The rest of the week passes in a blur of ten-hour workdays followed by nights of hard, dreamless sleep. By Friday evening, my completed 3D models of Hemlock’s interior have been forwarded along internal and external channels, and the bulk of the orders—custom furniture included—have been placed.

At Alex’s suggestion, I shamelessly drop his name in every call. The results are amazing and a little humbling. Instead of laughing at me when they hear the timeline, the vendors fall over themselves to make assurances.

I work Saturday, but Matthew insists I take Sunday off. My efforts of dissuasion are token at best, as my dirty laundry situation is out of hand. Lillian’s self-serving phobia for grocery stores also means there’s zero food in the kitchen.

Despite my mental fatigue, my body wakes me at seven Sunday morning. My muscles, having spent too many hours in a chair this week, itch with the need for exercise. I put on running clothes, start a load of laundry, and make a grocery list.

Lillian stumbles into the living room as I’m getting ready to leave. “Bloody hell,” she croaks, one eye still closed, “I thought there was a burglar doing laundry. Have you lost your mind?”

I’m surprised she’s speaking (somewhat) coherently. Checking my watch, I tell her, “I’m going for a run. I’ll text you when I’m done and we can meet for brunch?”

She grunts and turns, zombie-like, to head back to bed.

I drive to Ocean Beach and because it’s early on a Sunday, find parking in the small lot near the pier. As I exit the car, I glance across the street to the little tattoo parlor located above a sandwich shop. The neon sign is off, but still clearly reads Anchor Tattoo.

Tommy Chan, the artist who helped design my back and inked it from start to finish, relocated to another shop early on in our progress. I’d followed him to the new location in North Park, but the little Ocean Beach parlor will always host some fond memories.

During one of the first of many grueling, five-hour sessions, we’d taken a break and come outside to sit on the wooden stairs. I’d been wearing a red cotton dress, easy to slip off my shoulders and perfect for camouflaging stains. (Tattooing is a bloody endeavor.)

I can’t recall what we’d been talking about—Tommy, Damien, and I—but remember vividly the sudden, excruciating pain on the underside of my wrist. A wasp, attracted by my red dress, had mistaken me for a flower. For the rest of the session, the pain of the sting had eclipsed the burn of the needle. Only time in my life I’ve felt grateful to a wasp.

Shaking my head of nostalgia, I tuck my car key into my shoe and walk onto the sand. It’s a brilliant day, still cool but sunny. The sky is pale, washed out by airy clouds.

Breathing deeply, I set off at a brisk walk designed to warm my muscles and slowly ramp my heart rate. Then I begin to run. Away. Away.

* * *

Two hours later, I return to my car feeling half-dead but scoured clean on the inside. I love running but I’m not a runner. Thus, six miles of jogging/walking on the sand have turned my legs into limp noodles.

I trade my sneakers for flip-flops and my sweat-soaked t-shirt for a dry one. After guzzling a bottle of water, I feel almost human again. Better than human, actually. My limbs have recovered from their near-death experience and are now tingling, loose, and warm.

It’s a little past ten, which means Lillian has likely arisen from the grave. I text her to meet me at Kono’s in Pacific Beach, choosing the location because it will ensure her participation. She goes rabid over their french toast.

Sure enough, she immediately replies: Out the door.

The drive north is less than fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, with the rest of the city now awake, it’s another twenty to find parking. I end up squeezing between an RV and a Benz on a little residential street, about four blocks from Kono’s.

The crowd outside the cafe is daunting. I put in for a table for two, then settle against a sun-flooded wall to wait for Lillian. The warmth is blissful on my upturned face. It tickles through my damp hair and the stretchy fabric of my running pants.

I hear Lillian’s voice before I see her, and have an instant to wonder who she’s talking to before she rounds the nearest corner with Adam.

Walking behind them, looking like a wet dream in a black t-shirt and faded jeans, is Alex.

I lurch away from the wall, glad my sunglasses disguise my panicked eyes. Seizing the hem of my shirt, I futilely tug it down.

“Thebes!” squeals Lillian. She prances forward and gives me a hug, suffering my sweatiness in order to whisper, “I know you hate me. I’m sorry. Adam called and wanted to have breakfast. Alex was with him! Was I supposed to say no?”

“Why didn’t you warn me?” I hiss. “I look like a drowned rat!”

“You look flushed and fuckable,” she hisses back. “Stop pulling your shirt down. Your ass is amazing.”

“I hate you,” I seethe, then release her to smile brightly at Adam. As usual, I require a warmup of nerves before viewing Alex Hughes. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” says Adam, dimpling at Lillian as he takes her hand. I blink, taken aback by the casual affection. As far as I know, their one lunch date was just lunch.

Feeling like a horrible friend, I stammer, “Uh, I only put in for two people. Let me—”

“I’ll handle it,” says Alex, and he’s gone before I can say thank you. I watch him stride past clusters of people, his figure a magnet for lustful gazes.

“Sorry to crash your friend date, Thea,” says Adam, halting my trip down Jealousy Lane. “I had to cancel dinner plans with Lil on Friday.” He gazes into Lillian’s beaming face. “I wanted to see her before the weekend was over.”

I take a slow breath to reinstate equilibrium. I like Adam. Adam likes Lillian. Most importantly, Lillian really likes Adam.

“It’s been a rough week,” I agree. “And don’t worry about it.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Alex approaching. Lillian notices, too, and says abruptly, “Adam, will you walk across the street with me? I want to go in that record store.”

I shoot death rays from my eyes; she deflects them with a cheeky smile.

“Sure thing,” says Adam.

Lillian winks. “We’ll be back in a flash.”

Alex nears me as they enter the crosswalk. “Did I miss something?” he asks.

“They’re going to check out a record store.”

“Ah,” he says knowingly.

He moves closer, leaning against the wall beside me. My shoulder brushes his bicep and I pivot to give myself some space. It’s been established that I can’t think straight when we’re touching. I’m already lightheaded from his smell, his warmth, and the sight of his tattoos gleaming in the sunlight.

I’ve seen him exactly twice since the hotel on Wednesday, both times in the presence of others. Once at the office and once at Hemlock, which, under Jim Stevens’ guidance, is rapidly becoming a restaurant.

We’ve traded emails and phone calls, of course, but none have veered from strictly professional. There’ve been times I’ve even wondered if his attraction to me has faded. Those musings, kept private from Lillian, are a constant discomfort.

His soft chuckle floats over me, raising goosebumps. “So tense, Thea. Didn’t you just go for a run?”

“I’m not tense.”

He makes a low noise. “Even your voice is tense.”

I glance at him, then quickly away. He's not wearing sunglasses and the gold flecks in his eyes are more than I can handle.

“How was your date on Friday?” I blurt, and immediately want to slap myself.

He says lightly, “Great, thanks for asking. Petra is a lot of fun.”

I force a smile. In a moment of weakness, I’d Googled the name Petra with the tag ‘model.’ My masochism paid off in spades: there’d been hundreds of images of a Brazilian knockout with breasts that defy gravity.

“You turn the most delectable shade of red when you’re angry.”

“It’s probably sunburn,” I snap.

He laughs, deep and infectious. Annoyed, I push away from the wall, but before I make it two steps, his hand snakes out and catches the back of my neck. Gentle tugs on my nape draw me back until my spine is flush against his chest. Electric pulses cascade down my limbs.

I couldn’t move if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m perversely satisfied he still wants me. There’s something wrong with feeling this way, I know—and I don’t care.

Warm breath tickles my neck. “Relax,” he growls.

Tension flows out of my body and I settle against him. He hums approval and shifts his hips slightly, dragging a gasp from my throat.

“Alex…”

The fingers on my neck tighten slightly. “Now, Ms. Sands,” he murmurs, “you didn’t think I would actually be diverted from you, did you?”

“I—I don’t know.”

His teeth nip the shell of my ear. I jerk, but am held firm; the movement only makes me more aware of the hard male behind me. “Are you ready to surrender?” he whispers.

Yes. Yes!

“I have thirty-five more days,” I manage.

The fingers leave my neck and seize my ponytail. I’m boneless, spinning, and suddenly facing him, my hands on his chest, my legs between his slightly spread ones. My sunglasses are pulled off and tucked into the V of his t-shirt.

“Look at me, Thea.”

I stare at the fervent pulse in the hollow of his neck, wanting very badly to lick it. The knowledge that his heart is pounding, as affected as mine is, is intoxicating.

“No table yet?” asks Lillian, a wicked humor in her voice.

I begin to pull away but am tugged gently back. Alex releases my hair, but only to curl fingers around my hips. The new touch is worse—or better, depending on the moment—as I vacillate between embarrassment and licentiousness.

“Not yet,” says Alex, sounding immensely pleased with himself. “How was the record store?”

“Good,” says Adam, and he, at least, seems a little mystified by our seemingly intimate stance. “Uh, why don’t we go check on the wait?”

“Sure,” chirps Lillian the Traitor.

When they’re gone, I finally look up into Alex’s eyes. They’re half-lidded and simmering. “Come to the hotel tonight,” he says softly.

“N-no,” I stammer.

“Obstinate woman.”

“Bossy man.”

His lips curve. “You like it.”

Drunk on him and beyond reason, I say, “Yes.”

His fingers tighten. “Yes, what, Ms. Sands?”

Yes, I like how bossy you are. But what comes out of my mouth is: “Tonight.”

His smile is blinding—the sun gone supernova.

“Five minutes!” calls Lillian.

* * *

I pace the strip of floor before my bed. I’m freshly showered but wearing paint-spattered jeans and a faded t-shirt. The tiny black dress hanging on my closet door teases my peripheral vision. Every time I walk past, it whispers salacious promises. Beckoning with equal stridency are the shiny scissors on my desk.

Lillian is perched near the pillows, watching my prolonged anxiety attack with an indulgent smile. “You can always tell him you’ve changed your mind,” she says for the tenth time.

“I should, but don’t want to. I can’t believe I agreed to this. No drinks or dinner first? I’m insane.”

Lillian’s expression is knowing, slightly sheepish. “Hookups sans relationship aren’t uncommon, Thebes. Besides, a first date is erroneous at this point.”

“Then what’s wrong with me?”

She giggles. “Besides the fact that you’re about to get laid for the first time in two years?”

“Ah! Don’t remind me.” I flop face first onto the bed. My voice muffled by the comforter, I whine, “What if I’m horrible?”

Her giggle reaches a fevered pitch. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me, especially since I dragged you to the waxing salon Thursday.”

I shudder with remembered pain, both for the actual event and the rest of the workday after our ‘girl’s lunch,’ when I’d been forced to field repeated questions regarding why I looked so uncomfortable.

The muted trilling of my phone interrupts my mental torture. Lillian lifts a hip and suddenly the ring is more pronounced. She checks the caller ID. “It’s Oliver.”

I groan. “Perfect timing for a phone call from my brother.”

She laughs. “Let it go to voicemail.”

I shake my head and extend my hand. “Gimme. I haven’t talked to him in two weeks.” I press the button to answer. “Oliver?”

“Thea? Thea, are you there?”

I can barely hear him over a background cacophony of honking horns and yelling voices. “Where the hell are you?” I shout.

“Airport. Give me a second.” The noise recedes to a manageable hum as he walks inside. “How’s my favorite sister?”

“I’m great,” I say, and think I might mean it. Lillian winks at me. “How are you? What are you doing?”

“Heading on a redeye to New York,” he says.

“Work?” I guess. Like our father before him, Oliver swims in the pool of international finance. He’s a senior analyst for an investment firm in San Francisco but travels almost constantly. New York, Los Angeles, Beijing, London… I’ve stopped keeping track.

“But of course.” He sounds distracted, harried.

“You know I love hearing from you, big brother, but you sound stressed. Why don’t you give me a call when you have some time?”

“There’s something I need to talk to you about that can’t wait.”

I straighten at the urgent tone, aware of Lillian’s quizzical frown. “What’s wrong?”

His sigh crackles through the phone. “Listen, Thea, I talked to Tabitha today.” I open my mouth to cut him off, but he’s already speaking, “She knew you wouldn’t answer if she called. Will you hear me out? Thea?”

“Fine. What is it? What does she want?”

Lillian’s expression changes—from my tone, she knows exactly who I’m talking about. Her lips thin and cheeks flush with sympathetic anger.

“It’s about Alex Hughes. She heard from… somewhere that you’re working for him. Spending some, uh, time with him.”

My heart beats once, twice, three times before the words sink in. I start shaking all over. The phone bumps erratically against my ear.

“What are you talking about?” I croak. “What the fuck does Tabitha have to do with Alex?”

The blood drains from Lillian’s face.

“Jesus, Thea. Please… Look, I don’t know how to say this. Tabitha says you need to be careful, that he’s not good for you. He has a reputation for being a player and…” He chokes a little, “She, uh… wanted you to know. Fuck, this is so fucked. I don’t even know what to say. I had no idea, I swear. I didn’t even know you were seeing him.”

“I’m not,” I grind out. “But she has. Is that what you’re telling me, Oliver? Is that what you’re saying?”

I’m yelling. I can’t help it. I’m fracturing and exploding and disintegrating.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Is Lillian there with you?”

“She is,” I whisper.

“Okay, good.”

I taste metal. Curious, I lift a finger to my lip. It comes away bloody. My gaze slowly rises to Lillian, who stares at me, slowly shaking her head.

“I can’t—Oliver, I have to go,” I choke out. I don’t wait for a response before I throw the phone as hard as I can. It hits the wall, the impact chipping paint and expelling plaster dust.

“Oh my God,” whispers Lillian brokenly.

The burst of rage leaves me drained. Hollow. I can now feel the pain in my lip where I bit hard enough to draw blood. I hug my arms around myself, ashamed at my lapse of control.

“I’m sorry,” I say weakly, “I didn’t mean to throw the phone.”

Lillian crawls across the bed and grabs my arms, shaking me once hard. “You never have to apologize for getting angry. Not about this. Tell me what Oliver said. Tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

“If you think he told me that Tabitha fucked Alex, then you’d be right.”

“God.”

I laugh—it sounds wrong. “Tabitha and I have similar taste in men, after all.”

“How on earth did that bitch even hear about you and Alex?”

I laugh harder. “I’ll give you one guess.”

She pales. “I… I didn’t know they still talked.”

“Occam's Razor: the simplest explanation is the right one,” I say flatly. “Although, in general, I don’t think Tabitha and Damien do much talking.”

The words don’t even hurt coming out. Which, I realize on some level, is odd. But the thought of Damien and Tabitha is a tired, pale flare. Alex and Tabitha, however—that thought is a wound so new and deep it’s still partly numb.

I glance at my broken phone. “I wish I hadn’t done that.”

“What can I do?” beseeches Lillian. “Tell me what to do.”

I squeeze her arm gently. “I’m fine, Lil. Or, I will be. I know it hasn’t completely registered yet but look on the bright side: Oliver called before I made a huge mistake. Will you do me one favor though?”

“Anything.”

“Call Alex and tell him something. Anything but the truth. Tell him I’m puking my guts out or have measles. That’s highly contagious, right? No one wants measles.”

Her lips quirk, but her eyes remain sad. “Okay, Thebes.”

She makes the phone call from the living room. I can’t hear her words, only the tone, which becomes louder and more insistent the longer the conversation continues. Finally, there’s silence.

My relief only lasts until she appears on the threshold of the bedroom. Her eyes show white around the edges. “He’s coming over.”

“What?” I shriek, leaping off the bed. I snatch the phone out of her hand and redial Alex. It rings, and rings, and goes to voicemail. I dial again with the same results. “I can’t see him. Lillian, I can’t see him!”

“Thebes…” She clears her throat, eyeing me warily. “I actually think you should.”

My arms drop to my sides like their strings have been cut. “What?” I whisper.

She says softly, “I think you should tell him what just happened. And what happened with Damien. I think you should listen to what he has to say.”

“I can’t,” I whisper.

She squares her shoulders, her expression strained but determined. “I love you, Thea Sands. I’m your best friend and I’d die for you. Hell, I’d kill for you. I know you just had a big shock, but I can’t cosign your avoidance tactics anymore. I refuse to let you drop back into the sorry shell you’ve called a life for the last two years. You need to take a risk. Alex is a big risk, but I think he might be worth it. If I’m wrong, you can hate me forever. But I won’t protect you from him.”

“Lil?” I breathe.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

Stunned, I watch her walk away. My feet are glued to the floor. I listen to the sound of her keys, and the front door opening and closing.

I need to leave the bedroom. I need to throw the deadbolt, attach the chain. I need to move. Move. Move!

I stay still.