I ate at my desk the next morning even though logic told me he probably wouldn’t be working out. I was wrong, of course, but how I was supposed to know he was an iron man who held his liquor better than most mortal beings?

I had just begun the morning’s work when my front doorbell rang. I’d heard it so rarely that I was a startled when I heard it. I got up slowly, peeking through the little hole in the center of the front door before cautiously pulling it open.

Aiden, dressed in workout clothes—a pair of sweats and a tank top undershirt—stood on my front stoop, that cocky smile on his full lips.

The memory of the taste of those lips shot through my mind, forcing me to drop my eyes for a long second, my cheeks flaming despite the air conditioning running quite efficiently in my little house.

“Morning,” he said, his smile widening.

I crossed my arms over my chest, blocking entrance into my house with my body.

His smile wavered. “I’m disturbing you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to thank you for coming over last night.”

I inclined my head slightly. “Like I said, I just couldn’t have slept thinking you were passed out on your back out there.”

He tilted his head, his eyes moving over my defensive stance as he backed up a little.

“I was wondering if you’d come over to dinner tonight. My sister sent over this chicken alfredo thing that’s really pretty good. I thought I could warm it up with a little garlic bread…”

His voice kind of died out there at the end. He could clearly see what my answer would be by the fact that I was trying really hard not to look him in the eye—if I did, I was afraid I would melt again like I did last night—and by the tension that must have been palpable in my shoulders.

I couldn’t spend time with him anymore. It was too dangerous for us both. But there was this part of me that desperately wanted to jump into his arms and beg him to kiss me again like he had last night. The fact that he wanted to spend time with me…it made my heart hurt, to be honest. I missed this, missed social interaction, missed talking to other human beings face-to-face. Not that I did a lot of it before, but I didn’t even realize how much I missed it until now.

But it was too dangerous. I couldn’t drag him into my problems because I was lonely. And there would be problems. They always found me. I had no reason to believe they wouldn’t find me again.

I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He frowned, his eyes moving slowly over me. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t get involved with you.”

He crossed his arms in a tougher, more masculine version of my stance, his eyes again raking slowly over the length of me. I felt exposed when he looked at me that way, like he’d ripped open my soul and was examining it with a delicate, but determined, touch.

“Who said anything about getting involved? I just want to have dinner with you.”

I blushed, wondering for a second if I’d misinterpreted that kiss last night. I wasn’t very good at these games. Had I missed something? Did he kiss every girl who came to rescue him in the middle of the night?

“I can’t, Aiden.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” He glanced toward my empty driveway, the empty space at the curb in front of my house. “I’ve never seen anyone here but the UPS man, FedEx, and the mailman. You get more delivered than anyone I’ve ever seen, but there’s never a man, a girlfriend. And you don’t go out much.”

“You watch me?”

“It’s not hard to miss.”

I turned and retrieved his plate from the kitchen table. He took those few seconds I was gone to step into my living room, curiously looking around at the Spartan furnishings and the elaborate computer system on the desk in the corner.

“This is yours.”

He ignored the plate, stepping deeper into the room. “You don’t have any pictures.”

“What?”

He glanced at me. “Even I have a couple of snapshots of my parents in my living room. A couple of pictures of my siblings. You don’t have anything.”

“Maybe I’m not the kind who likes to surround herself with ghosts.”

It was a poor choice of words and I saw it hit home. He paled just slightly, his eyes darkening. He turned and snatched the plate out of my hands.

“I won’t bother you anymore.”

He slammed the door behind him. He might as well have hit me with how that burst of sound felt. Tears filled my eyes and I told myself it was stupid, that I shouldn’t act like such a fool. But I couldn’t help myself.

It took a little while before I could sit behind my desk, even longer before I cleared my head enough to focus on the day’s work. I had half a dozen short papers to write today, but by lunch I’d barely made my way through one. I simply couldn’t concentrate.

I got up to make myself a sandwich. As I passed the front windows, I caught sight of a dark sedan pulling into Aiden’s driveway. I paused, pulling the sheer curtain back an inch or two. A tall, blond man and a pretty dark haired woman got out of the car, watching the front of the house expectantly. Aiden appeared a moment later, lifting the woman in a swinging bear hug that made her laugh. He shook the man’s hand, both all smiles. There was clearly a strong relationship there.

Must be his sister.

This knot formed in the center of my chest as I watched. He had family, people who cared about him. He had a life that was his to share or to keep to himself, a life that he could do with as he pleased. He had no reason to be afraid, no reason to keep to himself other than the nightmare that followed him home from his experiences with the SEALs. He could laugh, he could love. He could do anything he wanted.

A part of me wanted to run out there, to demand to be a part of his world. I wanted him to put his arm around me and introduce me to those people, to give me a role in the play they were enacting. It was so…normal! I wanted to be normal!

But then I turned away, let the curtain fall back into place, and walked to the kitchen. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t even normal when I could have been. Why would I expect to be allowed to live that way now?

I tried to work some more after forcing myself to choke down a sandwich, but I couldn’t concentrate. I sat on the couch after a while and tried to read the novel I’d been so looking forward to, but I had to read the same paragraph four times before I retained any of the information. I finally gave up and went upstairs, ran on the treadmill much longer than I should have. The shower didn’t feel as refreshing as it normally did. And sleep took years to finally settle over me.

I ate at my desk again the next morning, picked at my toast as I answered angry emails from clients expecting their reports and essays the day before. I managed to get more work done that day, managed to concentrate a little better. But I stayed locked in the house, his voice mocking me in the back of my head when the UPS man knocked on the door with a delivery of new summer clothes I’d ordered. What would he think if he knew I got just about everything delivered: clothes, shoes, cleaning supplies. I’d have my groceries delivered if I could find someone to do it. I did, actually, have three meals a week delivered, but fresh fruit and vegetables still had to be picked up; but I was able to order them over the internet and only had to speak to a single person when I went to get them.

The fewer people I spoke to, the better. The fewer interactions I had with the public, the better. Fewer chances of being recognized by someone. And if I was recognized I’d have to move on again, and I really didn’t want to move on. It took a long time to find a place where I felt secure. I didn’t want to lose it.

I stared at myself in the mirror a few days later, stared at the unfamiliar face that stared back at me. I was thinner, my cheeks almost gaunt when they’d always been full. My hair was long and dark, a deep brown that the box called French Roast. It was a nice change from the burgundy I used in the last town where I lived, a better match to my skin, I supposed. But it was still hard to get used to. And my eyes, they seemed…I don’t know. Darker with this hair color. Even the shape of my face was different because of the length of my hair. I always kept my hair short. This length…it just wasn’t me. This person wasn’t me. And, I supposed, that was the point. But it was still unnerving whenever I looked in a mirror. I normally avoided mirrors, but he’d called me beautiful. I wanted to see what he’d seen.

But I didn’t see it.

I saw a fraud. A lie. I saw a girl who used to know what she was and what she wanted. I saw a girl who grew up needing to be something, needing to be better. I saw a girl who had only one good friend and that one friend was the one person who drove her to be better. That friend was broken by life, broken by the man who stole her heart and took her from the only life she’d ever known, on an adventure that took her breath away. But then he died, leaving her alone with a child and a life she didn’t understand. She could have gone back; could have begged her family for forgiveness, but she was too embarrassed. Instead, she put herself through school and worked a job she was brilliant at but hated. And every night she’d tell her child, her best friend, that she could do better. That she could be someone better. That she would never have to rely on a man for anything.

I saw a girl whose mother was made bitter by life and made the girl bitter by proxy. I saw a girl who worked hard to prove to her mother that she could have the life her mother wanted for her, but her mother was long gone before she was finally able to show the product of her hard work. I saw a girl who was brilliant and perfect, who had finally found her place in the world, only to have it all yanked out from under her. A girl who once knew who she was, but was lost now.

I was a fraud. How could I even entertain the idea of being with a man like Aiden Stone when I couldn’t even tell him my real name?

I stared at myself in the mirror every night for a week and came to the same conclusion every time. Tonight was no different.

I flipped out the light and pulled my robe on, cinching it tight at the waist. I was about to climb into bed with that same novel I was beginning to resent because of my inability to concentrate on its brilliant words when I heard music playing outside the French doors to my balcony. I hadn’t stepped out there since the night he’d been drunk and I didn’t intend to step out there tonight. But there was something about the music that caught my curiosity.

I turned out the light in the bedroom and walked to the doors, standing against the glass. He was in the yard as he’d been on that night, a bottle in his hand. The lights were blazing from his house, creating a thick circle of light on the lawn, but he was standing just outside of it so that I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t even tell what he was wearing. All I could see was the dark form of his body, see the oblong object dangling from his fingers that had to be a whiskey bottle like the one he’d had that night, too.

I wondered if he was having nightmares. I wondered what it was about his service that haunted him so deeply.

He didn’t move as I watched. He stood stock still, not even the hair on his head twitching in the breeze. I wasn’t sure which was he was facing, but I thought he might have been turned toward my house. Or was that just wishful thinking? The grunge music he’d said was something his unit member had listened to filled the spaces between us. I hated the sound of it, the grating rhythm. Any other neighbor might have yelled for him to turn it down. But I just watched, wondering if he could see me standing inside my bedroom.

When the song hit the chorus for the first time, he lifted his arm and the music immediately changed. The soft bell-like tinkle of a piano filled the air now, the familiar beat to an old country song. Just like before. I closed my eyes, the words dancing through my mind:

Looking back on the memory of the dance we shared beneath the stars above…

When I opened my eyes again, he’d shifted. He stood just inside the circle of light, his eyes downcast as he listened to the music. He swayed a little, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or the music. He looked so alone down there, like he was the only man on some deserted island, or something.

I stepped out the French doors before I even realized I’d moved. I held on to the railing and stared openly at him, no longer caring if he saw me or not. I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

I shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have done anything. I should have turned around that first time he spoke to me and gone into the house. I should have avoided his every attempt to reach out to me. And I shouldn’t be out here on this balcony now. But there was something about him, something about the overwhelming loneliness that came off him in waves in moments like this that spoke to the loneliness inside of me.

You would think I’d be used to it. The loneliness. Even before I was on the run, I had so few friends, I could count them on one hand. And those were probably better defined as acquaintances than friends. We went to school together, worked together. We had the same crazy schedule, a life that others didn’t understand quite as well as we did. It was a bond forged by circumstance, not a desire to know one another, to be around one another. So, yeah, I knew loneliness even before. This self-imposed isolation was just a more definite version of that.

Yet I felt it more profoundly now. The moment I first saw him did something to the bubble of self-denial I’d been living in most of my life and I couldn’t quite figure out how to fix it.

He made me want. He made me desire. He made me want to connect.

I hated him for that.

I started to turn, to go back inside, but he chose that moment to notice me. The song had ended and silence suddenly ruled. I could see his expression, could see those incredible blue eyes staring up at me. He didn’t react to seeing me, didn’t call out to me or turn away to dismiss me. He just stood there, the bottle in one hand, his other hand in the front pocket of his jeans. I could see his expression but I couldn’t read it. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t seem angry, either.

I wish he would do something. I wanted him to hate me so that it would be okay for me to hate him back. I wanted him to scream at me, call me a tease, wanted him to tell me my rejection of him hadn’t mattered. I wanted him…I wanted him to come up here and hold me, to kiss me like he’d done before.

Why couldn’t I get it out of my head? Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him, about that kiss? It was only a momentary thing, a lapse in judgment. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been kissed before. Hell, it wasn’t like I hadn’t been with men, several men. A professor with three kids at home, a tutor who professed his love for me in three different languages, a coworker who didn’t have the energy to date anymore. I knew men, knew sex. I’d even been attracted to bodies that were both better and less than Aiden’s. Why couldn’t I get him out of my head?

Why did the sight of him standing down there, alone, staring up at me with that unreadable expression make me want to scream out in pain? Why did I have to hold on to the railing with all the strength in my hands to keep from running down there to beg him to forgive me?

I couldn’t do this. Not now. Not here.

Yet, my fingers slowly peeled themselves from the rail and moved to the belt cinched tightly around my waist. I tugged at it, unable to move my eyes from his face. I don’t know what I was doing. I wasn’t thinking, I was just acting. I tugged the bottom edge of the thick belt and let it fall loose, my robe parting down the center now that there was nothing there to hold it in place. The cool breeze hit my bare skin, the heat from my shower that had been lingering suddenly evaporating in the night air. He shifted slightly, turning more toward me. I knew there was a limit to what he could see, but it was a clear night and the moon was full, the stars at their brightest. My hands fell to my sides, the slick material of the robe meeting no resistance on my recently-lotioned skin. It slipped off, pooling at my feet.

He never turned away, never took his eyes from me. I knew he could see me, at least the outline of me, because his eyes slowly moved over me. His gaze was heavy, a weight I could almost feel on my flesh. And then his eyes came back up to my face and he just looked at me. He never tried to say anything, never made an attempt to get to me. He just stared at me as though he was trying to puzzle out what the hell I was doing.

I was, too.

I shiver rushed over me as the air danced on my bare skin. Calmly—calmer than I was on the inside—I spun on my heel and went back inside. I crawled into bed and pulled the bedclothes up to my shoulders, shivering again as the cool sheets enveloped me. I closed my eyes and watched him all over again, watched the way his eyes moved over me. And I smiled.

I was pretty sure I’d finally stepped over that line between sanity and insanity.