs, “at a diner. How incredible can it be?”

“Just humor me, okay?”

Peter shrugs and goes back to the menu, flipping it over a few times before setting it down on the table in front of him. I glance around the diner and suddenly realize that we're so out of place here. Glancing at the other tables, there's a cute couple next to us all snuggled up in a booth. A young couple who are obviously in love. They're about the same age as us, but they look at each other with such adoration in their eyes and I feel a physical pain in my chest. It hurts me to see that. It reminds me of what Peter and I lack. What we'll never have, because truthfully, I never got my heart back from the one person I gave it to so long ago in this same diner.

Daisy sets my mug of coffee down and hovers a moment, until Peter side-eyes her.

“I don't think we're ready to order yet,” he says gruffly.

Daisy isn't looking at him, she's looking at me. Her face is tight, and she looks like she wants to tell me something. Maybe I'm imagining it, but seeing her standing there, I'm overcome with such a wave of nostalgia and happiness, that I stand up and wrap my arms around the older woman, hugging her tight. She's about five inches shorter than me, so I try not to put her face in my boobs as we embrace. It's a little awkward, but I make it work.

“I'm so glad to see you again, Daisy,” I say, feeling tears welling in my eyes. “It's been too long.”

“It has, dear,” she says. “Far too long.”

Her voice is as warm as the hands she wraps around my shoulders. She lowers her voice, rising on her tip-toes to whisper into my ear.

“When you get a chance, you might want to head toward the back,” she says. “There's someone here who'd love to see you.”

My body tenses up as we pull away, though she keeps hold of my hands. Daisy is smiling until her eyes, once again, land on my date. The smile fades and she scowls at him. It's how a lot of people in the service industry tend to respond to Peter. “I'll be right back to take your order,” Daisy says, scurrying away to the kitchen once more.

I can't see the back of the restaurant since there's a partition in the way, but my mind is buzzing, and my pulse is racing. Who would want to see me? I'm overcome by a wave of thought and emotion and none of it makes any sense. It couldn't be him. No, it simply couldn't be. The odds of him being here on the same night I am – after all these years – it defies logic and rationality. I think I'd stand a better chance of getting hit by lightning.

I bite my lip as I try to decide whether or not I should walk back there, or just sit down with Peter again.

“Sydney?” Peter asks.

I hardly hear his voice. As if I have no control over my body, my feet are moving before I can stop myself. I mutter to Peter over my shoulder.

“I'm going to use the restroom,” I say.

The bathroom is located back there, but that's not where I'm going. After what Daisy said, I find myself drawn to the back of the restaurant. It’s like I'm being pulled by some magnetic field that I can't break free from. Not that I'm trying very hard. Part of me wants to see if it could be him.

My heart is hammering inside of me and I'm curious, perhaps even excited, but also nervous at the same time. I walk slowly, almost too slowly. People stare, or maybe it's my imagination. I don't know. I reach the partition and step around it, and right away, our eyes meet, and I feel a powerful jolt of electricity tear through my body.

His blue eyes were always the best part about him, and even now with a scruffy beard and a chiseled jaw line, I can't stop staring into those painfully familiar baby blues. My heart skips a beat, and my knees are weak. Feeling faint and like I might fall, I grab onto the partition to hold myself up. Seeing that I'm about to topple over, he stands up and walks toward me.

Damn. He got hot. Not that he was homely before, but as he comes toward me, I can see that his body is toned and ripped now. He's obviously someone who still works out. His dark brown hair is cut short to his head – as opposed to when he was younger and kept it long and wild. The beard is rugged and unexpected but is kind of nice. I can't explain it, but it somehow suits him, sort of softening up his face a bit.

He strolls toward me in tight jeans and a black t-shirt, and then I notice the shadow behind him. A chocolate lab follows closely behind, and I can't help but smile. Jack always did have a soft spot for dogs.

“Sydney, is that really you?” his voice is deep and gravely, lower than I remember it to be.

“It is,” I say, still feeling dumbstruck – I mean, what are the odds? A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth that's so wide, it almost makes my face hurt. I can't help it, even though I know happiness is the last thing I should feel right now. A pit forms in my stomach as we stand, in silence, staring at one another in the restaurant that's as familiar and comforting as Jack's blue eyes.

“I thought I'd never see you again, Jack.”

Running a hand through his short hair, he looks away. Briefly. “Didn't you get the letter I sent you?” he asks. “Back about five years ago?”

“I never got a letter. I never got anything,” I say.

My heart hammers in my chest harder as the memories flood back into me. My stomach churns and I taste a sour bitterness in my throat as the anger rises inside of me. My blood begins to boil as I remember the countless nights I spent crying myself to sleep, thinking I'd lost the love of my life – and for what?

He never even said goodbye or offered an explanation. Like a puff of smoke on the breeze, he was just gone. Vanished. Like he'd never been. I'd heard he enlisted in the Marines, but even that came through rumors that spawned countless hours of research on the internet. No one I asked knew anything about him, or what happened to him, and that killed me. For years, I wondered why – and now, I might finally get my answer.

“I was worried your parents might not give it you,” he says quietly.

“My parents? What do you – ”

We're interrupted by a voice from behind me. I cringe, realizing it's Peter's voice.

“Get lost on your way to the bathroom?” Peter asks as he comes up behind me, slipping his arm around my waist.

The two men share a look and in just that one, brief glance, the tension between them is palpable, and it's growing thicker by the second “Uhh, no, Peter,” I say, shaking myself out of my daze, “This is Jack. He's an old – friend – of mine. Jack, this is Peter.”

Peter reaches his hand out, and Jack takes it. The two men shake, and when they release their grip, Peter grabs hold of my hand, giving it a tight squeeze. He might as well have pissed on my leg right then and there, claiming me as his, given the way he pulled me into him. My hand aches from the tight hold, but I don't say a thing. I do my best to keep my face neutral and even. Best to not cause a scene. Not here. Not now.

“Seems like we're running into a lot of old friends tonight, aren't we, dear?” Peter kisses the top of my head.

“That happens when you take me to a place I practically grew up in,” I say, trying to keep my voice cheery and bright.

Jack looks to Peter then to me, and then back to Peter again. I know Jack well enough to know that he doesn't like what he sees in the man holding my hand. But, if he has an issue with it, he bites it back. It's not like he has any sort of claim on me. He's the one who ghosted me, not the other way around.

“Yeah, she introduced me to this place actually. A long time ago,” Jack says. His jaw is clenched tight and I can hear the strain in his words. “Jack – ”

“Listen, I have to run,” Jack says. “But you two lovebirds have a good time, ya hear?”

“Jack, wait, I want to talk to you.”

Jack pushes past me, the dog in tow offering me sympathetic eyes as they pass us by. I try to pull my hand free from Peter's, but he doesn't let go. If anything, he only tightens his grip. I fight it, and still, he holds me tightly. I try dragging him with me, but it's no use. He weighs twice what I do. I can't move him or pull my hand from his grip even if I want to.

I'm stuck and can only call out to Jack from the back of the restaurant, barely seeing around the partition as he walks out the front door.

“Jack, please!”

Tears fill my eyes, but he doesn't even turn to look me. He's gone in a second. Vanished into the night once more. Yeah, that's a familiar feeling. The entire restaurant is watching us now, and Peter still has hold of my hand. Daisy is standing behind the counter, her hands on her hips as she looks at us, shaking her head. Her eyes look about as sad as I feel.

Peter grimaces, a disgusted look on his face. “I can't believe they let dogs in here,” he says. “That can't be sanitary. That has to be some kind of a health code violation or something.”

Slack-jawed, I stare at him. He's completely oblivious, or so it seems. Not that I'm entirely surprised by it. He turns to me and smiles, kissing my hand again as he guides me back to our table. Suddenly, I'm not very hungry, my appetite is gone. The idea of food actually starts to turn my stomach.

Peter calls out to Daisy, “Come, come,” he says. “We'd like to order now.”

No please. Nothing that would signal it was a request – or that he had any manners. Just a demand. I sit, quietly, in my seat as Peter orders an omelet with ham and cheese.

“Sydney, what can I get you, dear?” Daisy asks.

I look up and see that her eyes are sad – which is probably what she sees in mine. It's obvious that Daisy pities me – but why? With my nice clothes and my obviously wealthy boyfriend, I bet most people would assume I had it good. A handsome man sitting across from me. Money in the bank. A limo waiting out front to drive us to some fancy lodge in Aspen. By all accounts, I had it good. It's a life I know some people would kill for.

If that's the case though, I think to myself, why am I not happy?

I glance back toward the front door, staring out the window. I strained my eyes, trying to see through the dying light of the day, desperately searching, trying to catch one last look at Jack again. He's nowhere to be seen though and I feel a sharp pain lance me through the heart. I turn back around, clear my throat and order chocolate chip pancakes. Peter raises an eyebrow at my choice, but I smile and give him a small shrug.

“It's what I always used to get as a child,” I say. “Since we're taking the nostalgia tour, you can humor me.”

He shrugs and sips his water, not saying a word. Yet, I get the distinct feeling he's judging me for it. Just wait until I get Daisy's world-famous pie for dessert too, I think. Maybe I'll get two slices just to piss him off.

No, that never ends well. Peter has a temper. It's one side of him that my folks never see. Even if they ever did though, I'm not sure it would make much difference.

They love him. They expect me to love him too.

If only it were that easy.

When she sets my plate down in front of me, Daisy catches my eye and I see that she's discreetly slipping a folded piece of paper to me underneath my plate. Thankfully, Peter's not paying attention – he's busy looking at something on his phone, not even looking up to acknowledge that Daisy is dropping off our food. She smiles wide and gives me a wink, placing her fingers to her lips as if to tell me to be quiet about it. Not that she has anything to worry about, I have no desire to upset Peter further. I slip the note into my purse, pretending to reach for lip balm.

As I slip the note into my bag, I notice my name written on the front and feel my heart skip a beat. That feeling of electricity running along my every nerve ending returns as I look at the note. The handwriting is familiar.

It's Jack's chicken scratch.

 

ooo000ooo

 

“Well that was certainly different.”

The way Peter enunciates “different”, means it's obviously not a good thing. The air is only growing colder as we walk to the limo. When we reach the car, he holds the door open for me. I climb inside, welcoming the warmth until the door closes me in and I feel Peter pressed close to my body. I suddenly feel claustrophobic and look at the door, yearning to open it back up and step out. Before I can do anything other than think about it though, the car is moving again. There's no escape now.

I sit back and focus on my breathing as Peter looks over at me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine,” I lie.

My cheeks are flushed even though it's not hot, I just need to breathe. Try to calm my racing heart and relax.

“You sure?” he asks. “That Jack fella didn't upset you, did he?”

Peter is looking down at me with his brows drawn together in a straight line. His jaw is tight and he's staring daggers at me. It's Peter's all too familiar disappointed, bordering on upset look – it's an expression I've seen more times than I can count over the last few months we've been together.

“Oh no, he's just an old – friend.”

I try to laugh it off and minimize what Jack meant to me at one time, long ago. I can't keep all of the emotion out of my voice though, and it cracks at the end of my sentence.

“Well, I didn't like the way he looked at you,” he says sternly. “You don't look at friends that way. I don't think I like that guy.”

Now that Peter mentions it, I did notice the way Jack's eyes lit up when he saw me. For a brief moment, the look on his face made me feel nineteen all over again. Jack had always had that effect on me, making me feel like I was the only woman in the room and the most beautiful woman in the world. It's a feeling I've never felt with any other guy before. It's certainly never something I've ever felt with Peter.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I mutter.

“You sure about that?”

“Peter, are you honestly accusing me of cheating – or at least thinking about cheating – on you?”

My voice rises. There it is. No more cracking or crying. You don't accuse me of cheating, you just don't. I've never given him a reason to not trust me and, the implication I hear in his tone makes my blood boil.

This time, it's my turn to stare daggers at him.

“I can't help but feel jealous, Sydney,” he says. “You're a beautiful woman. I know you turn heads when you walk into a room. It's only natural for me to feel a little – protective.”

“Even if Jack was looking at me like you seem to think he was, it's not like we're ever going to see each other again.”

My heart drops for a second when the words come out of my mouth. I honestly never thought I'd see Jack again in the first place, so to run into him like we had tonight – it turned my whole world upside down. Though, the realization that it's probably a one-time coincidence sets in and I start to feel sad. At least, until I remember the note Daisy gave me. The note with Jack's handwriting on the I remember the way he used to write my name in his notebook, joking about getting it tattooed somewhere on his body. So maybe I just lied to my boyfriend. Maybe there is some small spark of hope that I'm going to see Jack again. But, would it be smart? Given everything that happened between us, is seeing him again the smartest thing I can do to myself? Or will I just be subjecting myself to more heartbreak and frustration?

Peter continues studying my face, as if looking for any chink in my armor. Like he's looking for some opportunity to doubt me. I keep my face as neutral as I can, and when he sees none, he leans in and places a soft kiss upon my lips.

“I'm sorry, love. You just make me crazy sometimes,” he says. “I can't lose you. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

His attachment to me freaks me out. We've only been together a few short months, I think, but I don't bother to point that out. No need to give him any more reason to doubt me. Not when I have to spend a few days locked in a cabin with him. Deep down though, I worry that if he's like this after only a few months, what he'll be like after a year, or longer.

“In fact,” he purrs, “I was going to wait for the right time, but with everything going on, I don't think I can wait any longer.”

My heart skips a beat, and I swallow a lump forming in my throat. A noose of dread wraps itself around my throat as I fear what's coming next. I say a silent word, praying that what I fear he's about to do isn't what I'm thinking.

“W - what are you talking about?” I ask slowly.

Peter continues, “I've already spoken to your parents and asked for their approval – ”

“Approval for what?” My stomach churns as we take one step closer to what I fear he's doing.

Peter reaches into a hidden compartment of the limo and pulls out a sleek, black box. I gasp, but not for the reason he thinks I am.

Peter drops to his knee as best he can in the back of the limo.

God, I'll do anything to make this stop. My parents just adore him though, and I don't want to let them down. They already claim I'm too picky and I thought they were right, but this? No, this I'm not ready for. This is too soon. Way too soon.

Before he can even ask, I take his hands in mine and keep him from opening Pandora's Box. If I let him open it, all manner of dark devils will come flying out and I don't know that they can be put back in again. “Peter, are you – ”

“I'm asking you to marry me, yes,” he says, a slight tremor in his voice.

His gray eyes darken, and the question comes out more as a demand than a proposal. As if he expects me to fall over, thank my lucky stars that such a man came into my life, and agree to be his wife.

“We've only been together, what? Four months,” I say gently. “Don't you think we're moving a bit – fast?”

I try to lighten the mood by chuckling, but Peter isn't laughing. His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches as he rips the ring box away from my hands and stashes it in his coat pocket. “When you know, you know, Sydney,” he says. “And I know. Are you saying you don't want to marry me?”

“I – ” I am so caught off guard by all of this, and in that moment, all I want is to get out of the car. I want to escape. “I don't know, Peter. It's all moving too fast and I don't know what to make of any of it right now.”

The air rushes out of my lungs with a whoosh and I feel like I'm being suffocated. Choked. Like I'm fighting for air and I need to breathe. The limo feels like a cage suddenly, and even though the car is moving, I almost want to jump out, just to escape the tension.

Peter is still on his knees in front of me, but he's no longer looking at me. In the darkness of the car, I can't see the look on his face at all, but his hands clench my thighs, his nails digging into my bare flesh.

“Peter, you're hurting me,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

He doesn't pull his hands away though. No, instead, he looks up at me and I shudder when I see the darkness in his eyes. I don't even recognize this man anymore. The charming, sophisticated man my parents know and love is gone, replaced by a red-faced monster who continues digging his nails into my flesh, even as I try to pull myself away from his grasp.

I lean against the car door, as far as I can from him, desperately trying to put some distance between us. He grabs me and tries to pull me back to where I was sitting, but I fight and struggle, kicking his hand away with a high heel shoe, which goes flying to the other side of the limo.

“Peter, stop!” I scream. “You're scaring me.”

For some reason, I expect that to work. I know he has a quicksilver, wicked temper, and his anger has always terrified me, but it's never been directed at me before. Not for long, at least. Nothing like this.

“So what, Sydney?” he spits. “You come along and enjoy these fancy vacations, let me spend my money on you, but you'd really rather be fucking some scruffy inbred from the mountains? Is that it? Is that what's going on here?”

Before I know what hits me, I snap. Pulling back my hand, I slap Peter across the face as hard as I can. His head barely moves, but there's an angry red hand print on his cheek and the look in his eyes is worth it. He seems to pull himself together, as if he's coming to his senses, but it's fleeting. The monster he's become returns quickly, even angrier than before.

He looks at me with pure disgust and hatred in his eyes. His breathing is ragged, and he looks like he wants to kill me and dump my body in the woods. My heart races and a bolt of fear runs through me. I try to control myself, but I feel the trembling in my body as the grip of fear tightens around my heart.

“You're nothing but gold-digging trash,” he growls. “Just like all the others. I never should have expected more from you than I would a common whore.”

“Go to hell,” I say.

Those are the last words I utter to him, because Peter reaches over and opens the car door I'm resting against. I scream, but no one hears me. No one that matters, anyway.

“No, you go to hell,” Peter says, pushing me out of the moving car.

Luckily, the driver must have seen the door was open and he slowed down. As I fall from the limo, to the hard pavement below, everything moves in slow motion. I hit the snow-covered ground with a hard crack and the breath is driven from my lungs. The ground is slick, and I roll for a bit. As I topple over an embankment, I hear the car door slam and the limo drive away. I roll down the steep embankment, completely out of control of my body, unable to stop. I dig my nails into the hard packed, snow covered ground, trying to keep from rolling further when my head strikes something hard.

My vision wavers and blurs, and then goes dark.

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

JACK

 

I don't go far after leaving the diner. Instead, I go to my truck and drive around the town center for a few minutes before circling back to the cafe. I owe Daisy for my meal – not that she'd call the cops on me. I know I can always pay next time. Daisy isn't going to hold it against me and she's likely not even going to care. I won't do that to her though.

If I'm being honest with myself though, part of me wants to see Sydney again. Another part of me doesn't, though. Because seeing her again means I'll have to see that asswipe boyfriend of hers again, and God knows I don't want to get into a fight in the middle of Daisy's cafe.

I can't deny that I want to punch his lights out, but I don't even know the guy. Maybe he's good to her. Maybe she's happy. She deserves to be happy after all.

As much as I had hoped she was there to see me, running into her again was nothing more than a bizarre coincidence. One of those rare, strange cosmic events where the planets are lined up just right or some shit like that.

When I circle back around and see that the limo is gone. I slide into the spot, parking right outside the front door. This time, I leave the truck running, planning to only be inside a minute. Gunner sits in the backseat, tongue out, content to just being going for a ride. I pat his head and give him a quick scratch behind the ears.

“Be right back, buddy,” I say, as if he can understand me – though, I sometimes think he can.

I climb out of my truck and quickly go inside. Daisy is talking to someone at the counter, but she turns and offers a sympathetic smile as soon as I step inside the door. She excuses herself from the customer and comes over to me and touches my arm.

“I'm so sorry, Jack.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

I shrug and try to sound casual, hoping she buys my act. It's not her fault that things went the way they did. It's my fault.

“Just needed to stop in and pay my bill,” I say. “Sorry for my hasty exit earlier.”

“I don't blame you,” she says, shaking her head.

She purses her lips and I can tell she's not happy about something, I assume it's the same reason I feel like shit.

“Anyway,” she says. “The meal is on me.”

Pulling out my wallet, I shake my head and stuff a fifty in her hand. My meal cost less than twenty bucks, but she deserves the extra for putting up with me all these years.

Staring down at the cash, Daisy objects and tries to hand it back to me.

“No, it's yours,” I say. “You know I'm not hurting for cash, Daisy. Take it.”

“I'm not hurting either,” she says.

We both know that's a lie. I'd give her more if she'd take it, but Daisy has her pride and I know not to trample all over it. The couple of times I've broached the subject of helping her out, she's shut it down right quick. So, I resort to giving her little bits of cash now and then. It's not much, but it still helps, and she's most likely to accept those.

“I gave her the note, Jack,” Daisy says, her eyes serious.

“Oh yeah?” My throat closes up on me, and there's a lead weight in my stomach. “Did she read it?”

“Not here, but she took it,” Daisy says. “She couldn't read it with that jackass sitting across from her.”

A small smile pulls at my lips. It seems we feel the same way about Peter. Something isn't right with him. He just seems slimy to me. The kind of man who wouldn't think twice about laying hands on a woman. I never would have pictured Sydney with a guy like him.

Part of me though, thinks it might be my own jealousy poisoning how I see him. I'm not exactly an unbiased source. Daisy likes everyone though, and if she doesn't like you, there's usually a reason.

I really wonder what Sydney sees in him. I mean, I guess he's everything her parents wanted for her – rich, handsome, and well-dressed. But from the small portion of time I'd been in his presence, I can see that he's got a wickedly possessive side.

“Thank you, Daisy,” I say.

The note was meant to be given to her if she ever happened to come back into Daisy's cafe, sure. But, I didn't plan on her being with someone when I wrote it all those years ago. I was young and naive back then, now I know better. The note belongs in the trash, not in her hands. I take some small bit of comfort though, knowing that most likely, it'll end up where it needs to be regardless. It's not like Sydney will ever forgive me, not completely. And it's not like I can blame her for it.

A guy can hope, though. Back when I wrote the note, I still had a lot of hope left in me. That's not so much the case anymore.

“Well, I better be off. Gunner's waiting in the truck,” I say.

Reaching out, Daisy takes my hand in hers and squeezes it tightly, giving me an encouraging smile.

“Don't give up on her, Jack. I know what I saw all those years ago between you two. That was true love,” she says. “And the way you looked at each tonight was much the same. She has your information. She'll come around. Mark my words, Jack. She'll come around.”

I smile faintly, but I don't buy it. I don't buy any of it. Not even close. I appreciate what Daisy is saying though. I appreciate that she's trying to keep that spark of hope alive in me. No matter how false that hope might be. Squeezing her hand before letting it go, I don't bother to argue with her as I step back out into the frigid, frozen night.

Gunner is sitting in the front seat patiently, staring at me, likely watching Daisy and I through the window of the restaurant. He looks content in the driver's seat, so much so that I joke with him when I open the door.

“You gonna drive us home, buddy?”

He kisses my face as I slide into the driver's seat, helping him scoot over, his entire body wagging as if I'd been gone for much longer than a few minutes. With the way he greets me, you'd think I was coming home after being away for years, or some shit.

“Back seat, Gunner,” I say, patting the guy on the head.

He obeys, his tongue still out as he hops over the center console into the back seat of my truck. He sits down and looks at me like, I'm ready for the next adventure.

“Just going home, Gunner,” I say. “I think I've had more than enough adventure for one night.”

Yeah, I talk to my dog. Probably more than I should. I settle myself into the front seat and put the truck into reverse and start to back out. Out of the corner of my eye though, I see movement and glance over. Though it's getting pretty dark, I see a woman walking down the middle of the road in nothing but a skirt and light blouse. I can see that she isn't even wearing any shoes. She's looking down at the ground, and while it's too dark to see her hair color or features, I know who it is right away.

She stumbles, almost falling into a snow drift. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her bare arms, and she slides on some ice. She stumbles and can't quite catch herself, falling down into the snow. She lays there in the freezing snowbank, not moving. I'm out of my car in a second flat, running down the middle of the street toward her.

“Sydney!” I call.

When I get to her, she stares up at me with blank eyes. I take off my coat and wrap her in it as tightly as possible. That's when I see the blood pouring from the wound in the back of her head. I quickly yank my cell phone out of my pocket and dial 9-1-1.

It seems like it takes forever for the call to go through, and the entire time, my gut is churning, and my pulse is racing. I stare at her and she looks back at me with eyes that are wide, vacant. I've seen people with that thousand-yard stare before and it's usually because they see their own death barreling down upon them.

I'm not going to let that happen to her. She is not going to die on me. I refuse to let her.

“Stay with me, Sydney,” I say in my most commanding voice. “Help is coming. Just hang on.”

I rip off my t-shirt even though it's freezing, and hold it to the back of her head, doing my best to stanch the flow of blood. I check her pulse, it's weak and thready. Even in the shadows and gloom of the evening, I can see that her pupils are dilated. She still hasn't said a word to me, nor shown any sign of recognizing me. She's just lying there, looking up at me blankly.

The operator finally picks up on the other end of the line. “9-1-1, what's your emergency?”

I quickly and as calmly as I can, explain the situation. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing myself to stay calm and in control. Because that's what I've been trained to do – stay calm and focused under pressure. Though it's been years, my training kicks into overdrive and I force any emotions or fear I might have right out of my head.

This isn't a battlefield. Bombs aren't going off and bullets aren't flying, but I need to remain as calm and focused as if they are. Sydney needs me to stay calm. To stay in control. The ambulance is on the way, I just need to keep her warm and control the bleeding.

Wrapping her tiny body in my gigantic coat, I pull her into my lap and use my body heat to keep her warm. I find myself rocking her gently, talking in soothing tones even though she's not said a word to me, yet. She just stares at me, expressionless. Shock and trauma does that to a person.

“It's going to be okay, Sydney,” I say. “You're going to be okay. You're going to be fine.”

I keep repeating the same thing over and over again. What else can I say? I just pray that I'm not lying to her. Her lips are purple, and she opens and closes her mouth, as if she's struggling to speak. Finally, a choked voice comes out, a sound I barely recognize.

“H - how do you know my name?”

Her voice is thick and hoarse, sending a chill running through me – and not just from the freezing temperature and the lack of a shirt. She's looking at me with those wide eyes and I can see the fear etched into her features. I can tell by the expression on her face that she genuinely does not recognize me. Like I'm a complete stranger holding her in my arms.

“Syd, it's Jack,” I say. “We ran into each other at Daisy's, remember?”

The look in her eyes tell me all I need to know. She has no clue who I am.

Sirens sound in the distance, bringing some comfort. Help is almost here. She's awake, even though her face is a blank mask. I try to get her to focus on staying awake until the paramedics can get to her.

“Stay with me, Sydney,” I say.

Red and blue flashing lights come closer, and the sirens are blaring now. People on the street stop and stare, and for the first time, I notice them all. “Get out of the way!” I shout, waving to the group of lookie-loos.

They continue to stare, but one-by-one they move to the sidewalk, as if they didn't see or hear the approaching bus. I see Daisy pushing her way through the crowd to get to us. She's crying, her entire body shaking as she hurries over. I fear the old woman might slip on the ice and really hurt herself in her haste, but she manages to get to us without any injuries and I let out a small sigh of relief.

“Oh my God, what happened?” she screeches.

“I don't know, I found her like this. She was just walking down the road,” I say.

She drops to her knees and whispers to Sydney, and still, Sydney looks as if she's never seen the woman in her life.

The ambulance stops short of us and the EMTs quickly pour out. A tall, blonde man is the first to reach Sydney and he pries her from my arms, which is no easy feat. I'm having trouble letting go of her, even though I know help has arrived and there's nothing more I can do.

A woman with dark hair and gentle eyes pulls me aside as the blonde and another man examine Sydney. I can't stop looking over at her small listless figure and feel utterly helpless. My body is shaking with shock now that control is out of my hands. I can finally feel something, and my emotions hit me hard. My knees grow weak and my vision wavers. I almost fall to the ground, but somehow, I manage to remain upright, though a greasy, queasy feeling roils around in the pit of my stomach.

I hear the EMT's asking Sydney questions, “What's your name? How old are you?”

“I don't know.”

“What happened to you?”

“I don't know.”

The fire one question after another at her rapidly, but, the response is the same.

She can't remember anything. Not about the incident. Not about herself. Not about me or Daisy or anything else for that matter.

“Do you have ID, miss?”

Again, she shakes her head. “I don't know.”

The EMTs look to me, searching for some answers. Something to shed light on this mysterious woman.

“Her name is Sydney Bellflower,” I say. “Not sure what happened. I came out of Daisy's and found her like this. She was just walking down the middle of the road in a daze.”

“Do you know this woman?” The female EMT asks me.

“I do.”

“Are you related to her?”

I start to say no, that we're just friends, but something inside of me tells me to lie. I know that in an emergency, only family members are able to get information, to fill out forms, to be there at the hospital with her. Daisy meets my gaze and gives me a small nod. This qualifies as an emergency and a good reason to lie. But, before I can speak, Daisy does the honors for me.

“This is her husband,” she lies.

The woman looks to me. “Is that correct, sir?”

“Yes.”

My voice cracks, though I'm hoping they take it as me being emotional rather than me telling a bald-faced lie. Sydney might not ever forgive me for lying about this, but I don’t really care. Sydney needs help and she's all that matters right now.

I look around, wondering where in the hell her asshole boyfriend is. My muscles grow tight, and my head throbs with the stress of it all. I have a very bad feeling about this – one that involves Peter. I try to tell myself it's jealousy talking, that there's a perfectly good and logical explanation for it all.

I tell myself a thousand different things, but even I'm not buying it.

His girlfriend is walking down the street with a gash on the back of her head, no shoes, not dressed for the cold and he's nowhere in sight? He better have a damn good explanation, or I'm going to make sure he's the one bleeding if I ever see him again.

“Sir, we're going to take her to the hospital,” the female EMT says.

She's so nice, I really need to get her name and make sure to put in a good word for her. She smiles sweetly at me.

“Would you want to ride with us, or – ”

“I'll follow,” I say. I look up at my truck and see Gunner sitting in the driver's seat again, staring out at the commotion on the street, and I'm not sure what to do. I can't leave him in the car while I deal with things at the hospital. As if she can read my mind, Daisy steps up and takes my hand.

“Go, Jack. I'll take care of the dog,” she says.

I give her a grateful smile and squeeze her hand. What a strange damn night it is, and I have a feeling, things are only going to get weirder.

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

SYDNEY

 

The first thing I notice upon waking is that I feel nothing. Nothing at all. Then slowly, I start to feel a pounding in my head. It's just background noise though. It's there and I can feel it, but it's as if something is blocking me from completely feeling the full force of the pain. From what I can tell, that's a good thing. Otherwise the pain would be unbearable.

I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. Perfectly white and clean. As I start to fully come around, I hear the sounds all around me – mechanical beeping, voices that are low, and muffled footsteps. It's all a fuzzy sound though, like I have cotton in my ears or everyone is trying very hard to be quiet. The beeping, however, makes my head hurt even worse and seems to be right in my ear.

“Stop it,” I mutter, my voice nearly scaring me from how loud it is, compared to the backdrop around me.

“What's that, dear?” a woman's voice asks from my right.

I grimace but turn my head toward the voice and see an older blonde woman standing in the doorway, wearing light blue scrubs. Her hair is short, pixie cut. She walks over to me, and I never take my eyes off of her. It's then that I realize what the beeping is – it's machines hooked up to me. Likely my heartbeat. The nurse takes a look at the screen and then smiles down at me.

“Well good morning, sunshine,” she says brightly. “Did you need someone?”

“That sound. It's giving me a headache,” I say.

“I'm here with your pain meds,” she says. “That should help ease the headache some.”

She inserts something into my IV and I watch, catching a glimpse of her name tag that says Tara.

“What happened?” I ask, my voice sounding thick and slow even to my own ears.

I work my mouth open and closed. It's parched and wonder how long I've been out.

“We're still trying to figure that out, dear,” she says. “The doctor will be here shortly. I'll let your husband know you're awake.”

“Husband?”

“Yes, dear. He's been so worried about you...” she says, letting her voice trail off as she looks at me.

Maybe she can see the confusion on my face, maybe not. She clears her throat and continues either way.

“Don't worry, the doctors say your memory loss is only temporary,” she says brightly. “You should have all of your memories back soon.”

Memory loss. That explains it. I close my eyes and try to remember something, anything at all. My name is Sydney Bellflower. At least I remember my name, that's good. Brownie points for me. Though, honestly, I only think I remember that because I heard somebody say it. But who?

Aside from my name though, everything else is sketchy. I can't recall anything – including where I am. When I try to think about everything, and what landed me in this bed specifically, it's all a dark spot in my brain. It's completely opaque. Like somebody reached into my brain and just plucked out all of my memories.

“Where am I?” I ask. “I mean, besides the hospital, that one's pretty obvious, even to me.”

“You're in Aspen, Colorado,” Tara says.

“Aspen? Why am I in Aspen?”

I can't recall anything before the accident, but I'm positive that I'm not from Colorado. I can't say why I'm sure, but I'm sure that I'm from California. Los Angeles, to be exact. I know that to be correct down in my bones. More brownie points for me. I can remember my name and where I'm from, but I can't even remember my husband's name or face. Or the fact that I'm even married in the first place.

The more and harder I try to remember, the more elusive the memories are. I let out a low growl and slam my hands onto the bed, frustrated that I can't remember anything. Tara gives me a sympathetic look, cocking her head to the side.

“I'm sure your husband and the doctors can fill you in better than I can,” she says. “I just assumed you lived here. Or at least in Redstone. That's where they brought you in from.”

Redstone. The town name sounds familiar, though I don't know why. I close my eyes and try to conjure it in my head, but I can't recall what it looks like. Tara hands me a cup of water. I take it gratefully and put it to my lips, relishing the cool liquid as it slides down my throat. I drink it all down and she gets me another.

“I'll call your husband now,” Tara says. “He'll be so happy to see you awake and talking.”

“How long have I been out?” I ask.

“Only a few days.”

“A few days?”

“The doctors had to put you into a medically-induced coma to help with healing,” she says. “You had a pretty bad head injury and a lot of swelling around the brain. But you should be able to go home soon. I think you'll recover quicker in more familiar surroundings.”

Home. The idea of going home should comfort me, but it doesn't. Mainly because I have no idea where home actually is. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm, not from Los Angeles, after all. Maybe I do live in Aspen. How in the hell would I know?

It's all so blurry, and I hope the nurse is right. I hope my husband, whoever he is, can shed some light on what the hell happened.

ooo000ooo

 

“Look who's here!” Tara chirps brightly a few minutes later.

I look toward the doorway and see a tall, handsome man standing there. He runs a hand over his short-cropped brown hair and stares at me with an intense gaze, his baby blue eyes boring into mine. The way he looks at me fills me with warmth, and there's definitely love in his eyes, but I have no idea who he is. He, like everything else in my world right now, is nothing but a blank spot.

He walks into the room and stands next to the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. We stare at one another for a long, awkward moment.

“Who are you?” I manage to choke out.

Tara looks at the man, then me, and whispers to him, “She's still experiencing some memory loss from the head injury, but doctors assure us that it'll be back soon,” she says. “They're very optimistic about her recovery.”

He nods, never taking his eyes off me. The weight of his stare makes me uncomfortable, as if I should know who he is, but I don't. I don't have the faintest idea. I look him over, letting my eyes roam from his scruffy facial hair to his tight jeans, and I can't help but think I'd remember a man like him. How could I forget him? Especially if he's my husband?

“Can you give us a minute, please?” the man asks.

The nurse nods, giving me one last sympathetic look before leaving the room. He waits until she closes the door behind her before turning back to me and offers a weak, uncertain smile.

“Sydney, it's me, Jack,” he says softly.

Jack pulls a chair to the side of my bed and sits down, taking my hand in his. My tiny hand is swallowed whole by his massive one, which is rough and calloused to the touch. It's as if he does a lot of work with his hands.

“I'm sorry, I don't remember you,” I say, looking away from his chiseled, handsome face. The look in his eyes is killing me. “They say you're my husband, but I don't remember anything – ”

“It's okay.” His eyes dart around the room, away from me. “It's complicated, but I'll explain everything once you're feeling better. Do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

“About what?”

“About when you got hurt.”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Last thing I remember was an apartment in Los Angeles,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. “I thought I lived in LA, but they're saying I'm in Aspen. I don't know how long I've been here or how much I've forgotten.”

“Do you remember your parent's names?” he asks me.

I nod. “George and Carol Bellflower,” I say as the answer pops into my mind, crystal clear.

“Good. That's good,” he says, patting my hand. I find his touch strangely soothing. “Do you remember anything about who you are?”

I try to put together the pieces, most of which is fragmented. “I – I'm just really confused right now and can't think straight,” I say. “And since you say I'm married to you – ”

He stops me, silencing me by pressing a fingertip gently to my lips. “Let's change the subject. Let's focus on getting you well enough to get you out of here.”

There's a knock on the door, which is open, and there's another woman is standing in the doorway. She's younger than the nurse, with dark skin and very dark, but sweet, compassionate eyes. Her black hair is pulled back in a twist and she's definitely more likely to be a doctor than a nurse. I can't explain how I know this, but I do. Maybe it's just her bearing. The air about her. Something. I don't know.

“How are you feeling, Sydney?” she says with a friendly, overly white smile that's nearly blinding, but also pleasant.

“Confused.”

She gives me the same sympathetic look that the nurse gave me. “That's to be expected,” she says. “I'm Dr. Mitchell and I've been looking after you over the last few days. Since you're awake now, I thought you might have some questions for me.”

I do. So many questions swirl through my brain, but I'm afraid she won't be able to answer most of them. Most of the questions are about me. About who I am and who this man sitting next to me is – the man they say is my husband. Try as I might, I don't remember him. I don't remember getting married.

Instead, I ask, “When will I get my memory back?”

“Soon, we hope.”

“Hope?” Jack and I both ask at the same time.

“Unfortunately, we don't know for sure how much memory you'll get back. Or when,” Dr. Mitchell says, her smile falling a bit. “Most patients do gain most of their memory back within a few days or weeks of the injury. But, you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that there may be parts of your memory you'll never get back. It's impossible to say for sure. Brain injuries can be very tricky, and your injury was pretty severe. Any idea how that may have happened?”

Her gaze shifts over to Jack and I can see the question in her eyes. I follow the doctor's gaze and look at him as well. He seems to be the one person who can provide the answers we need.

“I don't remember anything,” I say, hoping that the desperation in my voice will encourage him to tell me what he knows.

“Your husband tells me that he was eating at the diner in Redstone, and you were with a friend,” the doctor says. “He says found you walking down the street, injured.”

I can clearly hear the skepticism in her voice. She sounds as if she didn't believe Jack's story in the least. Hell, I can't say that I blame her. Only he knows what really happened, however. His story, while convenient, doesn't sound entirely convincing. Not to Dr. Mitchell, and the more I hear it, not to me either. A sudden, dark thought fills my head. Did he have something to do with this?

I look into his eyes and see that he's holding something back. I quickly pull my hand away from Jack's, a chill slithering down my spine. He stares at me with open hurt in his eyes. It's as if he's trying to tell me something, trying to communicate with me, but in my current condition, I can't make out what it is.

“Others have verified that he was, indeed, in the diner at the time,” Dr. Mitchell says, confirming some aspects of his story. “Though a few of the witnesses also mention seeing you there too – with another man.”

She speaks slowly, as if hoping one of us will say something to fill in the blank spots. I struggle to recall something of that night, but shake my head, frustrated. I'm trying as hard as I can, but I still can't remember anything at all.

“Another man?” I ask. “Who? Who was I there with, Jack?”

Jack shrugs, but he refuses to make eye contact with either of us. My unease begins to grow.

“Anyway, I'm not the police, ” Dr. Mitchell says, “But whatever happened to you, Sydney, you're incredibly lucky to be alive. You're now in stable condition and should be able to go home soon. I hope that your husband can help fill in some of the blank spots in your memory.”

I can't help but hear the accusatory tone in her voice when she says the word ‘husband’. Clearly, she thinks he's holding something back as well. Something important. There's also that other word again. Home. I want to ask her where home is, but she likely doesn't have the answer any more than I do. Instead, I look to Jack.

“Where do we live?” I ask.

The pain in my head died down shortly after Tara gave me my medication, but it's having other side effects. My eyes are getting heavy and I feel like I haven't slept for several days, and darkness is starting to creep in at the edges of my vision. The good stuff is kicking in, I think to myself. Either that, or I've already had enough for the day.

I don't fight sleep. It'd be no use anyway. Besides, it's an escape from this strange reality I'm existing in. The hope is that maybe if I get some sleep, I'll wake up with a clearer head. Maybe my memory will come back after a good solid nap. A girl can hope, right? I close my eyes and let myself drift off into a restless sleep with Jack by my side.

Jack. My husband. A man I don't even remember.

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

JACK

 

Sydney's been in the hospital for close to a week now. Every day though, I've come down to visit her. Every day, I've made sure to sit by her side and talk to her. I've tried to find the words to tell her that I'm not actually her husband, that it was all a lie. Every day though, the words still don't come.

I have my reasons for the lie. It was to protect her. To be by her side. To take care of the paperwork and to make sure she had everything she needed. Being an old boyfriend doesn't give you those privileges, and I feared they might reach out and find Peter. That's the last thing I want to see happen because I'm positive he's behind this somehow. I can't prove it, don't have a shred of evidence to back that theory up, but all the same, I know it. I know it in my heart and in my gut. Otherwise, where in the hell is he?

I want to tell Sydney the truth, but she's scared enough as it is. So, I remain quiet and say nothing. I'll tell her eventually, but not here at the hospital. I need to be able to see her, to protect her. I need to make sure we're in a secure place where I can do those things before I tell her the truth.

That's what I tell myself anyway. But, even I have a hard time not believing I'm selfish for taking this opportunity to get back into her life. When I saw her again in Daisy's the other night, it re-opened old wounds – wounds I thought had healed over long ago.

When I saw her again though, it made me feel like I'd been given a second chance. A second chance I probably don't deserve, but a second chance nonetheless. I want to make the most of it. I don't want to screw it up.

Today is the day she's being released from the hospital, and I'm supposed to take her home; to my home, where she will be safe. I consider contacting her parents, but memories of their disdain for me inflame my anxiety and make me put it off. I keep telling myself I'll do it later – but later hasn't come yet.

Once she's home though, we'll talk about what happened and I can finally admit the truth about who I am. After that, we can call her parents and I'll see about sending her back to her real home, as soon as she's approved to fly.

I’m running a big risk. She might absolutely flip out that I lied to her and the hospital about who I am. I'm hoping she understands my reasons, but I know it's a crapshoot at best. Regardless of how it all shakes out though, I know that once I get her home, I'm finally going to have to come clean about it.. About everything.

That's the plan, at least. Another part of the plan includes locating that douchebag she came to Redstone with and asking him some very pointed questions about what happened. If I don't like the answers I'm hearing, or I suspect he's lying – which, I assume he will – he's going to have a very, very bad day.

She has no phone, no wallet, nothing. Not even shoes to wear. So, I'm asked to bring her a change of clothes and some shoes to take her home in, and that's a challenge, because obviously, I have nothing of hers. Peter has everything, but as her “husband,” I'm expected to have something for her to wear. Which means I'm going shopping before I pick her up. Which, of course, is going to provide me with a whole fresh set of challenges.

I park at the curb of Redstone's shopping district and try to get my bearings. I don't usually do clothes shopping down here, so I don't know what the lay of the land is exactly. The first boutique I walk into, I see a twenty-something young girl behind the counter playing on her phone. She hardly looks up as I enter. I stand there and look around the shop, feeling completely lost.

I finally give up trying to figure it all out, walk over to her, and clear my throat.

“Excuse me?” I say. “Can I get some help, please.”

The girl rolls her eyes as she finally tears her eyes away from her phone and meets my gaze.

“Yes?”

Her name tag says Brittney and her tone is well beyond snotty. It's a suitable name for a stuck-up little girl, I think to myself. Her bleached blonde hair is nearly white and fried beyond belief, and her makeup is too dark for my tastes. The clothes on the rack all seem to be for twenty-somethings as well, showing a lot of skin in crop tops and miniskirts. I'm suddenly not sure I'm in the right place.

“You know what? I think I made a mistake,” I mutter. “Sorry to bother you.”

She lets out a derisive snort as I turn to go, and she drops her gaze back to her phone again. I feel lost. I have no idea how to shop for a grown woman. I know though, I'm not going to find what I need in a shop like that.

The next store I walk into seems to be a bit more sophisticated. Two women rush me as soon as I enter the door, both of them eager to help me. Perhaps too eager, I think, but they likely work on that, are they're just really enthusiastic and love what they do.

The brunette named Marianne is dressed in a knee-length skirt, tall boots and a sweater, which seems like Sydney's style, based on what she was wearing when I saw her last. The other woman, a more natural-looking blonde than Brittney, introduces herself as Katya. She has a Russian accent and wears what I can only describe as an upper-class cocktail dress.

I go off with Marianne, which puts a broad smile on her face.

“I need to pick up a few things for a friend of mine who's staying with me,” I tell her. “She doesn't have much with her right now.”

I mention that she's in the hospital but leave it at that. The fewer details, the better. Marianne offers a sweet smile, her red lipstick perfectly complementing her pale skin. Her brown hair is long and falls around her soft face, highlighting her delicate jaw line and petite features.

“What a nice thing to do,” she says, patting me on the shoulder. “It's so hard to find good men these days. Your friend is lucky.”

She winks when she says the word, “friend” as if she knows there's something more there. I only wish that were true, but there's not. Nor will there ever be. I saw to that long ago. The best I can hope for now, is some form of closure. All I want is for Sydney to say she understands and forgives me for what I did.

“No, I swear, she's just a friend. An old friend,” I say, running a hand over my head, not really sure why I feel the need to explain myself to her.

“So you're single?” Marianne asks, her brown eyes twinkling.

“I am.”

She gives me a once over, and a flirty little smile before turning to a rack of dresses. She pulls out a frilly, pink one and I grimace.

“Not a frilly, pink type of girl?” she asks. “Tell me, what does she like?”

“I don't really know,” I mutter. “To be honest, something along the lines of what you're wearing, maybe? I guess she needs pants more than skirts though, it's probably way too cold for dresses.”

“I've got just the thing,” she says brightly.

Marianne takes my arm and leads me through the store until we reach a rack that's stuffed with cashmere sweaters. She urges me to touch them and they're so soft, like clouds against your skin. Marianne's words, not mine. Still, I can't say that her description is that far off the mark. They feel nice.

One of the sweaters in heather gray catches my eye. I remember Sydney used to like black and gray clothing, but I'm not sure what she likes anymore. I imagine her style and tastes have changed over the years. Still, it's a start.

“The price is a bit steep,” Marianne warns me.

“I'm good for it.”

I don't even look at the price tag, since it's not even an issue for me. Whatever I can do to make Sydney comfortable, I'm going to do it.

“Money isn't an issue for me,” I say.

The magic words every salesperson wants to hear. The look on Marianne's face is almost orgasmic, with wide eyes and her mouth open in the perfect “O”.” She glances at me again, clearly surprised. I don't dress the part of millionaire for a reason. I don't like the attention or the assumptions that come from it. Plus, my jeans and t-shirts are more comfortable, more me. “What size is your special friend?” she asks, again teasing me about the word friend.

The question catches me off guard and I'm not sure how to answer it. I look at the tags on the shirts, those are easy enough – small, medium, large, etc. But a specific size? I'm clueless.

“Probably a small? Maybe a medium?” I say hesitatingly. “She's got some curves though, so maybe larger?”

“You have no idea, do you?” Marianne asks me, clearly amused by my befuddlement.

“I don't,” I say, shaking my head. “Not really.”

“That's certainly going to make things difficult,” she ponders. “Though we have a generous return policy, so if something doesn't fit, you can always bring it back.”

Music to my ears. “I'll talk a small, medium and large sweater then. All of them in gray, please.”

“They're $300 a piece,” Marianna says, blinking up at me. “That would be – ”

I hand her my card. “Nine hundred dollars. I'll need some pants, and maybe a few more shirts to go with them too,” I say. “Just pick some nice things out. You have a nice style, so I'll trust your judgement.”

“What size pants?”

I stare at the pants in her hands and see that it's not a small, medium, large sort of thing. There's a number, and unlike with men's pants, it's not the size of the waist. It's merely one number. In this case, she's holding a size four, which sounds incredibly small to me.

“I honestly have no idea – ”

“Here, what if we got her some jeggings instead,” she says, putting the jeans away.

“Jeggings?” I scratch my head. “I have no idea what those are.”

“Stretchy jeans,” she says. “A mix between leggings and jeggings.”

“Huh, okay.”

She pulls out a few pairs for me, and I tell her to give me all three sizes – small, medium and large in those too. With that, I let Marianne run off to pick out a couple more outfits, some socks, a pair of shoes based on an estimated size. I have no idea what I'm doing here, but thankfully I've found a decent salesperson who does the work for me.

“You sure price isn't an issue, Mr. – ”

“Just call me Jack,” I tell her.

“Jack. Fitting,” she says.

I have no idea what she means by that, but the way her cheeks flush, she seems to mean it as a compliment. I think.

“And no, price isn't an issue,” I say.

Katya is leaning against the counter, watching us with pure envy in her eyes. Her perfectly manicured nails clack against the countertop, and with each item that Marianne rings up, Katya seems more and more disgruntled. Again, I assume they're paid on commission and considering my total, it's one hell of a sale. I can understand why she's disgruntled about it.

“Here's your receipt, Jack. Please make sure you hold onto it to return the items that don't fit,” she says as she writes something at the top. “And this is my cell phone number in case you have any questions or need anything else. I'm happy to help you, Jack.”

I have a feeling she's giving me her number for other reasons – not strictly, just to be helpful. She's a cute girl, I'll give her that, but I won't lead her on. I'm not interested in dating anyone – especially a good girl like Marianne. I'd just fuck her up big time if I got involved with her. Just like I did with Sydney.

“Thanks, Marianne,” I say, taking the paper from her and shoving it into my pocket.

It's almost noon, and Sydney is being released soon, which means I need to hustle down to the hospital. Now, with bags full of clothing, I can at least bring her back to my home. There, I can tell her the full story and we'll be able to sort everything out.

Hopefully, she'll stay with me until she heals, but in the end, it's up to her. Given our past, as soon as she remembers me, there's a good chance she'll want to run like hell. I can hope things turn out differently, but I have a feeling she'll head for the hills.

Not that I can blame her.

 

ooo000ooo

 

“You ready to go home?” The nurse asks her just as I step inside the hospital room.

Sydney glances at me, and the look in her eyes is one of fear of the unknown. I'm sure this all still feels so foreign to her, and I can't blame her at all. The fact that I'm taking her out of the hospital and taking her to my home – a man she doesn't even recall – has to be more than a little disconcerting.

It's almost unfair. Which gives me yet another reason to feel like an asshole.

I hand the bag of clothes over to Sydney and she looks at it, then up at me.

“I wasn't sure what size you are, so I bought one of every size. Just to be safe,” I tell her. I scratch my head. “We can return whatever doesn't fit.”

The nurse's smile falters and the light of suspicion blossoms in her eyes as she looks at me.

“Doesn't she have clothes at home you could have brought with you?” she asks.

I look back at her. “Sure, but I wanted to get her something nice,” I say. “After everything she's been through, she deserves it.”

A lie, but a harmless one. Tara, the nurse, smiles brightly at me. I guess my answer somehow appeased her and allayed her fears.

“You sure have found yourself a good one,” she says, patting Sydney on the arm.

“Thank you,” Sydney says quietly, uncertainty coloring her every word.

She can't meet my eyes, and I can't bring myself to meet hers either. The lie has gone on long enough. As soon as we're at my place, I'll tell her the truth. I have to. It's like this tremendous weight bearing down on me and I can't deal with it much longer. She deserves the truth – and I need to get out from under this oppressive weight.

Sydney gets up from the bed and walks to the bathroom with the bags in her hand. I want to offer my help, but I'm not sure it would be welcomed. So, instead of saying anything, I just hold the door open for her instead.

“Just call out if you need me,” I tell her. “I'll be right out here.”

She nods but doesn't speak to me. She's hardly said anything to me these last few days, except to ask questions. Questions I don't have the answers to. The door closes behind her, and Tara tells me to buzz her if we need anything before leaving the room herself.

It's all so ordinary. So normal. A husband taking his wife home from the hospital, to care for her. To help nurse her back to health and get her back on her feet. Except I'm not her husband, and she's going to realize that sooner or later. Probably the moment she steps through the front door and realizes that none of the things in my house belong to her. My place isn't exactly domesticated. It's rugged bachelor chic, I like to call it.

After Tara leaves, the room is uncomfortably silent. I sit on the edge of the bed looking around until finally, I can't stand the silence anymore. Sydney is in the bathroom for a bit longer than expected, so I knock gently.

“You okay in there, Syd?”

“I'm fine,” she says.

That's what all women say when things are certainly not fine. Nothing is fine and I know it. I flop down in the chair by the hospital bed and stare up at the television. It's muted, but there are subtitles. Some shitty daytime talk show is playing. Something Sydney wouldn't be interested in. Or would she? Hell, a lot has changed since we were together. Maybe this Sydney likes Maury or Dr. Oz, or whatever the hell is on. How would I know?

The bathroom door opens and Sydney steps out in the cashmere sweater, dark denim jeggings and black boots. The outfit fits her. She looks good in it. Her skin is still paler than normal, and her reddish-brown bob hangs loosely around her face rather than it being styled like normal. Her green eyes are bright and large – larger than I'd ever seen them before.

“The sweaters still had the tags on them,” she says. “Were they really three hundred dollars apiece?”

Shit. In my rush, I'd forgotten to remove the tags. Not like it really matters, I guess.

I shrug. “They're real cashmere,” I say. “I thought you'd like it.”

“I do, it's just – do you – I mean do we – have that kind of money?”

I stifle a chuckle. “I'm, or rather we, are comfortable,” I say. “Yes. There is nothing for you to worry about.”

“I can't imagine how much all this cost,” she says.

“There's more in my truck too,” I say. “Figured you'd need a few new things. At least, until we figure things out.”

“Figure what out?” Sydney asks.

“We'll talk about it once we get home,” I say.

I stand and take her hand, bringing it to my lips. I have no intention of coming onto her, not without her remembering me. Not without her consent or some signal that she's into it and wants the same. And especially not without her still thinking of me as her husband. No, the truth has to come out first. Anything else would be wrong and immoral. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not immoral.

Still, I find it hard to resist pressing my lips to her skin, so I settle for her hand.

“Let's get you home.”

 

 

CHAPTER NINE

SYDNEY

 

The ride home is quiet. I take in the scenery that flashes by on the outside of Jack's truck. At times, a familiar feeling hits me, but it's nothing more than fleeting. An image pops now and then, but nothing concrete, and certainly nothing recent. I get the sense that it's mostly childhood memories coming back to me. Apparently, I've been to Aspen a few times as a child. I somewhat remember those experiences and recall that they're long in the past. There’s nothing recent enough in my memories to make it feel like home to me.

“We're going to stop in at Daisy's. She's going to want to see you,” Jack says. “She's really worried about you.”

I notice he's gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white. It's as if he's stressed about something. I don't know how to talk to him, or even what to say, so I don't even try. It goes without saying that I have no idea who Daisy is, but when we park in front of the small cafe, a feeling of deja vu hits me. I sit in the truck for a minute and just stare at the front of the building and the sign.

“I've been here before,” I say, mostly to myself.

“Yes, many times,” Jack says quietly. “Do you remember anything specific?”

“Pancakes. And coffee. Really good coffee,” I say as a small smile touches the corners of my mouth.

“And pie,” Jack adds.

“Pie – yes.”

I close my eyes and try to remember the last time I had a piece of pie here. Years ago, or so it seems. Maybe if I go inside, it'll help. I tell him that and Jack gives me a smile and a quick nod of his head.

He quickly climbs out of the truck and rushes around to my side to open my door for me. It's a steep drop from the seat to the ground, and he holds a hand out to help me down from the truck. Looking down at the snow and ice beneath my feet, my mind races and whirls with a thousand thoughts and emotions – most of them based in fear.

My throat clenches up and I start shaking, some irrational terror gripping me tightly. I don't know where it's coming from or why I'm so scared, but I am. My breathing starts to grow ragged as my pulse races and I cringe when I hear the quiet whimpering coming from my mouth.

“It's okay,” Jack says, in a calm, soothing tone.

He takes me by the waist, lifting me from the seat as if I weigh nothing and puts me on the ground. My feet find steady, solid footing, but that's not the reason for the panic attack. Something else triggered the reaction. The memory hovers just out of sight, at the corner of my mind. When I turn to find it, it disappears again, only to reappear in the corner of my mind once more. It's frustrating as hell.

Jack continues to hold me steady, his arms around my waist, as if he's afraid I might fall. Our eyes meet, and I can't help but smile. His hands keep me steady and safe. I look up at him and something tells me that as long as he's here with me, it's going to be okay. I'm going to be okay.

He leans close, and I think he may kiss me, which surprisingly, given the circumstances, isn't something that freaks me out as much I would have thought it might. I close my eyes and prepare for his lips to touch mine, but instead, he whispers in my ear.

“I got you, Sydney,” he says softly. “Nothing will happen to you as long as you're with me. I won't let it.”

He hugs me close and kisses my forehead. Wrapped up in his arms, I feel a warmth spreading through my whole body. I snuggle close to him, with his giant coat wrapped around me since that's the one piece of clothing he forgot to bring me. I feel like a child wearing her dad's clothes, but it's nice and warm. More than that, it's comfortable. Familiar, in a way.

“Ready for some real food instead of that garbage they call food at the hospital?” Jack asks, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

I can't help myself, I actually smile. A genuine smile. My tummy growls at the mere thought of pancakes and pie.

Jack holds my hand as we enter the cafe, and an old woman with a kind, familiar face rushes toward us, tears in her eyes. She takes my face into her hands and kisses both my cheeks. I don't know this woman, but I somehow feel comforted by her presence. It's strange, but it's so – familiar. Much in the way Jack is familiar to me.

“Lordy, I thought we lost you, Sydney,” she says. “I'm not sure what either one of us would have done if that had happened.”

I blink at her, trying to place her name. I remember her, in fuzzy, fragmented images that float through my mind. But, that's of a younger version of the woman in front of me. The woman I remember still had black hair back in the day, not gray. Wrinkles had formed around her eyes and lips, aging her by at least ten to fifteen years.

Jack speaks up for me. “Her memory is still a little sketchy.”

“Ah, you don't remember me, do you, dear?”

“I do, mostly,” I say.

I feel incredibly self-conscious. It's frustrating when you're trying to remember someone or something, but you can't. There's like a mental block. A wall. No, a door. A closed door with a lock on it. No matter how hard I try to force it open, to let me access those memories, it's no use. I can't get to them.

“It's me, Miss Daisy,” she says, taking my hands in hers. Her skin is so warm and soft, and the smell of coffee filters through the room, reminding me that we're there for pancakes, pie, and that delicious coffee.

“Come on, let's get you some food,” the woman named Miss Daisy says. “Maybe my cooking will help you remember.”

Jack and I sit down across from one another in a booth with a red and white checkered tablecloth that seems hauntingly familiar. Daisy brings us each a cup of coffee without even us having to ask. It's like she just knows what we want. Of course, if I've been here before, as Jack says I have, maybe she does already know what we want.

I bring the mug of coffee to my lips and inhale deeply. The aroma delights my senses and brings me back to another time. Closing my eyes, I inhale the rich French roast again and savor it. It feels like home.

“You introduced me to this place, you know,” Jack says. “I never would have found it if not for you.”

I open my eyes and catch him staring at me. His blue eyes sparkle and a smile pulls at his lips behind that thick beard of his. His face is beginning to etch its way into my memories. I'm starting to feel like I know him. But, why or where we met still eludes me. As does marrying him.

“Oh yeah? Tell me all about it,” I say.

I take a sip from my warm mug, wrapping my hands around it, relishing the heat, as steam rises from dark liquid.

“Not much to tell. We were young and in love, your parents brought me out here with you on a ski trip,” he says, a light of fond nostalgia in his eyes. “I think you forced their hand about that. I seem to recall that they didn't seem too pleased about it.”

He chuckles lightly, but his eyes hold some sadness within them. I want him to tell me all about it. I want him to tell me what makes him happy, what makes him sad, but there's just too much and I'm starting to feel a little overwhelmed by it all.

So instead of pressing, I let him go at his own pace. He takes a sip of his coffee and leans back in the booth, a faraway look on his face. I can see that he's reliving some old story. One I hope he shares with me.

“We snuck out one night while we were here. You drove your dad's SUV and brought me here for a late-night snack. I remember you said you ate here growing up, with your parents, and wanted to share it with me,” he says. “It was the sweetest damn thing, Syd. I remember how nice it felt to be brought into your world; made to feel a part of it.”

His eyes glaze over as if he's traveling back to that time. Then he looks at me, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth and continues, reaching out to touch my hair.

“You used to keep your hair long back then. It was all the way down to your waist, and you'd twirl your hair as we talked,” he says. “And we spent hours at this table, talking about everything from our dreams to school to our parents. We shared so much of ourselves with each other here at this very table.”

Hearing him talk about me, about memories I can't recall, makes me blush. More than that, it makes me feel a little sad. It's like a really big piece of my life – a good piece – has been ripped out of my heart and I don't know if I'll ever get that piece back.

“That sounds like a really nice memory,” I say softly.

“It is. It's one of my favorites,” he says. “Which is why I've kept coming here all these years.”

“Only you?” I ask. “Don't I come too?”

He pauses and puts his coffee cup down, the smile fading from his face. He clears his throat and starts to say something when Daisy sets a plate of fresh, piping hot chocolate chip pancakes down in front of me, and a plate with chicken fried steak, hash browns, and eggs in front of Jack. We didn't even have to order.

“Enjoy,” she says with a wink. “Made especially for you, Sydney, w with love.”

The pancakes are light and fluffy, still warm from the griddle. There's a generous swirl of chocolate sauce on top too. It's almost too sweet to qualify for a breakfast, but I'm not about to complain. I pick up my fork and dig right in, taking a huge bite and closing my eyes, trying to unlock the door in my head. The taste is familiar and delicious, and I savor it. It's amazing, but no memories come back to me. Nothing other than the fact that I've had these before, and I have a strong feeling that it wasn't all that long ago either.

Which makes sense if Jack comes here often.

“We have a lot to talk about, Sydney,” he says, not even touching his food yet. “A lot to clear up.”

The door to the cafe opens with a jingle and Jack's eyes dart toward the entrance, taking in the newcomer. His entire body tenses for a second and a tension suddenly fills the air, so I turn around to see what he's looking at. A guy walks into the cafe wearing a thick jacket and a hat that covers most of his face. He looks toward us but passes our table without a word.

“Do you know him?” I ask Jack.

Jack relaxes. “I thought I might,” he mutters. “I guess I'm just being paranoid.”

My eyes narrow as I look at him. “Paranoid about what?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but then he closes it again, his words dying in his throat. He clasps and unclasps his hands, tension radiating from every pore in his body.

“Like I said, we have a lot to talk about,” he says. “But for now, let's enjoy our food and we'll talk as soon as we get home.”

I want to press him, to keep him talking. I'm hoping the more he talks, the closer I'll come to unlocking those doors in my mind. I have a feeling there's a lot more to all of this than he's telling me, and it's driving me crazy not being able to remember.

“Did you think that man could be the person who hurt me?” I ask after a few minutes of him not saying anything.

“Maybe,” he says. “I couldn't really see his face.”

“So, you know who did this to me?”

He nods.

“And did you tell the police?”

“I told them all I knew, which isn't much,” I say.

“Do you remember a name? Anything?”

His eyes dart over to Daisy who's listening in. They share a look – a look that leaves me feeling a little unsettled.

“No, I don't,” Jack says at last. “Now eat your pancakes before they get cold.”

Why did I get the idea I wasn't going to like what he had to say?

 

ooo000ooo

 

“We live here?” I ask as we pull up to the cabin in the mountains. “I mean, not that I'm complaining. I mean, wow.”

I stare through the window at a house that’s part cabin in the woods, part mansion. It's way larger than the cabins and homes we'd passed to get here and is located off a secluded mountain road in Redstone. It's gorgeous, but as with everything else, nothing about it feels familiar to me.

“Yep,” Jack says, parking the truck. “There's someone who's going to be very excited to see you.”

I panic as a sudden thought occurs to me – something I hadn't even considered before.

“D - do we have kids?”

My heart races at the mere thought of it. I want kids. Very much so, actually. Someday. I love children. But, the idea of having kids I can't even remember? My palms begin to sweat and my pulse races as a feeling of cold dread settles down over me, wrapping my heart tight in its icy tendrils.

“No, silly,” Jack laughs. “I have a dog.”

“You have a dog?” I say. “Not, we have a dog?”

He doesn't respond to my question. Sure, it's nitpicky, but the way he talks about things – I instead of we – makes me uncertain about our relationship. It raises a lot of questions that I don't even know how to begin finding the answers to. I can't put my finger on it, but something just feels – off.

Jack helps me down from the truck, but unlike at the diner, there's no panic attack this time. Just plain old nervousness about falling on the ice. Jack takes care of that, though. He holds my hand and walks me, carefully, to the front door. We walk up a few steps to a large, wraparound porch, that as far as I can tell, circles the entire house. I hear footsteps sound on the other side of the door, which is quickly followed by the sound of whining. As Jack unlocks the door, the whining turns to barking and I'm hesitant to enter at first.

I stand in the doorway and stare at the chocolate lab, who's stopped barking and started slobbering all over Jack with affection. The two of them seem to be lost in their own little world of drool and kisses until the dog turns his big, brown eyes toward me. He catches sight of me, and rushes over, leaning against my legs and wiggling as if he can't contain his excitement, nearly knocking me over in the process.

“Easy boy,” Jack says, taking hold of his collar. “Sorry about that. He doesn't know his own size sometimes.”

A dog. I can't recall ever having a dog. Not that I don't like dogs, I do. I like all animals. I would have suspected myself of being more a cat person though. Easier to care for. Less responsibility. They're independent and low maintenance. You just make sure they're fed, have water, clean litter, and you're good to go.

I rack my brain and don't even remember having a dog growing up. Just a cat. A black cat. When I recall the cat, images rush back to me, filling my mind. I see a black cat and it feels like it was only a few days ago that he was in my life. Maybe he is.

“Do we have a cat?” I ask Jack.

“No, I don't,” he says. “Just Gunner here.”

Again, with the “I” thing.

“Do I have a cat?”

Jack stands up and motions for me to step inside. He shuts the door behind me, and I stare at the living area. A large, stone fireplace is off on one wall with fine leather sofas and chairs surrounding it. Paintings decorate the walls, making it look almost more like a showroom on HGTV than an actual house where people live. I step into the space and notice the loft overhead that's filled with bookcases. Wall-to-wall books. A library that overlooks the living room. It's beautiful.

From the front of the house, I can see through the windows out to the back. I can see the snow covered back porch and mountains off in the distance. It's a gorgeous view and almost looks like a painting itself, except for the dog prints all over the snow breaking up the almost perfectly white, flat canvas.

I notice that Jack still hasn't answered my question, so I turn back to him, arms crossed in front of my chest. I grit my teeth and stand firm. I want some answers and I intend to get them.

“You keep saying we're going to talk,” I say. “So, talk.”

“Can I at least let Gunner out first?” he asks. “He's been cooped up in here for a while and probably has to pee like a race horse.”

He shoots me an adorable smile that touches me right to the core, even though I know he's just delaying. Still, Gunner is at the back door, tail wagging excitedly, looking back at us with a goofy doggy grin on his face.

“Fine,” I groan. “I'm going to look around.”

“Maybe we should talk before you take the tour,” he says.

“No, maybe you should tell me what the hell is going on,” I finally snap.

Gunner whines. I see the pull in Jack's face, so I wave him off and sigh, irritation coursing through me.

“Go. Take care of the dog,” I say. “Then we talk, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, snapping me a small salute.

He opens the back door and the dog runs out. Jack goes outside after him, shutting the door behind him, leaving me alone in the house. I walk around the living room looking at everything I can find. What strikes me first are the things that aren't there that I would think should be. There's no pictures of people anywhere. No wedding photos. No pictures of us. Just generic artwork. Nice artwork, sure, but nothing that feels personal. Nothing that rings familiar to me at all.

If Jack and I have as much money as he says we do, I can't imagine why we wouldn't make this space ours. Why there would be no personal touches and why would the environment feel so sterile and spartan.

Unless spartan and sterile is my style?

But that doesn’t feel right to me. Though I don’t know many things right now, I feel like I’m neither spartan nor sterile. I'm pretty sure I'm more of a nester; somebody who likes to make her space her own, complete with all kinds of personal touches. This museum quality showroom is definitely not me. It just feels wrong; at odds with who I feel that I am. There's a spiral staircase leading up to the loft, and it calls to me. I slowly walk up to the top landing, my hand on the carved wood railing for balance. It's a narrow, slim staircase, but I make it to the top without topping over backwards and stand amongst the books.

So many books. Classics like Moby Dick and The Iliad. Modern works by Stephen King and James Patterson. History books. Biographies. An entire section devoted to the Marines. A few books that look about a hundred years old, the bindings coming loose and titles I don't recognize. I run my hand along the spines and take a deep breath, letting the smile spread across my face.

I have the distinct notion that the smell of books has always been one of my favorite things. This library is me, one hundred percent me. It makes me think maybe, just maybe, this is my house after all. Even still, the library doesn't feel familiar the way the cafe had.

It's hard to put into words, but it just feels new. Exciting. This doesn't feel like a space I've spent a lot of time in, which doesn’t make sense if this is supposed to be my house. There's a hallway off of the library, and I'm curious. It's like exploring a funhouse. I have no idea what to expect around the next corner, and so I walk down it. It ends in a large master suite. A king-sized bed is against one wall, in a bed frame that is seemingly hand-carved from some rich, dark wood that's been polished to a bright shine.

Large windows overlook the mountains in the distance, with curtains that are pulled back to let the natural light in. The furniture is all made to match, relatively simple and built from high-quality wood. There's a dresser, some end tables, standard bedroom fare.

Two doors are against one wall, and I walk over. One leads to a bathroom with a shower large enough for an entire football team, with multiple shower heads and a seat carved into the corner. There's also a soaking tub, which appears unused, large enough for two or three people and complete with jacuzzi jets. The idea of crawling into a nice, hot bath is appealing, but I step out of the bathroom and check out the next door instead.

It's a gigantic closet that I'm pretty sure is larger than some people’s apartments. Shelves line the walls and remain mostly empty. There's a rack of suits, some men's shoes, and other men's apparel, but that's it. Seems like Jack isn't the type who owns a lot of clothing. His wardrobe, such as it is, contains mostly just black t-shirts, a few long-sleeved tees, and jeans.

But again, it's what's not there that raises the questions in my mind. Amongst his wardrobe, there is no sign of women's clothes. My clothes. And I know it's not from a lack of space. The closet is mostly empty, with plenty of bare shelves and open racks that can hold an entire wardrobe. The back wall has a large three-way mirror and some seating. It's enormous and elegant, and almost feels like a department store, rather than a closet. A men's department store, anyway.

Jack's voice is muffled, but I hear him calling my name as he steps back into the house. I hear his footsteps crossing the floor downstairs, quickly followed by the clicking of Gunner's nails on the wooden floorboards.

“Sydney?” he calls. “Where are you?”

The sound of footsteps on the spiral staircase makes my pulse race, and I hurriedly shut the closet door behind me as I step back into the master suite.

“I'm in here,” I say.

He steps into the bedroom, his head and beard wet with freshly fallen snow. White bits of powder still cling to him, melting away gradually in the warm house.

“I told you not to explore,” he says.

“It's my house too, isn't it?” I stand with my arms crossed in front of me.

“Well – ” Jack stops and looks down at his feet.

“It isn't, is it? I don't live here with you, that's why my clothes aren't in the closet. Only yours,” I say, my voice rising. “In fact, we're not even really married, are we? I can't help but notice that neither one of us is wearing a wedding ring.”

Jack sighs and walks over to the bed. Sitting down, he puts his face in his hands. I consider leaving the room. Scratch that, I should leave this house entirely. I don't know who this man is or what sick game he's playing, but my survival instinct is telling me to get the hell out of here. The man might be dangerous.

Despite all of the reasons I should leave, something keeps me there.

“Was any of it true? About how I introduced you to Daisy's cafe?” I ask. “Do we even know each other, Jack?”

“Yes, that's true. All of it's true. Just not – well, the married part,” he says. “But, there's a perfectly logical explanation for that.”

My blood pressure rises, and I can feel the rage boiling inside my veins. I grit my teeth and stare daggers at the man. For the most part, I'm not shocked to find out that he lied to me. I think somewhere deep down, I already knew. But, the fact that I might have already known he's a liar, and have it confirmed straight from his mouth, doesn't piss me off any less.

“You lied to me,” I hiss. “Not just me, to everyone.”

“I had to, Syd,” he says, removing his hands from his face and stares up at me.

His eyes are so warm, so filled with love and compassion that I stop breathing for a minute. I forget where I am entirely. I almost forget that I'm mad. Those blue eyes of his draw me in deep, keep me there, and I almost lose myself within them completely.

Almost.

“Had to? You had to lie?”

I'm shaking now, as I pace the room. I can't look at him, because when I do, I feel things. Things I can't explain, but they're there, and they're real. Even if nothing he's told me is true.

“Do you realize my head is already scrambled enough, and I don't know what's real or what's not?” I shout. “Is this all some fucking game to you, Jack? And who are you? Really. Who are you to me?”

“Listen, let's go downstairs, sit down at the table and talk.”

I try not to let my nerves shine through. I'm tired. Exhausted, even. My entire body is shaking, and I can't tell if I'm hurt, angry, scared – or all the above. Tears well up in my eyes before I have a chance to stop them. I angrily scrub them away as they roll down my cheeks.

“Dammit,” I say, turning away from Jack so he can't see that I'm crying.

I wipe at my eyes and feel so incredibly helpless – a feeling that's foreign to me. I may not know everything about my life right now, but I do know I'm not the helpless type. On a deep, primal level, I know that I'm strong and independent. But, this shit is too much even for me. I'm in way over my head. I’m overwhelmed – and I feel like I'm only getting pulled in deeper.

Even though I try to hide the tears, Jack sees them. He's by my side in an instant, his arms around me. I try to push him away, but he holds me fast and I eventually let myself lean into him because, despite the fact that he lied, he still somehow feels so safe and comfortable. I can't understand it, let alone explain it. He's shown me nothing but kindness since I woke up at the hospital though, and frankly, he's the only person who seems to know who I am, aside from maybe Daisy at the cafe.

His big arms hold me tight and his beard is ruffling up my hair. I can't explain it, but right there, in that moment, it feels like home. As if I've been looking for this for years and finally found it. Then I remember the lies again and push him away. This time, he takes a couple of steps back, giving me some space.

“No, tell me who you are first,” I say. “And why you're lying about it. Tell me, Jack. Or else I'm calling a cab and getting the hell out of here, because quite honestly, I'm scared. I don't know who you are or what we are to each other, and it scares the shit out of me.”

“You have no reason to be afraid of me,” he says. His eyes look so sincere, and I find myself wanting to believe him. “We may not be married, Sydney, that's a lie I told the hospital just so I could be there with you. To help make decisions regarding your care. If I told them who I really am, well, they'd have told me to get lost and I couldn't bear leaving you there unprotected.”

“So, we are together?” I ask. “Together and just aren't married?”

He cringes at those words as I speak them, and I realize even that's not the case.

“No, not anymore at least,” he says. “We used to be. A long time ago.”

“You're an ex then?”

“Yes,” he says then quickly adds, “But I've never stopped loving you, Sydney. And we didn't end because we weren't good for each other. We ended because –”

He stops talking, and the lines deepen in his face. Reaching out, without thinking about it, I stroke his cheek gently. He leans into the touch and a soft smile parts his lips. I can see the torment in his eyes and my heart goes out to him. I find that I want him to tell me – and not just to satisfy my own curiosity-- but because I can see that he's been carrying a heavy burden for a very long time and I find that I want to help ease it from his shoulders a bit if I can.

“Why did we end things, Jack?” I ask.

“Because we were stupid kids,” he says. “I joined the Marines, you went off to college, and we grew apart. But I've always loved you, Sydney. That's not a lie, nor has it changed in all these years.”

My heart swells because I see it in his eyes. He does love me, and somewhere deep inside, I feel like maybe I might have loved him too. A long time ago. It's there though.

“Is that all of it?” I ask. “The entire truth, I mean?”

“Yes,” he says.

I look him in the eye and find that I believe him. Even more than that, I find that I'm no longer mad or scared. I have nowhere else to go, no one else to trust, but something tells me that I need not fear this man; that I can trust him. Sure, he lied, but his reasons made sense. I fall back into his arms, and he seems surprised. He hesitates before wrapping them around me, holding me close. I melt against him, relishing the feel of his arms around me. He may not be who he says he is, but that doesn't change the fact that I feel like I know him. That he's somehow, intimately intertwined in my life.

“Thank you, Jack,” I whisper. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course, Syd,” he whispers back. “Anything for you. Always.”

 

 

CHAPTER TEN

JACK

 

Having her in my arms and feeling her body pressed to mine again feels like heaven. Years of waiting for her to find me, hoping she'd forgive me, and here we are. Except, she hasn't forgiven me for my deepest sins, because she isn't even aware of them. Not yet, anyway.

Eventually her memory will return, and with it, the reason we parted ways so long ago. The real reasons. She will remember, and when she does, she will hate me. It would be best if I went on the offensive and told her, of course, but here she is, in my arms. She's soft and fragile and afraid, and the last thing I want to do is cause her more pain.

She understood the first lie, about being her husband. Hopefully, she forgives the second lie – the one about how we truly ended things.

She turns her face to look up at me, a smile gracing those full, beautiful, soft lips. God, she may be older than I remember, but she's still the prettiest woman I've ever seen. Her skin is still paler than normal, but some of her color is coming back. Freckles dot her nose and cheeks, and her green eyes shine like emeralds. Her auburn hair brings out the color even more.

She raises herself up on her tip-toes and presses her lips to mine, and for a moment, I can't breathe. All I can think about is the fact that her lips are touching mine. She's kissing me. My tongue pushes past her sweet lips and into her mouth. She shudders, and a small gasp escapes her throat as we kiss. My heart thunders in my chest. It has been so long since I've been with a woman. Too long.

The blood rushes to my lower extremities, and I grow hard in my jeans. My cock is straining painfully against the fabric . It's automatic, reflexive, and I have no control over any of it. She presses herself into me and I moan as my cock grinds against her belly. I quickly pull away from her and run a hand through my hair, clearing my throat at the same time.

“Sydney, you're hurt,” I say. “We should probably take it easy.”

I'm mainly saying that for my own benefit. After a head injury and whatever else she endured, the last thing she needs is me pushing myself on her. She stares up into my eyes, and damn, it's fucking hard to resist her. I want to pick her up and throw her on the bed. I want to ravage her the way I did all those years ago. We were both grown now, more experienced. The sex was great back then, but now, I bet it will be fucking amazing. Mind blowing.

No, she's hurt, I tell myself. We can't do this. My erection throbs, urging me to throw caution to the wind and just go for it, to fuck her all night long. The look on her face doesn't help me either. Her lips are parted, glistening with our saliva, and there is a sultry look in her eyes.

“I just need to feel something, Jack,” she says, her hands balled up on my chest. “After the hell I've been through, all the confusion and not knowing who I am or who you are, I just – I just want to feel good. To not hurt anymore. To feel good, even if for only a few minutes. I just want to have my mind taken off of the shitshow that is my life right now.”

I lick my lips, tasting her upon them. My body is telling me to go for it, to have my way with her. But, would it be right? She doesn't remember what I've done to her. Doesn't remember anything about me. To sleep with her right now will be taking advantage of her situation – and I'm not cool with that. I'm not that kind of a man. I have morals and although my body might be fighting like hell to go for it, my mind is telling me to keep it in my pants. That doing anything with and to her right now would be wrong on so many levels.

She continues, “Please, Jack. Maybe if we – you know -- maybe it would help me remember? Or at the very least let me forget everything for a bit.”

She's begging me. Literally begging me and I feel my resolve weakening. The large brick wall of morality I hold myself to is being chipped away and torn down, piece by piece, as I look into her eyes and let my gaze wander up and down her body, recalling how she used to feel underneath me all those years ago.

My body aches with a raw, animalistic need that runs thick through my blood. My heart races and my head is swimming with images of her naked, and memories of how she feels and tastes. God, I want to throw her down on the bed and take her, to feel her from the inside. I want to, but I refuse to give in to my base wants and desires. She deserves more than that.

“You're a good man, Jack,” she says, her voice sounding defeated. Her gaze falls, and her smile falls right along with it. “I may not remember our past, but the man you are now – I can see that you're good. Honorable. Kind. I'm sorry I tried to come on to you – ”

Before she finishes, I pull her to me and kiss her again, this time lifting her off her feet and holding her in my arms. Carefully, I carry her over to the bed and lay her down upon the thick, heavy down comforter. This is everything I've wanted for so long. Everything I've fantasized and dreamed about, and I need to make sure it's right. I can't rush it.

Sydney is shaking, her hands fumbling with my belt as we make out on my bed. As she removes my belt and tosses it to the floor, I pull back and look her in the eye again.

“Are you sure, Sydney?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yes,” she groans, her body arching to meet mine. “Yes, please, Jack. Just make me feel good.”

I'm not about to deny the woman her request. I move lower, kissing her neck as I try to remove her pants. Finding no zipper or anything, I move down between her legs.

Damn jeggings, I think. They slide off like leggings though, and once I know what I'm doing, they come off easily. Sydney helps me along the way, sliding them down over the curve of her hips. It's only a matter of moments before I'm tossing them across the room. Next, I lift her sweater enough to dot kisses along her belly. Then to her thighs. Her back arches and her hands reach for me.

“Yes, yes,” she groans.

She's trim and neat, just a small tuft of light brown hair around her opening. I gently spread her thighs open and press my mouth into her, savoring the sweet, musky scent of her pussy. I flick my tongue and get a taste of her, making her body shudder beneath me. Turning my gaze up to see her, our eyes lock. She stares down at me and I stare up at her from between her legs, and the look in her eyes tells me all I need to know.

She wants this. She needs this.

With a renewed vigor, I dive between her lips, sucking and licking her sweet spots. Sydney moans and cries out, her body lifting up toward me. I slide a finger inside of her and find that she's deliciously wet and warm. My balls ache from the pressure building up inside of them, but I focus on her.

It's about making her feel good. Not me. My needs can wait a little while longer.

I continue licking and finger fucking her, as she writhes beneath me on the bed. Her hands latch onto my head and pull me into her, the muscles in her thighs clenching around me. Her breathing grows ragged, as do the sounds coming from her throat. She's crying out for me.

She's screaming my name. “Jack!” over and over again, which only serves to inflame the passions already burning bright within me. I keep licking and sucking, plunging my fingers into her tight, wet little hole over and over again. Her body is trembling and when her voice is coming out in ragged, stuttering gasps.

Then I hear the words I'm dying to hear, “I'm coming. Oh God, Jack, I'm--”

Her voice cuts off and is a mix between a groan and a scream. I continue moving my fingers deep inside of her, exploring her body with my mouth and hands as her pussy clenches around my fingers and tongue. Her body quivers for me as she comes, and I'm in heaven.

Sydney let's out a long, shuddering breath and her entire body relaxes. It's like she's suddenly a dead weight on the bed. Her eyes are closed, and I'm staring up at her, seeing a look of pure bliss on her beautiful face. When her eyes open, she looks down at me and smiles. I can't help but smile back at her, feeling her juices running down my face.

“Come here,” she whispers, motioning for me to climb on top of her.

I rise up, but instead, curl up beside her. She looks confused for a moment, but I pull her into me and kiss her forehead. There's a chill in the air, the fire needs to be built, so I wrap the blanket around her and make sure she's warm.

“Your turn,” she murmurs, though her voice is heavy with exhaustion.

“Later,” I tell her.

I know there may never be a later in all reality. I may have missed my only opportunity to be with the woman I love again. But, this isn't the way I want it. I want her to know who I am when we make love. I want her to be with me because she's forgiven me of all of my sins – not just the ones she knows about. Until then, I don't deserve to have her. I won't taint the beautiful thing that exists between us with lies and deception.

Until I can work up the nerve to ask for her forgiveness for everything that happened in the past, I won't sully what I feel for her or our lovemaking.

Maybe I'm an idiot and am overthinking the whole thing. Who knows? I'm a hopeless romantic, sure, but only for her. I've never been one to care about other women. I could fuck them and leave them, no questions asked. Sydney is different though. She's always been different.

When we make love, I want her to not only know who I am, I want her to want me. The real me. The one who fucked up royally as a kid and who's paid his dues over the years.

There's no fight in her right now. Her breathing is steady and heavy, her body relaxed into mine. She's already sleep. Hell, I don't blame her after everything she's been through.

I stay with her for a long time, just stroking her hair and looking at her beautiful face, our bodies together and warm. I glance at the alarm clock and curse to myself. I have a woodworking job lined up for today. It's only some cabinets in a nearby house and probably wouldn't take all that long, but there's no way I'm leaving Sydney.

I guess that's one of the benefits of working for myself and being able to retire at my age. I climb from the bed and pull my phone from my back pocket, then quietly leave the room, dialing the number only after I'm back on the main level. My erection is showing no sign of going away anytime soon and it's getting more painful with each passing moment.

“Down boy,” I say, which makes Gunner to look up at me from his spot in front of the fireplace.

“Not you, my – ” I cut myself off as the client picks up the phone.

“Hello Mr. Williams,” I say. “It's Jack Bronson. I'm sorry to say that I'll have to reschedule our appointment today, something has come up.”

 

ooo000ooo

 

I set up shop in the dining room, with a clear view of the stairs from the loft. Otherwise, I let Sydney rest. I have a million e-mails to respond to, all of them about the impending sale of the company. E-mails I've been neglecting ever since the incident with Sydney. Nothing else seemed to matter after that, and now it's coming back to bite me in the ass.

My phone rings as I'm deleting about half the e-mails in my inbox. I look at the display and see that it's an unfamiliar number. Thinking it might be a client needing some work done, I answer it.

“Jack Bronson,” I say. “What can I help you with?”

“Hey Jack,” a female's voice says. “It's me, Marianne.”

I try to recall the name, and it hits me after a second or two. The girl from the shop. The pretty one who helped me put together some clothes for Sydney.

She continues. “You dropped your business card, and I thought I might give you a call.”

I somehow doubt I dropped a card, which means she found my phone number some other way. Not surprising though. It's probably linked to my credit card or something. “Hey, Marianne,” I say. “What's up?”

“Just wanting to check in with you to see if your friend liked the clothes we picked out,” she says, her tone very light and conversational.

“She did, actually. Thank you again for your help,” I say. “I have the other sizes she didn't use in a bag, ready to be returned when I get the chance.”

“That's totally fine,” she says. “As long as the tags are attached, and they haven't been worn, we should take them back.”

“Great,” I say. “That sounds perfect.”

I scratch my head and wait for her to continue. I have nothing else to say to her, really. Finally, after a long, awkward silence, she clears her throat and continues.

“Listen, so the clothes – they're really for somebody who's just a friend, right?”

“MmmHmm,” I say, knowing where this is going and trying to find a way to shut it down before it even starts.

I think back to what had happened upstairs. Maybe I'm wrong about that, but I have no doubt that once Sydney's memory comes back, things will change. That was probably a one-time deal, and though I ache for more, I'm at least glad I was able to bring her a few moments of peace and pleasure.

“Well, you did mention you were single, and I – well, I'm just going to come out and ask. Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

“Dinner?” I ask. “As in a date?”

“Yeah, dinner,” she says and laughs nervously, though she doesn't mention the date part. “I can make a mean lasagna. And honestly, it's been so long since I've cooked for anyone it might be nice to get into the kitchen again. I just thought if you weren't seeing anyone, maybe we could – ”

I cut her off right there. “Listen, Marianne. You seem like a sweet girl, so I'm not going to dick you around. You do not want to date me. I'm seriously bad news when it comes to dating. Seriously bad.”

She laughs. “Don't be silly,” she says. “You're such a gentleman, buying all those clothes for an old friend like that.”

“You don't know me. Not really,” I say. “Trust me, that's only a sliver of who I am, and you wouldn't like the rest. Most days, I don't like the rest.”

The phone is silent for a long time, and I think she's hung up on me, but then I hear her sigh.

“I'm guessing that's a no, then?” she says.

She sounds not just mortified, but sad. Like I rejected her and brought her whole world crashing down around her. Shit. I hate making girls sad, but I didn't ask for this.

“I don't date, Marianne. Period. It's nothing wrong with you,” I say. “You're a very attractive woman, you're sweet – I just don't want to get involved with anyone because it never ends well for anybody. I swear that it's nothing personal.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says.

I can tell she doesn't believe a word I'm saying. Of course not. Everything I said was little more than the cliché garbage most men say to avoid making a woman cry while they try to let them down as gently as they possibly can. In this case though, it also happens to be true.

Better Marianne learn that now instead of finding out what a jackass I am months down the line. Not to mention, now that Sydney is back in my life, there’s no room for anyone else.

“Goodbye, Marianne,” I say. “And thanks again. I really appreciate everything.”

The phone clicks before I even finish my sentence. Good for her. She may not believe it, but it's the, smartest decision she could have possibly made for herself.

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SYDNEY

 

“Where am I?” I ask.

My voice comes out sounding distant, as if I'm standing in some long, dark tunnel and can hear it echoing away from me. I blink once. Twice. And on the third time, my surroundings finally start coming into focus.

I'm in a jet. Not just any jet though, but a posh, private one. The cabin is gorgeously appointed and has plush, luxury seats that I sink back into. I look down and notice that there's a glass of champagne at my side.

It's then that I notice I'm not alone either.

I turn my head and see that there's a man sitting across the aisle from me. He's handsome and statuesque. His body is chiseled to perfection, and his cheek bones are almost painfully sharp. He looks like he was carved from marble and has the features of a model or a Hollywood leading man. He's beautiful to look at in profile. His good looks though, are only amplified when he looks up from his newspaper and smiles at me.

“Looks who's finally awake,” he says, putting the paper down and walks over to sit beside me, taking his hand in mine. “We're going to be landing in about twenty minutes.”

“Where are we going?” I ask him, a thick fog of confusion enveloping my mind.

The man cocks his head to the side like a curious puppy, seemingly surprised by my question. He looks at me as if I should already know the answer to that.

“I've already told you, Sydney,” he says. “We're going to Aspen. I know how much you love skiing.”

“I do,” I say. “Or rather, I used to. It's been so long.”

It has been too long. I should rectify that.

“We'll take care of that,” he says with a playful wink.

It all feels so real, and yet, I can't remember the man's name. He looks so familiar to me, but I can't put a name to that handsome face. I reach out with my mind, trying to grasp is, but it escapes me. His identity is like the moon passing behind some swift moving clouds – there one moment, gone the next.

Our conversation ebbs and flows, as he talks about work – what does he do again? Oh yeah, he's taking over the family business. Business is obviously going well, considering the private jet, the champagne and the expensive suit he's wearing.

He's obviously a man of tremendous means. But who is he? Perhaps, more importantly, how did I end up with him in this jet on our way to Aspen?

The unknown man leans forward and brushes his lips against mine, but I feel nothing. Nothing at all. No butterflies in my belly, no electric charge that usually accompanies a kiss – there's just no sensation at all.

Probably because this is only a dream. Since it's only a dream, I can ask him this question without fear.

“What's your name?”

The man recoils and looks stunned, almost upset at me, but then he smiles playfully. He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze as he looks into my eyes.

“Oh, that's right. You've lost your memory,” he says. “Don't worry, it'll come back to you. That's what all the doctors say, at least. I certainly hope they're right because I can't imagine what it would be like to go through life not remembering anything.”

He still didn't answer my question.

“Who are you?”

“I'm your boyfriend, Sydney,” he says. “Can't you at least remember your boyfriend? I'd like to think I'm a pretty memorable guy.”

My mind flashes to Jack. I see his ruggedly handsome face and those delicate yet piercing blue eyes. As if he can read my mind, the man's face darkens, and he snaps.

“Not him. He's your ex-boyfriend. Keep it straight,” he growls. “Tell me my name, Sydney. Think. Who am I?”

His eyes turn red and his voice causes the plane to shake. I grip the arm rests on my seat fiercely, my knuckles growing white as the plane vibrates and trembles like we're passing through some major turbulence.

A name flashes in my head. Peter.

“Peter?” I say the word out loud.

I pull myself out of the dream, the fear and uncertainty drifting away from me like cobwebs on a gentle breeze. The dream is over, and yet I'm still shaking.

I sit up, trying to figure out where I'm at when a dog clobbers me and covers my face with kisses, knocking me back onto the bed. He is the reason for the shaking and trembling I felt, I surmise. The bed must have been shaking when the big dog climbed onto the bed and got himself situated, his entire body wiggling from excitement when he saw me there.

Gunner. I remember the dog's name better than I can my own boyfriend's. Yes, I'm pretty sure the man from the dream is real, and that he is – or at least was – my boyfriend. But where is he? Why isn't he looking for me? Why is Jack keeping me from him?

Footsteps come rushing down the hallway and Gunner jumps from the bed, rushing toward Jack, wiggling and whining furiously as he enters the room.

“I'm sorry about that, Sydney,” Jack says. “I didn't think Gunner would come up here without me. Guess I was wrong. He's taken quite a liking to you.”

“It's okay.” I wipe dog slobber from my face.

Jack must notice the frown on my face, because he comes forward with a handkerchief and hands it to me.

“He must really like you,” he says softly. “I know you're not much of a dog person – ”

“It's fine, I'm not mad at him,” I say.

The dog is standing beside Jack and giving me the most pitiful look, as if to apologize for waking me up. Or maybe for drooling all over me, it's impossible to tell which. I reach down and scratch his ears, my frown disappearing as I stroke the soft fur.

“It's nothing,” I say. “I just had a dream, that's all.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack asks. “Care to talk about it?”

Jack joins me on the bed, carefully sitting on the edge, Gunner following close behind. “Who's Peter?” I ask.

Jack freezes and the small smile that had been on his lips slides completely off his face. I can't even hear him breathe for a moment, and he just stares at me, studying my face for a very long time. Finally, he looks away and he answers slowly.

“I believe he's your boyfriend,” he says. “But, I honestly don't know exactly who he is.”

“So, you know of him?”

I arch my eyebrow at him, accusation flashing through my eyes. Jesus. So, I have a boyfriend after all. “I met him, briefly, yes.”

“You met him?” I ask, confusion and anger warring within me. “And you didn't think to tell me about him?”

My rage is suddenly amplified, stamping out all traces of confusion. I roll over, getting up and out of the bed and pace the bedroom. As I walk back and forth in a huff, I pick up my pants and throw them on hastily. It's hard to be taken seriously or hold onto your righteous indignation when you're half-naked. Gunner watches me from the bed, his tail wagging and that doggy smile crossing his face every time I step close to him.

“Sydney, he was the last person to see you before I found you walking down the street with that gash in the back of your head,” Jack says evenly. “I was afraid he might be involved. More afraid that since he hurt you once, he might come back and try to do it again.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“Of course.”

“But you couldn't tell me?”

He sighs, and I assume he's going to fight me on this.

“Yeah, maybe I should have said something before – last night,” he says, sounding miserable. “But, you know what? I tried to stop it. A couple of times, and you begged me – ”

“But I didn't know I had a boyfriend!” I shriek. “That kinda changes the entire equation, doesn't it?”

“A boyfriend who probably put you in the hospital, Syd!” he shouts back. “A boyfriend who left you for dead in freezing temperatures! You were in that hospital for over a week and not once did he try and find you!”

He stands up from the bed and walks over to me, and I stand my ground, narrowing my eyes and gritting my teeth. Jack doesn't scare me, not in the least. Hell, maybe that's stupid of me, considering the fact that he's three times my size and built like football player. I seem to recall him telling me that he was a Marine once, which might help explain his rock-solid body.

Something tells me though, that Jack isn't the person I need to fear. Something tells me that I'm safe with him; that he'll never raise a hand to me, and he'll never hurt me. Those thoughts though, lead me down a path that comes to one inescapable conclusion. If Jack won't hurt me and I have nothing to fear from him, then...

“Do you really think he hurt me?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Peter?”

“I'm pretty sure he did, yeah,” he says. “But I can't prove anything. I ran into you at Daisy's that night. Things were awkward and uncomfortable, so I left you two there. Later, I swung by the cafe again and found you walking down the street like I told you before. Daisy says you left with Peter, and only Peter, and so far, the police can't locate him to ask what happened. So, I'm just filling in the pieces that seem to fit logically, and it doesn't look good for him. But, only you can tell us what happened for sure, Syd.”

Great. Just fucking great. I'm the only one who can solve this mystery. Which is going to be no easy feat since my memories are scrambled inside of my head like the world's messiest omelet.

Jack reaches out to comfort me, and I let him. I want to be in his arms again. Closing my eyes, I relax into him, feel his hard, strong, warm body pressed to mine, and listen to his heart beating steadily. It's comforting and makes me feel safe and protected. Somehow, I feel like this is where I've belonged all along.

“I'm scared, Jack,” I whisper.

“You have nothing to be afraid of, Sydney,” he says. “I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise you that.”

I'm not sure how I can explain to him that Peter doesn't scare me. Maybe he should though, but I can't remember. No, the fear is about not remembering anything. The fear is never getting my memory back. The idea that I might lose entire parts of my life and never be able to recover them again scares me more than anything in the world.

Even big, strong Jack can't save me from that.

 

ooo000ooo

 

Neither one of us mention what happened between us again. Which is probably for the best since I really need to try and figure out what the hell happened to me. I don’t need emotions complicating the process.

All we have now are suppositions and speculations; nothing concrete, and certainly nothing we can convict Peter on. I will say though, even though I can't remember anything from that night, I don't have any good feelings toward Peter. When I think of him and recall the face I saw in my dream, I feel – nothing. Only cold. Numb. In fact, the bits and blurbs that come through the haze in my mind aren't happy memories. It all feels so forced and strained.

“Did you ever call my parents?” I ask Jack later that evening as he prepares dinner.

“No, I figured you would, when you were up to it,” he says.

“So, they don't know about the accident?”

Jack shakes his head as he washes his hands. “No, not yet. I don't have their number, for one thing,” he says. “And two, your parents never liked me very much. Figured I'm the last person they'd want to hear from.”

“Do you mind if I call them, after dinner?”

“Call them now, if you can remember their number,” he says.

Oh yeah. I don't know their number either, and the reminder hits me like a ton of bricks. I stare at my hands, an overwhelming feeling of helplessness washing over me again. Tears well up in my eyes and I look down at the floor, shaking my head.

“Hey now,” Jack says, wiping his hands on a towel hanging on a bar near the sink. He comes over and gently rests a hand on my shoulder. “It's okay. We can look them up. Anything can be found online these days. It won't take much. We'll figure it out.”

“I hate this. I hate my brain right now,” I moan. “I can't even remember my parent's telephone number. I'd be hopeless without you.”

He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, then turns his laptop around to face me. “Here, let's look them up.”

I shake my head and wipe my eyes. “No, we can do it after dinner.”

“No, right now. You need to talk to them,” he says. “Dinner can wait a bit.”

He starts typing their names into Google, and after clicking a few different links and following a few dead ends, their information finally comes up. Jack hands me his cellphone.

“You can go into my office for some privacy,” he says. “But maybe not mention my name or that you're here at my place?”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Like I said,” he says and shrugs, “they never liked me much.”

I nod, slowly, and stare at the phone in my hand. I can call them, maybe get some answers.

“What should I tell them?”

Jack doesn't answer me. He can't answer me. If I can't tell them I'm with him, what is there to say? That I lost my memory and I'm stuck in Redstone with a man I can't remember, but they apparently hate? I put the phone down on the table and shut the laptop.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I say. “It's already getting late and I need to figure this all out before I talk to them.”

“You can call whenever you like, Syd,” he says, going back to the stove. “Just be prepared. You might not like what they have to say. If I remember correctly, they never were ones to let you live your own life without their interjections.”

I wonder why my parents would dislike him so much. I find it hard to believe anything could sway how I feel about Jack. Even though I've technically only known him a few days, at least as far as my memory goes, he seems too perfect to be true. Maybe that's a bad thing. Maybe I'm clinging on to these warm feelings he's inspiring in me now, but there's something dark and sinister in the past.

Of course, the only way to find out would be to call my parents and ask. But, something also tells me I won't like what they have to say. Not just about Jack, but about everything else in my life.

My parents are one thing I haven't forgotten. Probably because the mark they've left on me and my life is indelible. Not even amnesia can wipe it all way. As I think about it, I recall that they've always been up my ass about everything. I love them dearly, but I remember they stress me out on a good day. When I'm far from home, suffering from amnesia and staying with a man they don't approve of, I can only imagine the hell they'll give me.

“Like I said, maybe tomorrow. Maybe a good night's rest outside of the hospital will help,” I say.

The dream from earlier had offered me some pieces; bits and scraps that maybe will help me unlock my memories. Maybe, with a good night's sleep, I'll have more dreams, something that will help me put the pieces of the puzzle back together.

“Hopefully so,” Jack says.

He doesn't sound convinced at all.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

JACK

 

“There's a spare room down here, if you'd prefer,” I say.

I walk her down the end of the hallway, past my office. There are actually several spare rooms, some of them sitting empty. I have more house than I need for just me and Gunner, rooms I don't think I've stepped into except when I bought the place.

They just sit there, unused. Most days though, I don't think about the emptiness. The quiet and solitude, the absolute peace I find up here, is well worth dealing with a little wave of loneliness now and then.

“It has a private bathroom room,” I say. “And, it's already made up.”

I can see the look on her face, as she weighs the options in her mind. Down here, she's by herself on the ground floor. My bedroom is upstairs, and if there's trouble – not that I expect there will be – I won't be right next to her. I can see in her eyes that she’s weighing her feelings. I’ve already surmised that she feels safe with me, and she’s trying to figure out whether she wants to be positioned that far away from me during the night.

Still, I want to put her mind at ease.

“I'll sleep on the couch,” I say. “You have nothing to worry about here, Syd. You're safe.”

“You won't be comfortable down here.”

“Have you felt that couch?” I ask and give her a lopsided smile. “It's more comfortable than most beds.”

“Not better than your bed,” she says with a mischievous smile.

“Do you want to share a bed with me?” I ask. She bites her lip, and looks perplexed, but eventually nods. “I mean, we can share a bed and not – you know – sleep together.”

My raging erection says otherwise, but I can force myself to behave if I have to. Right now, I have to. Dammit.

“It's up to you,” I say.

“I'd feel safer,” she admits.

“That settles it then.”

I turn off the light in the guest room and shut the door behind us. She hesitates at the end of the hallway, as if she's thinking about staying there after all. I turn and look at her, giving her a chance to make up her mind. I don't want her to feel forced or pressured into anything. I want her to feel safe and comfortable.

“Mi casa es su casa, Syd,” I say. “You can sleep where ever you like.”

Her footsteps are light and gentle on the hardwood floor, as if she's trying to tip-toe on purpose. She joins me in the living room, and together, we walk upstairs. She pauses in the library for a moment.

“Want to read before bed?” I offer.

“You remember that about me,” she says, her tone filled with awe. “After all this time.”

I laugh. “So do you.”

She smiles and nods her head. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

More than just the last few days have gone missing from her mind, but I keep quiet. She can't remember me or what happened between us all those years ago. I’d rather it stay that way, because when she does finally remember, she’ll walk out of my life for good this time.

“No, I think I'd rather talk,” she says, strolling down the hallway.

“Talk?” I ask. “About what?”

“About you. I'd like to get to know you better.”

“Not much to really know.”

She raises her eyebrows and gives me a look. “Come on, you're some lonely mountain man who just so happens to have a mansion in the middle of the woods,” she says, arching her eyebrows. “There's bound to be an interesting story in there somewhere.”

“You'd be surprised,” I say. “It's pretty boring, actually.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Once in the bedroom, she goes into the bathroom. Water is running, and I hope she has everything she needs. I hadn't planned on having someone stay with me – especially someone who doesn't even have a toothbrush to her name. Damn. A toothbrush.

I call out to her. “I have a spare toothbrush in the top drawer,” I say.

“Thanks,” her voice is muffled through the bathroom door.

I step into the walk-in and grab some boxers and a t-shirt, but before I'm fully dressed, Sydney pokes her head inside, catching me without a shirt and almost without my boxers. Her cheeks flush and something I can't quite identify flashes through her eyes, but she doesn't look away.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice a little ragged. “I was wondering if you have something I can sleep in?”

“Yeah, one sec,” I say, pulling my shorts up the rest of the way.

I dig through some of my old t-shirts until I find one that's not as large as the others. She'll still be swimming in it, but at least she'll feel covered, hopefully. I toss it over to her and she smiles, thanking me again. She doesn't leave right away, instead, we stand there and share a look. I feel an electricity building in the air between us; an almost awkward tension.

“Is there anything else?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“No,” she says. “Thank you.”

Her cheeks turn a brighter shade of red as we both realize she's checking me out. My ego inflates a bit, and part of me wants to ditch the shirt entirely, and just sleep in my boxers just to tempt her. Hell, I normally sleep naked, but, best not to go down that path. Sydney leaves the walk-in and goes back into the bathroom, and I decide to ditch the shirt anyway. I tell myself I’m not doing it to temp Sydney into any sort of action, but I know that’s just a bit of a lie. I can’t help wanting to be near her again after all these years. How often does a guy get a clean slate to right the wrongs of his past?

Being honest with myself, I can admit that having Sydney checking me out, and seeing that flash of what I think was lust in her eyes, stirs something inside of me. I feel a tension that grows below my boxers and I once again have to scold my throbbing erection that's begging for some release.

“No, not tonight.”

“Did you say something?” Sydney asks.

She steps back into view wearing nothing but my t-shirt, which falls almost to her knees. Even though she's mostly covered, I can't deny that seeing here standing there, in one of my shirts, is sexier than anything I've seen in a while. Possibly ever. But then, Sydney has always had that effect on me.

Her red hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her face is clean of any and all makeup.

I look at her again and feel those stirrings deep in my groin. I silently will myself to not get an erection around her, but it's getting more and more difficult to fight it back. The black shirt brings out the paleness of her skin, illuminating her. Back in the day, she always seemed to glow from within. That's something that most definitely hasn't changed with the passage of time. Her inner glow is as bright today as it ever was.

Sydney's eyes fall lower on my body, and she chuckles and her cheeks flare with color. She has to physically turn her head to hide her laughter.

“What?” I ask, but then it hits me.

I can feel the erection, long and hard, growing. I glance down, and the boxers are doing little to hide it. Heat rushes into my cheeks and I know they're turning a deeper scarlet color than hers currently are. Yeah, this is fucking awkward.

“Jesus Christ,” I say. “I'm sorry Sydney.”

“You can't help it,” she says. “It's – okay. It's not your fault. I know you're not trying to…”

Her voice trails off as if she's lost her train of thought. Her eyes sparkle and she's smiling, though she's trying to hide it. Sydney is doing her best to stifle her laughter – though, not very successfully. I shift on my feet and do my best to hide my hard-on, which is making an already awkward situation a hundred times worse.

“Seriously,” she says, “you look at me like I'm the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“That's because to me, you are,” I say. “You always have been.”

Shut up, Jack. She doesn't need this. She doesn't need you hitting on her, not when she can't remember anything about you or Peter – or anything else in her life for that matter. She's already feeling weird about it all, there's no need to keep piling on the weirdness.

Sydney looks down, but the smile remains. She pushes a tendril of loose hair behind her ear. She's never been more beautiful to me than she is in that moment.

“I really wish I had some answers,” she says.

“Me too.”

I toss on the shirt after all, and walk over to the bed, eager to cover up my erection. I climb in and throw the comforter over me and sit up with my back against the headboard. She follows and sits beside me on the bed, neither one of us saying anything for a long time. We just sit beside one another, looking into each other's eyes. As we do, the awkwardness of the previous moments dissipates entirely and the tension fades. Our silence becomes more companionable.

“Was Peter a good man?” she finally asks, breaking the silence. “From what you could tell?”

“I'm not sure how to answer that,” I say and give her a small shrug.

“Why not?”

I shrug. “I barely met him. It was literally for like two minutes,” I say. “And honestly, my feelings for you likely cloud anything I'd feel toward him.”

“But what was your first impression?” she presses. “Did I look happy, at least?”

She looks up at me, expecting answers. She wants something, but I'm not sure if she wants the truth. I have a feeling she won't like it. But, I don't want to lie to her, either. She deserves better than that. If she's going to reclaim her memories and her life, she should do it based on the truth. “He seemed like a douchebag to me,” I say. “And no, you didn't look happy. Daisy agreed with me – there was just something off about him. Something – slimy. He was extremely possessive of you.”

She nods, a serious look on her face. I can see the resolve in her eyes growing. It's as if my words only confirm thoughts that are already running through her own head.

“I feel that way too. I've been giving it a lot of thought, trying to remember and all, and I keep coming back to that,” she says. “Just from my dream and what I can remember – and the fact that he didn't even come looking for me at the hospital or anything. You'd think if he loved me, he'd come find me. Unless, he's responsible for what happened.”

“That's how I feel too.” I sigh, hating that she doesn't have all the answers she wants and needs. “But, I thought I might be biased.”

“Maybe you are. A little bit,” she says, a tiny grin on her lips. “Or, maybe you just know me better than I know myself.”

“Not hard to do right now.”

I kick myself mentally for that joke, afraid it might have been too much. A little too callous and insensitive. The old Sydney would have laughed at her situation – and the joke. I'm not sure how the new Sydney will react though.

Thankfully, she laughs and playfully punches me in the arm, and I let out a small sigh of relief.

“Hey now, you made a joke,” she says. “At my expense, no less.”

“I make lots of them. Most people never understand them, though.”

Sydney always did though. She always got me and my sense of humor. Right from the start. It's one reason I'm so powerfully attached to the woman. She gets me in ways nobody else ever has. She's like the gold standard and nobody will ever live up to her. She's special to me. Cherished. Always has been and always will be.

Sydney settles down into the bed, getting herself comfortable, and then rests her head on my shoulder. Her fingers trail up and down my arm, and I don't even think she realizes she's doing it. It's almost like an unconscious comfort-seeking gesture. She's just sitting there, staring off into the distance, thinking to herself.

“So, you joined the Marines, huh?”

It would figure that when she speaks again, she'd ask me that question. I feel my stomach lurch as I fear that the questions about our past are about to come flying fast and furious. I know she has to be curious about it all. To this point though, she's refrained from asking a single question.

“Yes,” I say. “As soon as I graduated high school.”

“Is that what you always wanted to do?” she asks. “Be a Marine?”

I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes. Again, I debate telling her a lie, just to make this conversation flow a little easier, and to avoid getting caught up on things that don't matter. I realize though, that what I'm really doing is trying to devise a way to avoid the questions I don't want to answer. Sydney though, deserves my honesty and transparency. So again, I settle on telling her the truth.

“Not really. I did it on a whim,” I say. “I wanted to be a better man. Someone people would respect.”

Her father also urged me to do so, just to get me away from her. I don't tell her that part, however. Telling her that will serve no purpose other than to raise more questions – questions that would be better answered by her father. I may not like him, but I don't want to denigrate the man.

“Was I sad when you left?” she asks quietly. “Or were we broken up already?”

“You were sad, I imagine,” I reply. “I didn't exactly – tell you what I was doing.”

“Oh.”

A deep, abiding quiet settles over us as she processes the information. I'm sure she's rolling it all around in her mind, trying to put some pieces together. Maybe trying to figure out why I wouldn't tell her. I don't want to push things or say too much, so I let her noodle it around in her head in silence for a while.

As I sit there in silence, thinking back to that time again, her dad's words come back to me. I'm surprised to find that they hit me every bit as hard today as they had back then. Time, apparently, does not actually heal all wounds.

“My daughter comes from a long line of doctors. Distinguished, successful people,” he sneers. “What are you going to do with your life?”

“I don't really know yet,” I say.

“You need to know before you even think about marrying my daughter.”

He'd been right, of course. Sydney deserved better than what I had to offer back then. Her parents knew it, and so did I. That didn't change the fact that I loved her intensely though.

“What can I offer you to make you leave?” he asked.

I remember looking at him, confusion enveloping my mind. “Offer me?”

“How much money would it take to make you go away? For good,” he pressed. “What can I give you to leave so Sydney can go off to college instead of hanging around here with the likes of you.”

He was right about that too. Sydney needed to go to college, and she'd gotten into UC Berkeley – her dream school. She had a bright future ahead of her, but she was putting off accepting it because we were young and in love. She'd told her parents she was going to attend community college instead. It didn't go over too well with them, obviously.

That led to her father's offer to pay me to go away and never darken their doorstep again. They'd determined that I was holding her back and as long as she stayed with me, their daughter would go nowhere in life. Back then, I guess I can't really fault them for feeling that way.

“Jack?” Sydney taps my shoulder, pulling me out of my trance.

“Yeah?”

“I asked you a question.”

She sounds amused, but I'm anything but amused at this point. The memories are still painful, and they haunt me to this day.

“What's that?” I ask.

“I asked what you do for a living now,” she says. “How can you afford living this way.”

This time it was my turn to say, “Oh.”

That story is more complicated. Much more so, and I'm not even sure where to start telling it.

“Remember my dad? No, of course you don't,” I say, shaking my head, feeling sheepish. “Well, my dad used to own a construction company. It was failing back when we were together, but somehow, he managed to turn things around and it became this huge corporation. He raised it from the dead and turned it into an incredibly profitable business. He passed a few years back and left everything to me.”

“So you run this construction company now?”

“Well, it's more real estate development with an in-house construction crew now, but yeah,” I say. “Not for long though, I'm selling it off. Piece by piece, I'm getting rid of it all.”

“Why?”

When most people ask that question, it's because they can't imagine I wouldn't want to rule the empire. They can't wrap their minds around the fact that I'm willing to walk away from it all because there's so much more money to be made. The fact that I'm essentially walking away from the billions I can make by just holding onto the company leaves them in disbelief.

They don't seem to understand though, that there's more to life than just money. There's also the quality of life to consider. What good is having untold billions if you can't enjoy your life? “Because I have more than enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life,” I say. “And it's time for me to do my own thing and not rely on my dad's successes. I want to do what I want to do, not what he wanted for me to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Honestly? I enjoy woodworking,” I say. “I love building cabinets and furniture. Like this bed.”

“You made this bed?”

I nod. “All by hand,” I say. “Cut the trees for it myself too.”

Her eyes nearly pop out of her skull as she examines the handiwork. She lets her fingers trail over the decorative scrolling on the headboard and she looks in awe at all of the small, intricate details. I'm biased, but I think the bed is my best piece of work and I'm proud of it.

“You're really good, Jack,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say. “It's more of a hobby, honestly. I don't need the money or anything, but it fills my time.”

“What else do you like to do?” she asks. “I find it hard to believe that someone like you is single,” she says softly, as if she’s hoping I’ll confirm my bachelorhood.

I laugh. “I refuse to date.”

“Why? A handsome, successful man like you could get anyone he wants.”

“I don't want just anyone though,” I say. “Besides, I'm kind of an asshole.”

“You say that, but nothing about you screams asshole to me.”

“Wait until you get your memory back,” I mumble.

“I'm sure it's not that bad,” she says. “Whatever it is you think you did can’t be that bad.”

I remember the last time we'd talked before I left for the Marines. I ended things, with no warning. I just told her it was over. She tried to fight it, but I fought back even harder. She won't understand that I did it for her. I did it to make sure she had that bright future she seemed destined for. I did it to stop holding her back – even though it killed me to do so. I remember that I left her crying in the park on a sunny June day, all alone. Her last words to me echo in my brain to this day.

“My dad was right about you, Jack,” she hissed. “You're a terrible human being, and I hate you. I never want to see you again.”

Yeah, she was upset, but I deserved it. I deserved all of it and more, because right before that, I took her virginity. She gave herself to me after saving it for so long. I took what she had to offer and ran away to the service.

I ran away. Not because I was a coward or didn't love her, but because I did love her. I loved her so much, and I knew her father was right about me. I was going nowhere in life. I was a kid from the wrong side of the tracks. The bad boy who'd never amount to anything. The one always causing trouble for others when I wasn't getting into trouble myself.

Sydney had a future, a good one, ahead of her if I didn't fuck it up. So, I left her to think I used her and tossed her aside.

All these years, it still kills me to think about it.

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SYDNEY

 

For the life of me, I can't imagine Jack being anything but kind. He's shown me nothing but kindness since I awoke at the hospital, and nothing about him screams asshole to me. He seems so genuine and sincere. So kind and compassionate. He attends to my every need. My every whim. He caters to me and I feel nothing but warm feelings toward him.

Not to mention the fact that sitting here, in his bed, my body wants him in ways that aren't rational.

Peter seems like a distant dream, or in my case, a nightmare. It's been days, and there's been no word from him. He didn't go to the police. He didn't search the hospitals. He's gone, literally just vanished. Like he'd never been.

I don't know what happened that night, but the suspicion that he did this to me, that he really did leave me to die out there, is only growing stronger by the day.

I lean forward and kiss Jack's lips gently. His beard scratches at my face as he kisses me back hesitantly.

“I don't want you to regret anything,” he whispers, pushing the loose bits of hair back away from my face.

He's right. I know he's right. We shouldn't do this. There's no sane, rational reason for my body to react to him the way it does – and yet, it does. I want to do this.. It's a primal need, as if my body somehow remembers him and has yearned for him for years. What if I don't get my memory back? What if this is the new normal for me? Would being with him make me happy?

The answer in my head is clear – yes. Jack is the type of man I can see myself with, whether I remember him or not. Not Peter, a man who never even came looking for me. Jack is here though, and the way he looks at me, it's as plain as the nose on my face to see that he loves me. It's too early for me to love him, but he's someone I could love in time. Of that, I have no doubt. I once loved him, didn't I? Would it be that hard to love him again? Doubtful.

“I'm not going to regret this,” I say at last.

I kiss him again, this time our tongues meet, and his hands slowly glide across my body. I reach below the blanket and feel that his cock is already hard and ready. I slip a hand down his boxers and grip him in my hand firmly. Jack groans as he presses his head back into the pillows. His entire body tenses up.

“You want this. I want this. What's there to regret?” I say, my voice a bit breathy.

I move down his body, pushing the blanket out of the way. I need to see him, to taste him. Jack doesn't stop me. Instead, he watches my every move as I pull his cock out of his boxers and lower my mouth to it.

He's thick, my small hands barely wrap around the base of him. I have to open my mouth wide to take as much of him into me as I can, and he thrusts himself past my lips. A growl escapes his lips, and he cries out.

“Jesus,” he gasps.

He's too long to take him all the way into my mouth, so I use my hand to make up the difference. Bobbing up and down on his cock, I swirl my tongue around the head as I suck him off. Jack reaches down and removes the tie from my ponytail, letting my hair fall around my face, almost shielding me from view. He then pushes the hair back and I glance up, catching him staring at me.

That look. There it is again. Like I am the most beautiful woman in the world. Like I'm a Goddess or an angel or some other magnificent being he can't believe is real. That look alone causes an ache down below, a tightness in my body that can only be loosened by having him inside of me.

I love the way he looks at me though, as I suck his dick, and I keep going. I move faster, gripping him tighter, as the salty taste of pre-cum fills my mouth. I lick it up, swallowing it as he moans my name.

“Sydney, please – ”

“Please what?”

“You're going to make me come.”

His voice comes out almost a growl. I go back to what I'm doing, taking even more of him into my mouth as I stroke his cock harder and faster. I want to make him come. I want to make him fill my mouth with his seed. Jack's hands pull me off of him though, and he's laughing.

“You're too fucking good with your mouth, I won't last much longer,” he says.

He strokes my cheek, and as much as I want him to shoot his load into my mouth, to give him that pleasure for being so good to me, I see the way he looks at me and feel my insides quivering. The heat between my thighs flares up and feels like an inferno burning within me.

He's waited so long for this. He doesn't want to rush.

He wants what I want too.

I move away from his cock, kissing up the length of his tummy, lifting his shirt up as I go. His abs are rock solid. His body is all hard planes and angles and he's really as strong as he looks. Tattoos dot his chest, military tattoos from the looks of it. I lift his shirt up and over his head, pressing myself into him as we kiss.

I nibble his ear, “I'm not wearing any panties.”

I swear, his eyes almost pop out of his skull as I straddle his body and feel him pressing against me. His hardness against all my softness. There is nothing to keep him from entering me. Nothing at all is stopping us now. Except...

“Do you have a condom?”

He nods, and reaches over to the bedside table, opening the top drawer. He reaches inside and pulls out a brand-new box of condoms. He quickly tears the box open and fishes one of the plastic squares out and hands it to me.

“If you're sure – ”

“I'm positive,” I say.

I take the rubber in my hand and open it. I lift my body off him and bite my bottom lip, looking him in the eye as I slide the condom down his shaft. Jack groans and tries to help me along the way. Once he's sheathed inside of the rubber, I lower myself back down, this time the tip of him presses against my opening.

Just one thrust and we'll be united, together as one.

I'm wet and aching for him, and Jack looks downright crazy with lust. He grabs hold of my hips and pushes me down, his dick slipping between the folds of my lips, rubbing my clit.

My head falls forward onto his chest and I groan.

“Take off your shirt,” he commands.

His voice changed. It's more demanding than I've ever heard it. That wasn't a request – it was a demand. Something shifted inside of him. He's more commanding. More authoritative – and I like it.

I do what he asks and lift his shirt off over my head, my breasts already free from a bra. Lowering his head, he takes one of my soft, pink nipples between his lips and sucks. My body spasms with sensation and it’s like there's an electrical circuit running through my body – straight down to my pussy. As Jack's hands knead my flesh and he pleasures my body with his mouth while he's sheathed deep inside of me, sensations course through me. My every nerve ending feels like it's on fire and my pulse is racing like I've just run a marathon.

“Jack, yes – fuck me, Jack.”

He grips my hips and lifts me up, positioning me right where he wants me before he thrusts his hips, driving that long, thick, glorious cock into me. We both let out a groan as he fills me up and stretches me open. I cry out and my toes curl as he thrusts deeper into me, making me lose all control of my body. I'm like a rag doll, but thankfully Jack keeps me moving until I adjust to the amazing sensations swirling inside of me.

I grind myself against him, my clit rubbing against his pelvic bone, taking him deeper inside of me as I move back and forth on top of him. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are half closed, but he's still looking straight at me with a look of absolute ecstasy on his face. He's still looking at me as if he can't believe this is real. That look sets my body on fire and I feel myself growing wetter as I slide up and down on his thick rod.

“You're so beautiful, Sydney,” he groans through gritted teeth.

I close my eyes, and I feel like I've been transported to another time and place. His groans and the sound of his breath are a soundtrack to a memory that hits me hard. We've done this before. I recall being on top of him, feeling him stretching me open just like he is now. I recall that it hurt back then, but only for a bit. Once the pain had subsided, it felt amazing as we made love in his bedroom.

Yes, his bedroom. I remember now. As I rise and fall, impaling myself on his hard cock, I'm buffeted by images and memories from the past. They come pouring into my mind and I can't seem to stop them. I throw my head back and cry out as I fuck him, bouncing up and down on that glorious rod harder and faster.

I feel one of Jack's hands on my hips, helping guide me. The other slides up to my breast where he pinches my stiff nipple, drawing a pleasant, familiar shudder from my body. As I rock back and forth on his cock, I remember that back then, there had been Metallica posters lining his walls. I remember the smell of incense. In my mind's eye, I can see piles of clothing – mostly black – on the floor and that his bedding was ragged and old.

“You get on top,” he'd said to me back then. “Because I don't want to hurt you.”

“But I don't know what to do,” I'd admitted sheepishly.

“I'll help you,” he said. “We'll figure it out, Sydney. It'll be okay. I just want to watch you.”

His smile was so sincere, and his face not nearly as chiseled as it is now. His beard was nothing but a patch of fuzz, a five o'clock shadow because he never cared enough to shave. Yet, I knew it was him, and I knew this memory was real.

I open my eyes and stare down into his eyes. This time, I know those eyes. They're vividly familiar. I remember that I'd lost my virginity to him all those years ago, and I loved him back then. Dearly. More than I could even comprehend at the time.

“I remember you, Jack,” I whimper, throwing my head forward and planting my hands on that hard, toned chest. “Oh God, I remember you – ”

He stops moving for a moment, but I keep moving my hips. Keep fucking him. I want to feel him buried deep inside of me, to feel all of him. The memory and all the feelings that have come rushing to the surface only heighten my arousal, and I grab onto Jack's body, digging my nails into his flesh, as I cry out.

“Oh God, I'm going to – ”

As if on cue, and as if he can read my mind, he thrusts himself deep into me again, and I scream. Pleasure tears through my body and I thrash wildly on top of him. Jack holds me tight, his face twisting as if he's concentrating really hard, but I know that face because I've seen it before.

“Come, Jack – yes, come with me, baby,” I moan. “Please, baby.”

As if my words give him permission and unlock something inside of him, a growl pushes past his lips as he pulls me down hard onto his cock. My pussy spasms around him, squeezing that thick shaft tight as I come. My own orgasm brings out his, and together, we ride out the waves of pleasure together. Eyes locked on one another, watching as we both shudder with absolute bliss.

When the pleasure subsides and we're both spent, I collapse on top of him, my body weak, my mind still spinning. The words he spoke at the time ring as clear in my head in the moment as they had back then.

“I love you, Sydney. I love you more than anything in this fucked up world.”

“I love you too, Jack.”

“Promise?” he asks me, a teasing tone.

“Yes, silly. I'm putting off college for you, aren't I?”

“You shouldn't do that. We'd survive you being in Berkeley. It's not that far away, you know.”

“It's too far. I never want to leave your side.”

It brings a smile to my face. Ahh, young love, I think to myself. More like young, naïve love, now that I can look back at it with the experience of life. I open my eyes and see Jack watching me, carefully. Those words may have been said years ago, but I can see in his eyes that they still hold true today. He still means it to this very day. All of it.

“Don't look so serious,” I tell him, kissing the tip of his nose. “That was pretty amazing, wasn't it?'

“Oh God, it was,” he says. “It's just – you said something during – well – you said you remembered me.”

“I do,” I say quietly. “At least some of it. I remember the first time we had sex. Being with you just now brought that memory back up and into my mind.”

His eyes grow wide, but he doesn't say anything. I sit up and help him remove the condom, which is soaked with his cum, before tossing it in a trash can next to his nightstand and then fall down beside him on the bed. I'm still smiling as he curls up beside me. He still looks very serious.

“Do you remember anything else?” he asks slowly, as if afraid of how I might answer the question.

I think about his question for a bit before answering. “I remember how much I loved you. And that you loved me just as much,” I say. “I remember that I put college off for you, even though you told me to go anyway.”

He nods. “You eventually went after all.”

My smile falters as I start connecting some dots in my mind. “Is that why you went into the Marines?”

“Something like that.”

“I'm sorry, Jack,” I say. “I'm sure that hurt you. My leaving you like that.”

He props his head up on his hand and stares at me intently, the light of love in his eyes shining no less brightly. I can see that he's wrestling with something in his mind though. It's almost as if he has something to say and he's debating whether or not to say it. I don't want to press him – even though I'm dying to know what it is – and decide to wait him out.

After a few moments, he seems to nod to himself as if he's come to a decision. I can see it in his eyes.

“No, Sydney, you don't understand. I hurt you,” he says. “You would have given up anything to be with me, and I couldn't let that happen. You had your whole life ahead of you and I didn't want to fuck that up. At the time, I was going nowhere, and you had the whole great big world in front of you for the taking. You were so much better off without me.”

“Well, I can't remember exactly what happened,” I say, scrunching up my face. “But the older me understands and appreciates you looking out for me.”

“I'm not so sure you'll feel that way once you remember everything.”

“I am,” I say, cuddling up to his warm, naked body as I push the doubts away. “And let's just focus on here and now, please? That's what matters to me right now.”

“Of course,” he says and then places a soft kiss on the top of my head as he holds me close. “I just want what's best for you, Syd. I always have.”

“I know, Jack,” I say softly. “I know that now.”

 

ooo000ooo

 

“I hate you, Jack Bronson. I hate you so much,” I scream.

“Well, good. Because maybe now you won't fuck up your life,” he says. He doesn't look at me. “I only wanted to fuck you anyway. Wanted to bust that cherry. And now that I've had that tight, virgin pussy – ”

His head is rocked to the side when I slap him across the face. The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh echoes in the air around us and he shuts up almost instantly. He glances up at me and rubs his red cheek.

“Stop being a child, Sydney. You know I'm an asshole,” he says. “I screw girls and dump them. That's what I do. You were just another conquest. Did you really think you were special or something?”

“I don't believe you.”

“Not my fault you're stupider than you look.”

I reach back to slap him again, but there's no fight left in me. I let my arm fall to my side and feel the tears, fat and warm, rolling down my face.

As an adult, I can see it now. Jack isn't looking at me when he delivers those horrible words. More than that, there's an unmistakable, profound pain in his eyes. He's intentionally pushing me away.

“I never want to see you again,” I spit.

“Sounds good to me,” he says. “I already got what I came for.”

He turns and walks away. I shout again, at the top of my lungs, desperately trying to wound him as deeply as he's wounded me.

“My dad was right about you. I hate you.”

He doesn't turn around, but he does stop. He stops walking away from me, and I think maybe I've won. Tears stream down my cheeks and my throat hurts from screaming. But after a moment's hesitation, Jack keeps on walking.

“Did you ever love me, Jack?” I call out.

He doesn't answer. He just keeps walking. At the time, that was the only answer I needed.

I wake up in with rivulets of sweat rolling down my face. I sit bolt upright in bed, shaking my head, trying to clear the cobwebs out of my brain. I feel disoriented as I look around the room and it takes me a long time to remember where I'm at. The man next to me is snoring peacefully, oblivious to the pain I'm feeling. I stare at him for a long time, and even more memories come back to me.

Years of waiting. Of heartbreak. Of wondering where he went. I'd gotten my wish, I never saw him again. Not until now, that is.

The dream isn't what woke me up, however. Sunlight streams through the window, and I glance at the clock. It's six in the morning. Way too early. I know I should go back to sleep, and I try. I curl up in bed and pull the blanket up over my body, turning away from Jack. I close my eyes and a seemingly never-ending torrent of memories come flooding back into my mind. Most of them I want to shut out. To deny. To pretend never happened or think that they're just part of my brain still being scrambled. I'm having trouble separating truth from fiction. At least, that's what I tell myself to make it bearable.

I open eyes again though, my body suddenly tense, my mind alert. A sound downstairs makes me sit up again and I feel the cold waves of fear crashing down over me.

“Gunner?” I call out.

The dog peers up at me from his position beside me on the floor, his tail wagging now that I've said his name. Definitely not the dog.

There’s another sound coming from downstairs and it shoots an electric bolt of fear through me.

I push off the blanket, climb out of bed as quietly as I can, and walk down the hallway, Gunner on my heels. I scratch his head as I stand on the landing, looking at the ground floor down below.

Someone is at the door.

A face that looks strangely familiar peers back at me through the glass, and suddenly, I'm keenly aware that I'm standing there entirely naked. With a small squeak, I hurry back into the bedroom, grabbing the shirt and trying to find a pair of pants. The knocking grows louder – loud enough that I fear he might break the glass on the door.

From his position just inside the bedroom door, Gunner lets out a low growl and a huff under his breath. I can see the hair on his neck and back standing up. He's definitely not happy about something.

“Jack, wake up,” I say.

He doesn't respond, just continues to snore, so I shake him until he opens his eyes, instantly alert.

“What's wrong?”

“Someone's knocking on the front door,” I say. “I think – I think it might be Peter.”

Jack jumps from the bed, throwing on some clothes. He looks at me, his eyes narrowing and his face growing harder.

“Stay put,” he says, his voice commanding. “I'll handle it.”

I'm shaking now as I curl up on the bed, bringing my knees to my chest. Gunner follows Jack out of the room and I hear his nails clicking on the wood as he makes his way downstairs, barking at the door so I can't hear what's going on at first.

Then I hear a shout. It's a voice I recognize. It's Peter's voice.

“Where is she?” he bellows. “I know she's here.”

 

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

JACK

 

Peter pushes his way past me, rushing into my house, and instantly starts walking toward the stairway.

“I saw her in the window,” he growls. “I know she's here.”

“Stop, Peter,” I say. “Just stop right there.”

“Where the hell is she, huh?” he shouts. “You fucking her?”

He tosses something down on the floor. I look down and see that it's my handwriting on the front of the paper. It's Sydney's name. It's the note I gave to Daisy to give to Sydney if she ever came into the restaurant when I wasn't there. A note that was years old. He'd read it, which is how he found out where I lived.

“Where have you been, Peter?” I ask. “The police have some questions for you.”

“I've been looking for my fucking girlfriend, you prick.”

“But you didn't go to the police? That's interesting,” I cross my arms in front of me. “Tell you what, why don't we call them right now?”

I reach for my phone in my back pocket, only to find it's not there. Great. Peter rushes for the staircase, intent on getting upstairs to where Sydney is. I follow quickly behind him, right on his tail.

“Listen, man, she doesn't want to see you,” I say. “She's scared of you, so it's best if you leave.”

I grab his shoulder, and spin him around, forcing him to turn toward me. He lunges and swings his fist at my face, but I duck just in time. If the fucker wants to play this game, he's going to lose in a big way. I have more muscle than him and more training, most likely. As I pull my arm back to take a swing that will take his head clean off, I hear Sydney's voice call out from the loft at the top of the stairs.

“Who's Marianne?” she asks.

“What?”

I look over at her, and that moment of distraction is all Peter needs to drive his fist into my face. I hear the crack of his fist meeting my flesh and feel my head rock to the side. He packs a pretty heavy punch and my vision wavers for a moment as I stumble backward. I manage to keep my feet and get myself into a defensive position, putting my fists up, even though I'm feeling a little uneasy.

“Who's Marianne, Jack?” Sydney asks again. “Do you have a girlfriend?'

“No,” I scoff. “She's a saleslady that helped me get some of those clothes for you.”

Sydney holds out my phone – as if I can see it from where I am when she's up on the second floor. I cut a glance up at her but keep my eyes on Peter. The ringing in my head a reminder that I can't afford to take my eyes off of him completely. Not even for a moment.

“If she's not your girlfriend,” Sydney asks. “Then why is she texting you pictures of her boobs?”

Sydney tosses the phone to me and against my better judgement, I grab it. Keeping a wary eye on the man in front of me, I look down at the phone. The photo is of a very drunk Marianne, clearly, in the bathroom at some club. Her shirt is lifted up and she's not wearing a bra, her boobs in perfect view. A drunken smile is plastered on her face.

The text says, “See what you're missing, Jack? Come out with me next time. Kisses - Marianne.”

Peter uses my distraction to his advantage, throwing another punch. Though half-distracted, I'm still ready for it and catch his hand just before it hits my face. Sydney comes down the stairs, her eyes fixed on me for some reason. I step forward and give Peter a vicious push backward to keep him away from her. He stumbles but manages to keep his feet.

“Stop it,” Sydney snaps. “Stop fighting, goddammit.”

Peter and I both look at her and then at each other, silently agreeing to a temporary truce. Our postures slip into a more relaxed pose, but I'm going to be ready to rock at a moment's notice if he fucks with me.

I tuck the phone into my pocket as Peter focuses his attention on Sydney. His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches as he looks at her. I can see the anger, dark and abiding in his eyes and am pretty sure that if I let Sydney go anywhere with him, she's going to end up hurt. Probably badly, too.

“Sydney, baby,” he coos. “I've been looking for you. I'm sorry about what happened.”

“What happened exactly?” I ask, shoving my way in front of Sydney, arms crossed in front of me.

Peter looks to Sydney, then at me, then back at Sydney again.

“Didn't she tell you?” he says.

Sydney's voice pipes up from behind me. “I don't remember what happened.”

“You what?”

A predatory smile curls on his face. I see the mask changing in front of me, his anger turns to something more sinister looking. A look of someone who thinks they may get away with something they thought they were going to have to do an elaborate song and dance to get out of. The smile of somebody who thinks they're about to get off scot-free.

“She had a head injury,” I spit. “She lost her memory, but is getting it back, piece by piece. We're hoping you might be able to answer a few questions about what happened though. You know, to help jog her memory.”

“Of course,” he says. “I'll tell you everything I know.”

“Bullshit.”

I know he's full of shit. He's not going to tell us a single thing. Nothing that implicates him, anyway. Just standing there in front of him though, and looking into his eyes, I'm more certain than ever that Peter is responsible for what happened to Sydney. I know it deep down in my fucking bones.

Sydney touches my arm, and I turn to look at her. Her eyes are soft as she looks at me and I know that getting to the bottom of things, of hopefully getting some answers is important to her. I remind myself that this is about her, not me.

“Hear him out, Jack,” she says softly. “I want to know what happened.”

“You think he's going to tell you the truth?” I snap.

I'm so angry in the moment that I can't stop the words before they come flying out of my mouth. I don't mean to egg her on or upset her, but I know that Peter is an abusive scumbag. I know that he's responsible for her condition. I fucking know it.

“I don't know who's telling the truth about anything, anymore,” she says.

She stares at me long and hard and I can tell she doesn't believe me about Marianne. Great. Fucking great. I'm frustrated as hell. Marianne couldn't have picked a worse time to pull that bullshit. It's a battle for another time though. Right now, I need to focus on the fight right in front of me. And that fight is Peter.

“Let's all sit down and hear him out,” she says. “Okay?”

Not my idea of a good time, but I grumble. “Fine.”

If that's what she wants to do, I'll do it. But I cast my gaze at Peter who's giving me a smug little smirk.

“But try anything, fucker, anything at all, and I'll see that you're the one with the head injury,” I snap.

“Jack – ” Sydney says in a tone of voice that sounds as if she's scolding me.

Peter just smirks again, and it takes everything in me not to beat it right off his smarmy looking face.

 

ooo000ooo

 

Sydney wants coffee, so I brew up a fresh cup. I lean against the kitchen counter, arms folded over my chest, as the two talk at my dining room table. It takes everything in me not to step into the conversation, but Sydney keeps an eye on me, the look in her eyes telling me to stay out of it. For now.

I'm there as backup, in case she needs me to rescue her. Seems that's all I'm good for these days.

“So, after we left the cafe,” Peter says, keeping his voice neutral, glancing at me now and then, scowling at my presence – good to know the feeling is mutual. “We got into a little fight. You ordered the driver to stop the limo and got out. I tried to stop you, but – well, you wouldn't listen. You walked back toward the cafe and I figured you needed some time to decompress and I let you go. Bad idea as it turns out, I know, but – well, I was angry too. You were headed toward Daisy’s, so I let you go. I didn't realize you left your purse or your phone in the limo until later.”

“And her shoes?” I ask.

He looks back at me. “She had them on when she got out,” he explains. “I don't know what happened to them after that.”

I roll my eyes. Yeah, I doubt that. Sydney looks up at me, then back at Peter.

“Sydney, I swear to God, I've been worried sick about you,” he says. “I've looked everywhere.”

“Except at the hospital or the police station,” I chime in.

“I didn't go to the police, no. I just assumed she was mad at me and staying with someone she knew,” he says. “I even thought you might run into the arms of your ex. Which is why I came here in the first place. After I found the letter in your purse, I thought maybe I'd look for you here. I was hoping I wouldn't find you here though. And certainly not naked.”

It sounds plausible enough, I guess. If you're an idiot. I can tell that every goddamn word falling out of his mouth is bullshit. It all sounds very reasonable, and is expertly crafted. But, it's still bullshit nonetheless. I can only hope that Sydney can see through this prick as easily as I can.

My phone buzzes, and I look at it. Marianne again. Shit. This time apologizing for sending the picture, with a follow-up asking me to dinner tonight.

“Your girlfriend texting again?” Sydney says dryly.

“She's not my girlfriend, Syd.”

Sydney looks unconvinced but doesn't argue with me. Peter pulls something from his pocket and holds it out, and it takes only a second for me to realize what's in the small, black box he's holding.

A ring.

Shit.

“Sydney, I brought you to Aspen to ask you to marry me,” he says. “I had this entire thing planned from the start. A romantic dinner overlooking the slopes, me down on one knee. Do you really think I'd hurt you?”

“I honestly don't know what to believe,” she says. “Or who.”

The comment seems aimed at me and I can't help but feel the bitter sting of it.

“Come back with me, Sydney,” Peter says. “Come back to my chateau and let's talk, I'll take care of you and when you get your memory back, you'll see. We were happy. Just ask your parents or your best friend, Allison.”

“I don't know, Peter,” she says, shaking her head. “I just don't know anything right now.”

“I understand,” Peter says, closing the ring box. “It's just – I worry about you here. Jack was very unhappy when we ran into him at the cafe, and I wouldn't doubt he's the one who did this to you.”

That's enough. I lunge forward and grab the bastard by the collar, lifting him from the chair. He squirms and tries to break free, as Sydney screams at me to stop.

“Get out of my fucking house,” I hiss.

“Sydney, come with me,” he begs, looking past me.

Sydney looks torn, and I try to reason with her. “Who's been by your side at the hospital and afterward? Who's taken care of you, huh?”

Sydney's eyes soften. “Jack, like I said, I don't know – ”

She holds her head as if it hurts her to think. Her eyes close and her mouth opens in a silent scream. The look on her face makes me drop Peter and go to her, but she pushes me away.

“I feel like everyone is lying to me,” she says. “First, you say you're my husband – ”

“Which I explained,” I tell her.

“Then you don't tell me everything about why we split in the first place – ”

“What do you – ”

“You fucked me and ran away, Jack. You ran away like a chickenshit after taking my virginity,” she screams.

Even Peter stops moving toward her and looks at me like I'm the scum of the Earth. Yeah, as if this prick has any room to cast judgment on me for anything. Tears shimmer in her eyes. “And now, some girl is sending you pictures of her breasts and you claim you don't know her?” she gasps. “What am I supposed to believe, Jack?”

“I can explain everything – ”

“No, you can't. No one can,” she says, walking toward the door, my heart breaking a little more with every step she takes. “At least Peter hasn't lied to me in the last few days.”

“You don't know that.”

“I guess I'll take my chances then,” she says.

Peter gives me a greasy, condescending grin. It's the look of someone who knows he's won. He didn't even have to do anything, not really. I'd lost this battle before it even started. I knew it was only a matter of time before the memories came back to her. Only a matter of time before she realized what I'd done to her. I knew that once she did, she'd hate me for it.

I tried to prepare myself for the blow of losing her again as best as I could. But, it still wasn't enough. As I stand there, the pain of watching her walk out, the hurt from her questioning my honesty and integrity is almost overwhelming.

I'm speechless as the two of them leave. Peter throws his jacket over her shoulders and ushers her to a black limo that's waiting outside for them. The driver opens up the door and they get inside.

I am forced to stand there and watch as the love of my life is driven away by a man I know is only going to hurt her again. It's only a matter of time before he does. I can only hope that next time he does, it's not worse.

I should have done more to stop her.

My fists hits the window without me even realizing I'd thrown a punch. My knuckles strike the glass, shattering it. I curse to myself as blood gushes from my injured hand, but I don't even care anymore. Gunner's nails clack against the hardwood floor as he takes cover. I've even scared my dog.

Fuck. I can't do anything right today.

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SYDNEY

 

I know I acted hastily by leaving Jack's place. I didn't feel like I really had much of a choice though. I'm so confused and upset. I don't know up from down right now, and every time I close my eyes, all I see is that memory of Jack walking away from me.

His words that day had cut me deep. He stabbed me straight through the heart with what he said. And the real bitch of it is, it feels like it happened only yesterday. The pain is still so intense, it feels like the wounds are still fresh. The texts from some random woman didn't help matters any. I didn't even have to snoop to find them. I picked up his phone from where it was sitting on the floor, just in case I needed to call 9-1-1, and there they were, staring me right in the face. Pictures of a beautiful brunette with cherry red lips and perfect, perky boobs.

Fuck her, and fuck Jack for making me think he's someone he's quite obviously not.

Peter doesn't say much on the car ride. He just looks out the car window. He's tense, his eyes are narrowed, his jaw is clenched, and his lips are pulled back into a scowl. I assume he's mad about Jack still, so I don't say anything about him. I imagine it has to be hurtful to see the woman you're trying to propose to, naked in some other man's house

For the moment, I think avoiding any and all discussion about Jack is the best thing for the both of us. At least, until all of the emotions have died down and we have a minute to think about it all clearly.

“You said you had my phone?” I ask. “I'd like to call my parents.”

Peter doesn't acknowledge me at all. It's like he didn't even hear me speaking.

“Peter?”

He shifts in the seat and pulls out an iPhone, hands it over without so much as looking at me. As he moves, I catch sight of something beneath the seat. It's red and shiny, glinting in the light that filters in through the windows. I lean down and pick it up.

It's a high heeled shoe. It's my shoe.

I remember wearing them on nights out in Los Angeles, and I remember putting them on as I prepared for the trip. I look up at Peter, slack-jawed, holding the shoe up for him to see. He looks from the shoe to me, a strange look on his face.

“What?” he says.

His voice is bland and uninterested. It's total change from the way he spoke to me before.

“It's my shoe.”

“Yeah?” he sneers. “So?

He'd said I was wearing my shoes when I got out of the limo the night of my injury. Peter rolls his eyes and finally looks over at me. There's a look of disgust on his face as he takes me in for I guess, the first time.

“Can you please cover yourself up?” he snaps. “I don't need any more reminders of how much of a whore you really are.”

A cold finger of fear traces its way down my spine and I feel the goosebumps rising on my skin, feeling like the legs of a thousand insects marching up my arms.

“I wouldn't bother to telling your parents about this if I were you,” he says casually. “They'll just disown you for sleeping with that sack of shit anyway. I won't tell if you don't. It'll be our little secret.”

I'm still holding the shoe, my mouth open wide. I can't form the words to articulate the dark, ominous thoughts swirling around inside my head. No one should ever speak to someone they supposedly love and cherish the way he's speaking to me.

“I'm not a whore,” I finally mange to croak out. “And Jack is not a sack of shit.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, dear,” he says, turning and looking out the window again. “It's still better if you don't tell anyone about this little fiasco. No one will believe you anyway.”

Hearing him talk now, I see images in my head. I shudder when I see his hand around my throat, the other one reaching for the door handle. We were in a car – this car. As the memories come flooding back, I remember the cold wind of the night when he finally got the door open. It was bitter, biting cold. I close my eyes and shake my head, overwhelmed by the memories that are rushing into my head all at once.

He looks over at me and smirks. “All coming back to you now, is it, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” I manage to choke out the word.

“Good,” he spits. “Maybe next time, you'll appreciate the fact that I don't handle rejection very well and will act accordingly.”

“Stop the car,” I call out to the driver.

“He can't hear you,” Peter says. “Besides, I'm the one who pays him, not you. He will only listen to me.”

I bang on the glass separating us from the driver. “Stop the fucking car, now!”

The limo stops. Just like that. This time, it's my turn to smirk.

“It's awfully cold out there, sweetheart,” Peter says. “Sure you want to take your chances in nothing but that t-shirt?”

“I've experienced worse and lived to tell the tale,” I say.

I open the limo door and climb out, and the cold hits me hard. It's impossible to breathe and almost feels like my lungs have frozen inside my chest. I can't see Jack's house from here and have no idea how far it is to get back, but I decide to take my chances.

Peter isn't willing to let me go that easily, however. He steps from the limo and looms over me, staring at me menacingly.

“Get back in the limo, Sydney” he says through gritted teeth. “Now.”

I turn and walk in the direction from which we'd come. I figure if I walk in a straight line and follow the road, sooner or later, I'm going to run into something that looks familiar. I don't turn back to look at him, but I hear him behind me. Following me. I pick up my pace, trying to get away, but Peter grabs my shoulder and spins me around, forcing me to face him, nearly causing me to slide on the ice beneath my feet.

“Sydney, get back in the fucking limo,” he sneers. “I'm not fucking around. You'll do as your told or you're going to pay the price for your disobedience.”

In the distance, I hear a car coming our way and feel a surge of relief. Surely, Peter won't try something stupid with witnesses bearing down on us.. As the sound approaches though, I realize that it sounds heavier than a car. It's a truck.

I pull away from Peter, determined to get away from him, but he grabs me around the waist, lifting me off the ground and slings me over his shoulder as he carries me back toward the limo. I kick and scream, even try to bite him. It's no use. He's got a grip of iron and his arm is clamped down around my waist. He's not letting me go. I've made a huge mistake and now I'm going to pay for it.

He throws me in the backseat of the limo like a sack of dirty laundry and gives me a dark smile. He looks like he's about to say something to me – probably something snotty – but before he can speak and shut the door, I hear a voice call out from the road behind us.

It's Jack.

I scream for him. “Jack! Help me, please!” I cry out. “Please, Jack! Help!”

Peter rushes off, leaving the door open. I slide out of the limo just in time to see Jack and Peter standing in the middle of the road, throwing punches at one another. I scream when Peter's fist connects with Jack's face and a spray of blood goes flying from his mouth.

They grapple together, and I see Jack land a few shots to the side of Peter's head, opening a cut just below his ear. The fists are flying and there's blood in the snow – I just don't know who's blood it is. When I see them separate, I see that blood is covering both of their faces.

Peter rushes forward, swinging his fist wildly, but Jack sidesteps him, sticks his leg out, and sends Peter sprawling face first onto the icy road. Before he can get to his feet, Jack moves in and delivers a vicious kick to Peter's ribs. He grunts and wheezes, rolling onto his side and goes sliding across the ice.

Jack backs off and wipes the blood from his face. His eyes are narrow and a look of dark anger colors his features. He barely resembles the kind and compassionate man who's been caring for me all this time. He looks so angry and so fierce, his expression almost animalistic, and I don't even recognize him.

Peter gets up and rushes him again, but Jack is ready. Slipping to the side, Jack delivers a hard shot to Peter's face that sends him staggering to the side. He drops to a knee and pauses there, as if catching his breath. Blood runs down his face, coloring the snow beneath him red.

He looks up at me and gives me a predatory little grin. Peter is not a man who likes to lose, and I know he's got something up his sleeve – something that is bad news for Jack. Panicking, and wanting to stop it all before something bad happens, I search for my phone and find it sitting on the seat of the car. I hurry and dial 9-1-1 just as Peter pulls something from his pocket.

A knife. I watch in horror, seeing the cold sunlight of the afternoon glinting off the wickedly sharp looking blade.

No, please God, no...

Peter rushes forward, his knife at the ready, but Jack is prepared for it. He steps to the side and grabs the hand with the knife, twisting it away from Peter's body. Jack pulls him close and it looks like the two of them are talking.

Whatever was exchanged between them is brief though, and a moment later, I hear the crack of bone as Jack twists the wrist viciously, and Peter lets out a howl of sheer agony just as the 9-1-1 operator picks up. I stand there, completely numb for a moment as I watch Jack release Peter's wrist.

Peter doubles over, crying out in pain, cradling his injured wrist in one hand, the knife lying in the snow at his feet. Peter's movement is lightning fast – so fast I barely see it happening. With his good hand, he grabs the knife from the snow and buries it hilt-deep into Jack's forearm. I scream as I watch the scene unfolding before me.

Jack grimaces but doesn't cry out. Instead, he lashes out with his foot, kicking Peter in the balls. Peter doubles over and Jack delivers a vicious kick to Peter's face. The man's head snaps back and he falls flat on his ass. He's lying on his back, his face turned up to the sky. He's out cold.

Peter pulls the knife from his arm and I see the blood flowing, see the ground beneath him turning a vivid shade of scarlet and my heart races. He's hurt and needs help. Jack stands over Peter's unconscious form, the knife in his hand, looking down at the man.

In that moment, I see the Marine, the man fighting a war, not the man I loved so deeply so long ago. His eyes are wild, his expression animalistic. I can tell that he's thinking about killing Peter right then and there. He's got self-defense in the bag, given his wound. He can kill Peter and walk away.

“Jack, no,” I say.

He glances up at me and the look in his eye chills me to my very core. It's so foreign. So – cold. Like a shark in the ocean, Jack smells blood, and he wants to finish the job he's set out to do.

“9-1-1 response, what is your emergency?” the voice cuts through the fog in my brain. “Hello? Are you there? Do you require help?”

I slowly come back to myself and realize where I am and what's happening. I press the phone to my ear a little harder and explain that we need the police.

“Where are you located?” the operator asks.

Hell if I know. I look around for a sign, any sign, and then finally see one. A street sign. I read it off to her and tell her there's a grocery store directly in front of us.

“Please, hurry,” I say and look at Peter's prone body, stifling the urge to laugh – I'm not quite sure how that'll be taken. “We need medical assistance.”

Jack and I stand there looking at one another and I can see he's torn. I can see part of him wants to kill Peter for everything he's done to me and the other part of him wants to spare me the sight of it. With sirens wailing in the distance and drawing ever closer, I walk over to Jack and lay my hand on his arm.

He looks at me and I can see the darkness and anger in his eyes starting to clear. It takes a few moments, but by the time the police cars and the ambulance come to a halt near us, the deputies jumping out of the cars with their guns raised, Jack the Marine is gone again, replaced by the Jack I've gotten to know over this last week or so – a man I can definitely see myself falling for. Hard.

“It's going to be okay,” I say.

He nods. “Yes,” he says. “It will be.”

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

JACK

 

I couldn't just sit there and watch Sydney drive away with that man. Sure, his story sounded good. Plausible. Reasonable, even. But, something about it – and about him – isn't right. I know, deep down, that he's dangerous. It's more than jealousy, I can feel it, and am just as sure of that fact as I am that Sydney is in danger.

Which is why I followed them. I'm not going to let Sydney get away again. I promised that I was going to protect her and I'm going to keep that promise at all costs.

Peter is a decent, but sloppy fighter. He's got a heavy punch, but he's undisciplined. And when he's riled up, he's prone to making really dumb mistakes and putting himself in positions where he's going to get fucked up. Positions that, if he were in the military, would only end in his death.

Moron.

We're both bloodied and breathing heavy, but I've still got plenty left in the tank. I can go a few more rounds with him. No, the ice on the ground isn't making it any easier, but I've got pretty steady footing and I can keep dancing a lot longer than this walking, talking, sack of shit.

I expect him to cheat – that just seems to be his way – so, I'm not entirely surprised when he pulls a knife out of his pocket. I don't have a weapon on me. Don't need one. And if Peter thinks he can intimidate me with a blade, he's about to learn that I don't scare all that easy.

My only regret is that Sydney is watching. She doesn't need to see this. She shouldn't be seeing this. But, it's Peter who forced the action and I'm going to protect her at all costs. I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do after the fact, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Right now, I have to neutralize the threat in front of me. And that threat is Peter.

He growls as he rushes me, swinging his blade wildly. Fucking idiot. It's child's play to disarm him. As I sidestep him, and he goes rushing by, trying to keep himself from slipping, I grab his wrist and twist it painfully. The knife falls to the ground, embedding itself in a small drift of snow as Peter howls in pain. I keep twisting and hold his hand away from his body, speaking to him in a low voice so Sydney doesn't overhear. Like I said, she doesn't need to be a party to this.

“You have one of two choices,” I growl. “Get in the fucking limo and leave, never bothering Sydney again – ”

“Fuck you,” Peter spits in my face.

“Okay,” I say, a cruel little grin touching my lips. “I guess that means you take choice number two.”

I grip his arm and put pressure right on the elbow. I see his eyes widen when he realizes what I'm doing. With one sharp movement, the bone cracks, the sound shattering the still afternoon like a gunshot. Peter screams, his voice echoing down the street and down through the valley.

I let go of his arm, and Peter doubles over, crying out in agony as he clutches his busted wing. If I'm being honest with myself – and I always try to be – I'll admit that it feels good to see him in pain. After seeing Sydney nearly bleeding out on the street, I want the same fate for Peter. I want him to hurt the way she did.

Although he's doubled over and screeching in agony, I can see his eyes. They're fixed on the knife that's hilt-deep in the snow before him. I'm positive that he's about to make a play for it. Which means, I need to shut that shit down immediately. All I need to do really, is just push him over onto his back. Maybe punch him in the gut and knock the wind out of him. I see Sydney on the phone and I assume she's calling the cops, so really, all I need to do is put him down and wait for the cavalry.

There's a part of me though, that wants to cause him pain. A lot of pain. Images of Sydney bleeding, knowing everything he's done to her, flash through my mind. The anger rises up within me like some dark, malevolent tide and I'm nearly overcome with the desire – no, the need – to hurt this man. Badly.

I want him to reach for the knife. I want him to give me the excuse. If he grabs it, and I kill him right here and now, it's a clear-cut case of self-defense. It's not like I haven't ever killed a man before. I killed plenty when I was overseas, fighting a war. What's one more body on my karmic account? Especially one who deserves it as much as this prick does.

“Pick it up,” I whisper. “Go ahead and grab it. You know you want to.”

In that moment, I imagine shoving the blade into his chest, carving out his heart. I imagine the intense release and satisfaction that will come with it. All the years of repressed anger and resentment come flooding back, filling me with bitterness and the desire to hurt this prick. I gave up so much, and for what? Because her parents hated me? Yet they like this prick?

I look up and see Sydney. She's looking back at me with wide eyes, a look of absolute fear on her face. I can tell she knows what I'm thinking, can see what I want to do, and she's willing me with her eyes not to do it.

Peter takes advantage of my distraction and makes his move. He's fast, I'll give him that. Fast, but stupid. He has the knife in his hand and drives it into my arm. It hurts like a motherfucker, but my training has taught me to compartmentalize and keep my priorities straight. My biggest priority right now is to neutralize the threat.

With Peter's knife sticking out of my arm and a persistent burning sensation of pain racking my body, I step forward and do the only thing I can think to do in that moment. I kick him in the balls. I'm wearing heavy, steel-toed boots, so I know it hurts. When my foot connects with his groin, Peter lets out a strangled sounding gasp and doubles over, clutching his injured nuts.

I reach back again and deliver a vicious kick to his face. I hear the satisfying crack of bone and see his head snap back as I make contact. Peter falls flat onto his back, completely not moving – out cold before he ever hit the ground.

With him lying there, dead to the world, I slip the knife out of my arm, releasing a flow of blood. The snow at my feet is turning red and I stand there, faced with a dilemma. I have the knife in my hand and really want to kill the motherfucker at my feet. The release I'll feel ending this piece of shit – for everything he's done to her – will be intense.

When I look up and see Sydney looking back at me though, another wave of feeling starts to tug at my conscience. Ending Peter might feel good in the moment, but what will the long-term ramifications to Sydney be? What will the long-term ramifications to “us” be?

I'm not even aware that she moved until she's standing right next to me. She gives me a small smile as she lays her hand gently on my arm. She looks up into my eyes and I can see that I don't need to kill Peter to be rid of him. He's done. He's out of her life forever. We've won.

“It's going to be okay,” she says.

I nod and give her a soft smile. “Yes,” I say. “It will be.”

It's only then that I become really aware that there are cops jumping out of their cars, their weapons drawn on me. The world around us is awash in red and blue flashing lights and voices shouting orders at me. I drop the knife and hold my hands up, admitting defeat. I'm ordered down to my knees and to put my hands behind my head. I do as instructed and a large, burly cop grabs my wrists, cuffing me tightly.

This whole scene looks bad. I can't really blame them for jumping to conclusions and thinking that I straight murdered Peter in the middle of the road. But, as they drag me to my feet, Sydney screams at them.

“It was self-defense,” she roars and points to Peter. “He's the one you need to arrest. It's him. All him. Jack was defending me.”

The cops look at the man on the ground. He's beaten to a pulp and is pitiful looking, I can't blame them for thinking I was the bad guy. They don't remove my cuffs though, and I call out to Sydney as they march me to a squad car.

“It's okay,” I say to her. “Have them take you back to my place.”

A female cop throws a blanket around Sydney's shoulders and ushers her into the back of a police car. Sydney can't stop looking at me, tears streaming down her face. Even in that state, bedraggled, dirty, and in a near panic, I can't help but think she's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on.

“I'm sorry, Jack,” she calls out.

“Don't be sorry, Syd.”

A male cop roughly shoves me in the back of a police cruiser as a pair of EMT's check on Peter. Hopefully they listen to Sydney, believe her that Peter is the aggressor here, and hopefully it's fast.

We sit in the car for a long time, and an ambulance takes Peter away, a cop riding in the back with them – a good sign. An EMT patches me up as well, telling me that I'm going to need to go to the hospital for further examination and stitches to close the wound completely. I nod absently, not really listening. The pain's faded and that's all that matters to me right now.

I look over and see a few other cops milling about, talking to Sydney, and I just sit and wait. It's our word against his, but considering everything that had happened recently, I'm pretty sure that they'll believe her. Given my own wound, they better believe her.

Still, even if they believe her, it doesn't mean I won't end up behind bars when all is said and done. If I do though, at least I know it will have all been worth it. She's free of that son of a bitch and won't have to worry about him for a long, long time.

“Can you give Sydney a message for me?” I ask the cop in the front seat. “Can you tell her to take care of my dog? He's going to be really upset if I don't come home.”

The cop chuckles to himself but doesn't answer me. Another cop knocks on the window, and the one in the front seat opens the door.

“Cut him loose,” he says. “Her story checks out.”

I let out a long sigh of relief. I've been behind bars in the past, as a juvenile, and it's no fun. While I'm willing to go to jail for assaulting Peter in order to protect Sydney, I'm really glad it's not going to come to that.

They let me out of the cruiser and remove my cuffs. Before I even know what's happening, Sydney rushes toward me, still wearing nothing but my shirt. She throws herself into my arms, and I wrap myself around her to keep her warm. She presses her lips to mine, and I feel her heart thundering in her chest.

“I love you, Sydney,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“I love you too, Jack.”

I look at her for a moment, a numb shock spreading throughout my body. It's not what I expected to hear from her, but she looks up at me with her emerald eyes, and I know she remembers me. She remembers our past, all of it. Even the ugly stuff. And I know she means what she just said.

“So – you forgive me?”

“How can I not,” she laughs. “You've saved my life twice now.”

“I'd do anything for you.”

“Even break my heart, apparently,” she teases.

“I didn't want to hurt you – I felt like I didn't have a choice.”

“Shut up,” she says, slapping me in the chest. “I don't even care anymore. It was a long time ago and it's water under the bridge. We can start over. I want to start over.”

Relief washes over me as I kiss her again, holding her tighter to me, never wanting to let her go.

“But you still have some explaining to do about this Marianne chick,” she says.

“I'll tell you everything. Promise.”

“You better,” she says. “But, let's go home first. I'm freezing.”

Home. It's exactly where I want to go right now.

 

 

EPILOGUE

SIX MONTHS LATER...

 

“I said I'd never move back to California,” I groan.

“No, you said you'd never move back to Southern California,” Sydney reminds me. “And we're not moving to Southern California. Palo Alto is much different than Los Angeles.”

“Still a bunch of super wealthy people who've got way more money than sense.”

She side-eyes me. “You're one to talk.”

“Hey, I may be rich, but I don't flaunt it.”

We're looking at homes in the Palo Alto area – much to my chagrin. Sydney's started medical school at Stanford, and the long-distance thing isn't working out. It's been her life-long dream to be a doctor, so who am I to take that away from her? Besides, once she graduates, we can go anywhere, and we will. Together.

“The hipsters are going to love your furniture,” she teases. “Lumberjack is totally in right now.”

I roll my eyes. Great. Hipsters and yuppies. Just what I need in my life. Still, I can't help but smile, seeing her so happy. Soon, we'll be living together. For good, this time. Over the last few months, Sydney recovered completely, and is back to her old life now. With a few, small changes, of course.

Peter was locked up for a bit, but money can buy the best lawyers on the planet and he's already out, unfortunately. Sydney took out a restraining order, and after breaking his arm like I did, I don't think he's going to be messing with her again anytime soon. He's a distant memory now.

“Look at this one,” Syd points at a listing.

I glance at it. It's nice, but it's missing a yard for my buddy.

“Gunner will hate it,” I say.

“Yeah, probably,” she says.

Her cat, Hermes, hops up on the couch and begs for attention from her. He's still not sure about me and tends to keep his distance, but that's fine. I'm more of a dog person anyway. Hermes and I can co-exist, but I think that's about as good as it's going to get.

“Wonder how Gunner and Hermes will get along?” she asks.

“Oh, he loves cats,” I say. “He loves everything and everyone, honestly.”

“You've had a cat?” she looks skeptical.

“We've run into strays before, yeah,” I say. “He's always been really good with them.”

That seems to appease Sydney as she pets her feline friend.

“So, we need a place with a yard,” Sydney adds it to her list. “It's a good thing you're rich.”

Tell me about it. The Bay Area is not cheap, not in the least. But, it's her dream school, and there's no way I'm letting her give up on her dreams. Not that easily. Having to live in Palo Alto for a bit is a small price to pay to make sure we both can live out our dreams – hers of being a world-class doctor, and mine of making furniture and being with her-- the woman I love with every last fiber of my being.

The sale of my dad's company went off without a hitch, thankfully. I am now free and clear of any and all responsibility. I'm free to retire and live off the money from the sale. Once Sydney's done with school, we'll start a family, and we'll be able to do so without any issue. There is literally nothing holding us back.

Sydney's phone rings, and she rolls her eyes. “It's my dad.”

Not even her dad. After I saved her life – twice – her folks seemed to have warmed to me a bit. I dare say, they might even approve of me being a part of Sydney's life more now, these days than they did in the past. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the amount of money in my checking account. No, not at all. Not that it matters. They gave us their blessing, and we're on good terms. Sydney still harbors some resentment toward her dad for trying to pay me to break up with her back in the day – not that I took the money. Not even I'm that big of an asshole.

When she gets upset though, I have to continually remind her that it was a long time ago, water under the bridge and all that. A fresh start is a fresh start – for everybody. Even her parents.

She silences the phone and curls up with me on the couch, her body fitting perfectly against mine. I pull her close to me, enjoying this little slice of heaven.

“He can wait,” she says. “I only have you for a few days.”

“Only until we find a house.”

Soon. Soon, we'd be together and there will be nothing that can tear us apart again. Not old boyfriends, not old girlfriends, not even parents. Once we're settled and together again, we're going to create memories. Many of them.

 

 

The End