I couldn’t sleep. I was used to it. Years had passed since I’d had a decent night’s rest. Before my marriage I’d been a champion sleeper, able to ignore the bright light of morning streaming into my bedroom and sleep until noon, then take a nap a few hours later. I used to love to sleep.

Marriage to Anthony cured me of that indulgent habit. I didn’t usually have trouble falling asleep. It was staying asleep that caused me problems. Like clockwork, I’d jerk awake in the middle of the night, my heart pounding, my mind caught in a nightmare.

I’d sit in bed, gasping for breath, the memory of hard hands on my legs, dragging me from sleep, alive in my mind.

Anthony is gone, I’d remind myself. You’re safe now. Everything is okay.

I knew that was true. I was safe. Anthony was dead. In the six months that I’d been living at Winters House, those words were even more true. The Winters family had a high-tech security system. No one was getting into this house uninvited. I had nothing to fear here.

I knew that. Well, the logical part of my brain knew it. The animal part of me, the part that knew what terror was…that part was afraid to trust in safety.

Once, I’d thought I was safe. I’d thought I was marrying the prince from a fairytale and had ended up in a nightmare. Two years had passed, and I still woke almost every night shaking in remembered terror.

To be honest, I was sick of it. I was ready to move on. I was done with being damaged Sophie. Scared Sophie. Most of all, I was finished with victim Sophie. I’d made a mistake, trusted the wrong man.

How many other women could say the same? A ton. Anthony was dead, and I’d moved on. I had. I just needed my subconscious to move on with me.

For now, I strode down the halls of Winters House, my path lit by the moonlight streaming through the tall windows, considering whether I wanted to try the new tea Amelia had recommended for insomnia. I adored Amelia, but that tea smelled like something better left in the bottom of the trash can. Insomnia might be a better option if it tasted anything like it smelled.

Flickering light caught my eye, for a second sending a bolt of fear through my chest. Fire. Winters House was on fire. Then I realized the smoke alarms would have gone off if it had been a real fire. At the very least, I would have smelled smoke. This was nothing more than someone forgetting to turn off the gas fireplace in the library before heading to bed.

I took a detour, intending to turn off the gas and the lights on my way to the kitchen, and stopped short. Gage Winters was stretched out on the leather sofa reading a book, the light of the fire flickering over his cheekbones. My heart kicked into a thumping beat at the sight of him.

Unlike our first meeting, this time he was relaxed, or as relaxed as I imagined Gage Winters ever was. Even at ease, lounging in front of the fire with a book, he gave off the same sense of barely leashed energy he had the night before. This was not a man who knew what it meant to chill out.

His blue eyes pinned me in place, scanning me in a slow pass from the top of my head to my bare feet, heating as they moved. His full lower lip curved into a smile.

“Do you have more paper bugs?” he asked in that deep, smooth voice.

I shook my head, no.

“Another prank Amelia dreamed up? I heard the screams this afternoon. She must have been happy.”

I cleared my throat. “She was. Mrs. W has a very convincing scream. And she pretended to scold Amelia, which I think she secretly enjoyed.”

Gage chuckled, the sound floating across the room, drawing out my own, small laugh.

“If you’re not setting up another of Amelia’s pranks, what are you doing awake in the middle of the night?”

I was suddenly conscious of how I must look, wrapped in my oversized robe, my hair in a loose braid down my back. I dressed casually at Winters House—the family didn’t want me to wear a uniform—but a robe and bare feet were inappropriate. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d run into anyone, despite my encounter with Gage the night before.

Tightening the belt on my robe, I smoothed stray wisps of hair back from my face and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, I thought someone left the fireplace on. I was just going to make some tea. I’ll get out of your way.”

Cheeks pink with embarrassment, I was ready to flee to the kitchen when Gage said, “Can’t sleep?”

I turned back, shaking my head. “I wake up in the middle of the night a lot and have trouble falling back to sleep.” My curiosity took hold of my tongue, and I asked, “Is that why you’re awake in the middle of the night again? Trouble sleeping?”

Gage took a second to answer, a second during which I lectured myself on asking him personal questions. I wasn’t his friend. I worked here. And asking a virtual stranger personal questions was rude.

I took a step back toward the door, expecting him to dismiss me. He didn’t need to explain why he was up reading in the middle of the night. It was his house. I was an employee.

When he spoke, Gage’s voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear, the words a vibration in the air I felt more than heard.

“I haven’t been sleeping much lately…” He trailed off.

“Trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?” I asked.

“Both,” he admitted. “I have nightmares.”

My training kicked in, and without thinking I said, “That’s normal, considering what you’ve been through. Did they talk to you before you left the military hospital? Tell you what to expect?”

Gage’s face shut down, his eyes flicking away and his mouth going hard, that lush lower lip compressing into the top in a thin line.

Shit. None of my business. I took another step back and shook my head in apology.

“I’m sorry, sometimes I forget everyone isn’t a patient. I’ll let you get back to your book.”

“Wait,” Gage said, his voice carrying a demand I knew better than to ignore.

Men like Gage Winters were used to being obeyed. I’d had enough of obeying men to last me a lifetime, but I worked for his family, and I liked my job. More than that, I realized I wanted to hear what he was going to say next. I fought the urge to give myself another lecture and stopped, turning back to face him again.

The hard line of his mouth had softened, but those blue eyes were still sharp and on guard. “The tea—does it help?” he asked.

“I don’t really know,” I said. At his raised eyebrow, I explained. “The tea I usually drink when I can’t sleep helps a little. But this is a new one. Amelia ordered it for me off the internet. I have no idea if it’s any good, but I promised her I’d try. Do you want me to make you a cup?”

I expected him to refuse. I have no idea why I even offered. I was usually good at watching my words but with Gage my tongue out-ran my brain. Something about him made me speak without thinking. I tried not to remember that speaking without thinking could be dangerous. I was safe here. If Gage ended up being a problem, nothing was stopping me from leaving.

“I’d love a cup of tea,” Gage said, something warm drifting through his eyes. “Do you need any help?”

“No,” I said, the sound almost a yelp, before fleeing to the familiar comfort of the kitchen.

They say a watched pot never boils but the electric kettle in Winters House didn’t get that memo, because it was happily boiling away long before I was ready to face Gage again.

I should get an electric kettle for my room, I thought. Then I wouldn’t have to come to the kitchen at night and wouldn’t risk running into Gage in my robe again. I could do that. It would be convenient, but I’d miss my nightly trips through Winters House.

There was something about traversing the sleeping house in the dark, alone, the way the moonlight turned the house into a fairytale, that made me feel as if I’d stumbled into my own happy ending. I loved this house. Loved to be alone in it.

Though, I wasn’t alone now. I poured steaming water over the tea bags in matching mugs, wincing at the odor as the hot water hit the tea. Yuck. I couldn’t imagine something that smelled this bad could possibly help me sleep. The stench alone would keep me awake.

I’d promised Amelia I’d try the tea, so I dutifully carried the two mugs down the hall to the library, thinking wistfully of a nice mug of honeyed chamomile instead.

Gage was sitting up on one side of the sofa when I returned, leaving the other side open for me. I wasn’t sure about sharing the sofa with him, but it was wide enough to give me space, and sitting in one of the arm chairs by the fire would have been weird when he’d moved to leave me a seat.

I felt awkward enough with Gage; I didn’t need to make a point by sitting across the room and make it even worse.

I handed him one of the mugs, warning, “It’s hot.”

Holding my breath, I raised my own mug to my lips, blew across the top, and took a hesitant sip. I have no words to describe the taste that hit my tongue.

Acrid and yet organic. Organic the way a rotten stump is organic. This tea was not about fresh fruit and flowers. It tasted like old gym socks and wet leaves from beneath a dead animal.

Gage took a sip and choked. Wiping my hand across the back of my mouth, I watched as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to swallow. It was a good thing he hadn’t spit it out. I wasn’t sure Mrs. W would be able to get the stench out of the carpet. It would have been a shame to abandon the library because it smelled like this tea.

“What the fuck is in this stuff?” Gage asked, his eyes narrowed on his mug as if he was plotting the best way to destroy it.

“I have no idea, but it’s horrible,” I said. Saliva pooled in my mouth and I swallowed. I needed something to get rid of this taste.

“Are you sure she’s not pranking you?”

I thought about it. It was possible. “No, I don’t think so. I control Amelia’s access to cookies. I don’t think she’d risk cookies to tease me.”

“You control her access to cookies?”

“She’s diabetic. It’s not severe, but she has to limit sugar. Amelia is serious about her sweets. And sneaky. I search her room every day for contraband. I don’t think she’d risk dessert just to see me squirm. Especially since she missed the show.”

“Good point.” Gage stood. “I’m going to pour this out. Want to come find something to wash the taste away?”

“Yes, please.”

I followed Gage down the hall to the kitchen, holding my breath so I didn’t inhale the steam wafting off the tea. Whatever was in this, it was the foulest brew I’d ever smelled. I tipped my mug over the sink with relief, turning on the faucet to wash the tea away.

Gage picked up the box on the counter and turned it over, looking for the ingredient list. “It’s all in Hanzi,” he murmured. Then, louder, “It’s in Chinese. I can read some Chinese, but I don’t know any of these characters.”

“Herbal medicine wasn’t included in your Chinese lessons?” I asked, rummaging through the cabinets for something to clear our palates. There was no way I’d sleep tonight if I couldn’t get the taste of this tea out of my mouth.

“Not exactly,” Gage said with a wry smile. “I don't need to know what they put in this tea. All that matters is it tastes disgusting.”

Gage handed me his cup to pour out in the sink and crossed the room to rummage in the cabinet above the electric kettle. Pulling out a box of tea, he handed it to me, saying, “Here, make two cups of this. I'll be right back. I've got an idea.”

He strode out of the kitchen, making a face as he swallowed hard, trying to get the taste of that tea out of his mouth. I did the same. I should've known anything that smelled so bad would taste worse.

Again, I filled and started the electric kettle. Gage had given me a box of decaffeinated English breakfast. I wondered what his plan was. Decaf English breakfast wouldn't be my first choice to cure insomnia. I usually drank a chamomile based blend that was supposed to be relaxing. It wasn't bad, but it didn't do much to help me sleep.

Gage was back a minute later, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He went to the pantry and returned with a jar of honey.

“Tell me that's not your brother’s whiskey,” I said, eyeing the bottle cautiously. Just a few weeks ago Charlie Winters's fiancée, Lucas Jackson, had stopped by to ask Aiden's blessing for his proposal to Charlie, and after receiving it had made off with Aiden's best bottle of whiskey.

Though, apparently, that had actually been his second best bottle. His best bottle had been stolen by Charlie six months before. Aiden Winters was not easygoing on the best of days, and he was not happy about losing two bottles of expensive liquor. Secretly, I thought it was funny, and suspected that deep down he might too, but I was an employee. The last thing I wanted was to get caught raiding the liquor cabinet.

Gage turned the bottle over in his hands and his lips quirked up. “I heard about that,” he said. “It'll be a while before he finds something good enough to replace the bottle Lucas took. This is just the company whiskey from the library. I usually try not to drink when I can't sleep, but I don't think tea alone can scrape the taste of Amelia's tea off my tongue.”

“Good point,” I said. I watched as he poured hot water over the teabags in our mugs, added a generous dollop of honey to each, and a much bigger slug of whiskey than I would have. Almost to myself, I said, “I don't usually drink when I can't sleep either. I'm not much of a drinker anyway, and I'm up almost every night—” I trailed off.

“I know what you mean,” Gage said. “It feels like asking for trouble. Because if it works—”

“Then you're just trading insomnia for a drinking problem,” I finished.

Gage nodded, his blue eyes meeting mine in understanding and sympathy. He gave a final stir to my mug and handed it over. Still cautious after the last sip of tea, I took a careful taste. Whiskey was not my favorite drink, by far, but the thick honey and familiar English breakfast smoothed the edges just enough. It was delicious, and even better the bite of the whiskey washed the taste of Amelia's tea from my mouth. Heaven.

“Have you always had insomnia?” Gage asked. I looked up to see his eyes on me, measuring and curious. I didn't want to answer. Alone with him in the dark and cozy kitchen, sipping the tea he'd made, I’d been lulled into a sense of safety.

I didn't realize how far my guard was down until I heard myself say, “No. I was always a good sleeper. My mom used to say I was sleeping through the night at two months old.”

“Me too,” Gage said. “I got even better in the Army. Nothing teaches you to catch sleep where you can like the Army.” He took a sip of tea and looked at me over the rim of his mug. “We both know why I can't sleep. What about you? How long have you had trouble sleeping?”

How to answer that question? Was there any way I could tell the truth without giving away too much? Stalling, I took another sip of the tea.

“Sophie?” Gage asked. He was being nosy, and I could've told him it was none of his business, but I could hear the concern in his voice.

Maybe the whiskey loosened my tongue, because I said, “It started after I got married.”

Gage's eyes went hard and flashed to my left hand. I knew what he was looking for and I said, “He's dead. He died in a car accident almost two years ago.”

Eyes narrowed on my face, Gage said slowly, “You must've been young when you got married, or you weren't married very long.”

I took another sip of tea and wished I’d told him to mind his own business. “Both. I was young. Just finished nursing school. I was working my first job, in the ER, when he came in with a broken arm. We were only married three years.”

“It wasn't good?” he asked, his words so gentle they drew tears to my eyes.

It hadn't been good. It had been very, very bad. And I wasn't going to tell Gage Winters about any of it.

I shook my head, my eyes on my tea.

“Have you talked to anyone about it? A friend? Or a therapist?”

I almost laughed at the irony of Gage asking me that question. Blinking away the moisture in my eyes, I met his gaze and challenged, “Have you?”

Gage looked away. I wasn't surprised. I could fall back on the easy explanation that macho guys like Gage didn't want to talk about their feelings. But the truth was, a lot of people didn't like to talk about their feelings. I wasn't beating down the door of the closest therapist to spill my guts about my horrible marriage.

Both of us knew better. I was a nurse for heaven’s sake. I knew exactly why I wasn't able to sleep, and I knew that therapy would probably help. Still, two years had passed since Anthony had died and set me free. I'd managed to sell our house and move away. I'd had four different jobs with different families until I'd ended up at Winters House, and during none of that time had I made a single appointment with a therapist.

Gage surprised me when he said, “I know I should. I have a buddy who went through a bad time after an IED blew up under his caravan. Some of the guys gave him shit for it, but he said talking to someone helped.”

I drank the rest of my tea in three long gulps and set the mug in the sink. “I'd better get to bed,” I said.

I moved to walk past Gage when he stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Sophie, you know you're safe here, right?”

Surprised that he could read me so well, I looked up expecting to see compassion, or sympathy, in his blue eyes. I didn't expect heat. Interest. The desire in his eyes was at odds with his gentle question.

Testing him, I asked quietly, “Am I?”

Gage tightened his hand on my arm and drew me closer until my breasts brushed his hard chest. We were separated by inches of fabric. His T-shirt, my robe, and my nightgown beneath. My body didn't care. My nipples tightened, and my breath grew short.

Gage dropped his head until his lips brushed my temple. His hold on my arm loosened, his hand stroking up and down, fingers circling my wrist, then letting go to slide to my elbow before trailing down again. The warmth of his fingers, even through the sleeve of my robe, was soothing. Soothing, and something else. Something dangerous that sparked my nerves and set my heart beating faster.

His breath brushing my skin, smelling of honey and whiskey, he whispered into my ear, “You'll always be safe with me, Sophie. I promise.”

His hand left my arm, and he took a step back. If he was waiting for me to speak, he was going to be disappointed. I had no idea what to say.

I was a coward. Crossing my arms over my chest, I whispered a hasty, “Good night,” and fled the kitchen.

For a second, my breasts pressed to his chest, his mouth at my temple, I’d been sure he was going to kiss me.

I'd wanted him to. I wanted Gage Winters to kiss me.

I don't think I needed to list all the reasons kissing Gage Winters was a terrible idea.

Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I did it anyway.

First, I worked for his family.

Second, third, and fourth, he was newly home, was working through a trauma, and was in no position to start a relationship.

Fifth, I didn't do one night stands.

Sixth, I had pretty much zero sexual experience.

Anthony had been my first, and sex with him had been brief and dull. I was pretty sure sex involved more than laying there with my eyes closed, but that's what Anthony wanted from his wife. I’d learned quickly to give Anthony what he wanted.

Gage Winters would expect more than an untutored girl in his bed.

At that thought, I stopped listing all the reasons kissing Gage Winters was a bad idea. It was too depressing.

Instead, against my better judgment, I imagined kissing Gage Winters. That lower lip, full and soft. The way he looked at me, the heat in his blue eyes.

When he’d pulled me against him, my nipples had gone tight, and warmth had gathered in my belly and between my legs. I hadn't felt desire for a man since my wedding night. Years had passed, and my body had been dry and disinterested. Sex was something other people enjoyed. Not me.

All I had to do was think about kissing Gage, and my body came to life.

That couldn't be good. I was not going to sleep with my employer’s cousin. I wasn't.

I wasn't going to kiss him. I wasn't going to flirt. I was going to be completely professional and appropriate. Just like I always was.

That didn't mean I couldn't daydream about it. Rolling over and wrapping my arms around my pillow, I smiled to myself in the dark. I wasn't going to kiss Gage Winters, but knowing that I wanted to, that my body could still feel desire for a man—that was a relief on a level so deep I couldn't fully process it. I just let the knowledge slide through me.

I wanted to kiss Gage Winters. And in my dreams, I would.