I’m in hell.

It’s hell, sitting here in the parking lot, watching my girl from afar, seeing Carrie flirt with the human shit stain who set off a bomb in the middle of her life. When he rests a hand lightly on her waist—clearly emboldened by the wine he’s slugged back so far—I grit my teeth so hard it sends pain flashing through my jaw.

But I don’t doubt that the plan is going to work.

The douchebag is already loosening up, saying things he shouldn’t while putting his hands in places they no longer belong. And Carrie is playing it perfectly, offering enough encouragement to keep him talking while making it clear she won’t be an easy sell this time around. She’s gorgeous, clever, and aloof, and Jordan is clearly relishing the chase.

Or the hunt, I suppose, in his case.

He’s a predator, this one, a fact I hope Carrie’s keeping in mind as she leads him onto a secluded observation deck high above a valley peppered with gnarled old grapevines. Yes, there are people inside the tasting room, and I could be out of the Jeep I borrowed from Tristan and across the parking lot in two minutes, but two minutes would be a minute and fifty-five seconds too late to prevent Jordan from tossing Carrie over the edge of the railing to her death.

Logically, I know this guy isn’t that type of monster—he’s slimy and deceptive, not a brute with rage issues—but logic isn’t my strongest suit right now.

There’s something happening inside of me, a seismic shift.

Just a few weeks ago, this rock spinning through time and space was my oyster. Every obstacle, every disappointment, trial, and setback, was nothing but a blip on my irritation radar. I was above it all, coasting along without a care, wearing my freedom like a badge of honor.

And then she happened.

She slunk in like a cat burglar and cracked my code, disabling my defenses as she reached in to steal my heart.

Except she didn’t steal it.

She woke it up. Woke me up.

She made me realize how good it can feel to let go and let yourself get close to another person. She makes me simultaneously happier and more terrified, than I’ve been in a decade, but I wouldn’t go back to being asleep for anything in the world. My freedom wasn’t freedom; it was numbness. It was a coward’s choice, a cop out. A solution hatched by a kid too young to know what to do with the pieces of his broken heart.

But I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a grown man ready to do whatever it takes to keep the woman I’m falling for safe, even if it means sitting here and stewing in my own stress instead of getting out and punching Jordan repeatedly in the face.

He’s not going to hurt her. At least, not physically. She swore he’s never given any indication that he would raise a hand to her, let alone push her off a deck.

My fear is irrational, and so I force my ass to stay glued to the hot leather seat, wishing I could turn on the air conditioning, but knowing an idling vehicle will attract more attention. And the air might keep me from hearing every word, every breath, every soft sigh as Carrie leans against the porch railing and says, “Seriously, it’s so beautiful here. I might never go back to the city.”

Jordan laughs as his palm makes circles at the small of her back. “You? Out here full time? I mean, I know you love wine, but this place is rural as fuck.”

“But it’s charming.” She lifts a bare shoulder and lets it fall. “And I feel safe here. Most of these people are too busy making wine or drinking wine to have any time for idle gossip…or watching TMZ.”

Jordan visibly tenses and my jaw locks tight in response. It’s the first time Carrie’s mentioned the leaked pictures or anything scandal-related. She’s been keeping things light and friendly, but obviously they can’t stay that way.

I just hope she’s made the right call.

I narrow my eyes, cursing myself for not bringing binoculars so I could get a better look at Jordan’s stupid face.

“Yeah…about that…” He pauses for a long beat, making my heart pump faster. “I truly have no idea how those pictures made it to the media. I hope you know I would never do that to you.”

“I don’t, sadly.” Carrie sounds more bummed than angry. “You hacked into my computer and peppered my presentation with nude pictures. And you knew I was giving a talk to middle school kids. Why shouldn’t I believe you’re capable of leaking those same images to the press?”

Jordan shakes his head. “I’m telling you, Carrie, I never—”

“I had to sign a bunch of little boys’ arms, Jordan,” she cuts in. “All these twelve-year-old kids with manic lights in their eyes wanted me to sign their arms because they hadn’t brought money for books but wanted a memento of the first time they saw boobs.”

He snorts. “No way. They didn’t say that.”

“They didn’t have to say it,” she says, laughing with him, though I know she didn’t find the situation amusing in the slightest. “I knew what they were thinking. I know twelve-year-olds, dude. I write for them. In some way I am them. I’m basically a twelve-year-old trapped in a grown-up’s body.”

“But that’s one of the things I like about you,” Jordan says as he takes another sip of Chardonnay. “You still know how to play like a kid. To create like one. It’s magical.”

She shakes her head. “So, if you like me so much, why did you do it? Why embarrass me like that? I want to understand, I really do, but you need to help me.”

He sighs. “You don’t want to understand. You want me to go away.”

“If that’s true, why invite you up here to talk?”

“To seduce me into doing things the way you want them done.” He lifts a hand, skimming his finger across her shoulder and down her arm. “And it’ll probably work. Because I’m crazy about you…” He cocks his head, adding in a voice that’s softer and sharper at the same time, “That’s why, Carrie. You can’t break a man’s heart and expect him to walk away without looking back.”

“Without getting revenge, you mean?”

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t trying to get revenge. I just…”

Biting down on my lip, I cross my fingers and silently will the man to confess already, to open his pretentious, entitled mouth and let the truth come out.

“Just…?” Carrie prods, a wistfulness in her tone that makes it seem like she understands where he’s coming from. Or that she wants to understand, if only he’ll open up and let her in.

“You’re doing great,” I murmur, wishing she could hear me.

She’s got him on the hook, now all she has to do is reel him in…

Slow and steady. Don’t spook him, but don’t let the line go slack, either.

“I just…” He exhales, and I lean forward in my seat. “I wanted you to feel the way I felt when you had my contract cancelled.”

I pump a fist in the air. “That’s right,” I say, a smile spreading across my face. “Sing, motherfucker. Get it all off your chest.”

“I wanted you to feel exposed and ashamed,” he continues, head hanging in a weak imitation of penitence. “I was so angry, I wasn’t thinking straight, or I wouldn’t have done it that day. I forgot the group was so young. I thought it was another high school talk.”

“And that would have been okay?” Carrie asks, incredulous. “You violated my trust in the worst way, Jordan. And I’d done nothing to deserve it.”

“You violated the trust I had in you, too, Carrie,” he says, clearly determined to paint himself as a victim. “That book was my baby, and you took it away from me. You ripped it out of my hands and said it wasn’t mine, that it had never been mine to begin with. Can you imagine what that feels like?”

“Books are not babies. Only babies are babies,” she says, voice rising. “And if that book were a baby, and you’d been the only one taking care of it, it would have died from neglect. I refuse to apologize for taking credit for my own work or for insisting on my rights as a contributor. You asked for my help, I gave it, and I ended up giving more than you did. Honestly, I was being generous to offer to let you have your name on it at all.”

Jordan sets his wine down on the porch railing hard enough for Carrie’s mic to pick up the clink. “You had no right to that story! The world and the characters were mine.”

“That’s like saying you should get credit for making the shepherd’s pie because you brought over carrots and potatoes.” She sets her wine down beside his with a matching clink. “You didn’t make the pie; you gathered a few raw ingredients. That story would never have become something edible, let alone delicious, without me. Surely, you know that. Deep down, in whatever part of you isn’t completely deluded by your own narcissism.”

Jordan’s hands tighten into fists, sending a rush of unease through my chest.

“And let’s talk about the other claims you’re making.” Carrie turns her back on him as she paces back toward the entrance to the winery, a decision that has me reaching for the door handle and wrapping my fingers around it.

You don’t turn your back on someone with his hands balled into fists.

You keep that fucker in sight so you know when to duck.

“If you hit her, I swear to fucking god…” I grit out with a shake of my head. My gut is screaming for me to get over there and put myself between Carrie and the man glaring daggers into her back, but she’s close to exposing all his bullshit, recording every word for the world to see.

I curse beneath my breath as I remember the location of the camera. It’s pinned to the front of her dress. If she doesn’t turn around, she’s not going to get Jordan’s reaction on tape. She’ll get audio, but not visual.

“Turn around, Carrie,” I mutter. “Turn around.”

“You say you deserve a share of the royalties for my latest book,” she continues, “the one I’m finishing right now, far away from you, and the latest in a series I’ve been writing for years. That’s completely ridiculous, and anyone with a brain knows it. I was hitting the bestseller list long before you latched onto me like a blood-sucking leech, and I will continue to do so when you’re out of my life for good.”

“Fuck you,” he growls, all pretense of nostalgia for their failed love gone from his voice. “You’re a fucking bitch.”

“Maybe so,” Carrie agrees, still not turning to face him. “If a bitch is a woman who refuses to be bullied or blackmailed, then I suppose I am. But the fact remains that you, Jordan Jakes, are a fraud, a liar, and a criminal. Revenge porn is against the law in California. You realize that, right?”

“You’re the criminal.” He takes a menacing step closer to Carrie that she can’t see. “You stole from me and made me look like a fucking fool in front of our entire community.”

“Turn around, Trouble,” I say, fighting the urge to shout it.

Carrie laughs, the light, easy sound making Jordan’s face flush redder. “You didn’t need help making yourself look pathetic, buddy. You did that all by yourself.” She reaches out, caressing a daisy sprouting from a pot on the empty picnic bench beside her. “And you’re going to look like even more of a fool when you lose this lawsuit. Considering you haven’t been able to get a single project published on your own—or finished, for that matter—I seriously doubt a judge is going to rule in your favor.”

She sighs happily. “And then I’m going to make you pay my lawyer fees and counter sue you for every dime in your pathetic bank account, just to teach you a lesson about treating people with respect. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

Jordan lunges forward, and I explode out of the Jeep, sprinting across the parking lot, fists pumping as I hit the grass on the other side and haul ass toward the deck.

But no matter how fast I am, I won’t be fast enough.

I’m still halfway across the lawn, and Jordan already has his arm locked around Carrie’s throat, lifting her off her feet as he drags her toward the edge of the deck.

My breath rasps fast in my chest, seconds stretching into endless, terror-thickened minutes as what I feared gets insanely close to becoming a reality.

I watch one of the tasting room hosts—a man in a blue button-down with a messy red bun—burst through the door in slow motion, arms outstretched and fingers spread, shouting for Jordan to “Stop! Put her down!”

I have time to notice the way Jordan’s too-long hair blows into his eyes as he turns to glance over the side of the deck, the way Carrie’s face flushes and her lips open wide in an attempt to suck in a breath. I have time to realize how small she looks next to him, something I hadn’t noticed when she was putting that creep in his place like a fucking boss.

And in that second, I know that I’m going to hit him. I’m going to smash my fist into his face hard enough to lift him off the ground. Let’s see how he enjoys having someone bigger and stronger take advantage of him, that psycho piece of shit.

I vault over the deck railing, not bothering to sidestep the three feet to go through the gate, and sprint the last ten feet separating me from the struggle. It’s clear by now that Jordan isn’t going to try to toss Carrie over the edge—he’s already relaxing his hold on her neck, apparently having decided murder in front of witnesses isn’t a good idea—but that doesn’t make a difference to me.

He put his fucking hands on her. That’s enough.

More than enough.

I grip him by the shoulders, ripping him away from Carrie. I’m drawing back my arm, ready to shove my fist into his gut, when familiar hands circle my bicep.

“Don’t! He’s not worth it.” Carrie wraps herself around me, and I turn to pull her into my arms, hugging her tight, so fucking glad she’s okay.

“You sure?” I ask, smoothing her hair from her forehead.

“Yes,” she says, nodding firmly. “But thank you.”

“I’m going to sue,” Jordan shouts. “That’s fucking assault.”

“I didn’t touch you,” I say, shaking my head as I scowl at him. Seriously, is this guy for real?

“Assault is the threat of violence.” Jordan rakes a hand through his hair as he lifts his chin. “You threatened me. Clearly.”

I’m about to give him an earful about being a hypocrite of the lowest, sleaziest order, but the tasting room guy beats me to it.

“And you were strangling your girlfriend,” he says, shoving open the gate leading off the deck and pointing a finger toward the parking lot. “Get out of here. Now. Before we call the police. There are cabs at the end of the drive.” He hesitates, expression softening as he shifts his attention Carrie’s way. “Unless you want us to call the police for you, ma’am. Do you want to press charges?”

“No.” Carrie shakes her head. “I just want him to go and stay gone.”

“You can’t do this,” Jordan seethes, but thankfully he starts moving toward to the gate. “You can’t make me go away. You’re not as smart as you think you are, Carrie. Just wait until we’re in court. My lawyer is a pit bull. He’s going to make sure I get everything I want, and then some.”

“She’s got you on video, asshole,” I say, relishing the dumbstruck look that flashes across his face.

“Including you rushing me from behind,” Carrie says. “The windows reflected everything, like a mirror. So unless you want me to release footage of you assaulting me to the press and the authorities, I suggest you withdraw your suit, apologize publicly for leaking the photos, and stay the hell out of my life. Moving would be nice, too. A state away. Or two. Canada would be good.”

“Don’t put that on Canada, babe,” I say with mock disappointment. “They don’t deserve this shit stain.”

Carrie laughs, triggering a scowl from Jordan. His lips part, but I cut him off before he can stick his foot in his mouth again.

“You’re done.” I jerk my chin toward the parking lot. “Start walking and don’t look back.”

He starts to speak, but again, I’m too fast for him.

“Huh-uh.” I point to the road. “Leave. Now. Or leave with my foot in your ass, kicking you to the curb.”

But the fool clearly doesn’t know when to shut up. He takes a breath, and I launch into motion. The speed with which he scrambles away would be funny if he hadn’t had his arm locked around Carrie’s throat two minutes ago. So instead of laughing, I chase the idiot down the driveway and into a cab. Only when he’s safely inside, flipping me the bird from behind the window, do I let myself laugh.

And laugh and laugh, because nothing hurts a bully more than realizing he’s a fucking joke.

By the time I make it back to the winery, Carrie is waiting for me at the end of the walk, holding a bottle of wine wrapped in purple tissue paper. “For you,” she says, holding it out to me. “A ‘thank you for helping me get my life back’ present.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want wine,” I say.

“What do you want?” she asks, lips curving as her palm slides up my chest.

“Just this, Trouble.” I bend low, claiming her lips for a long, slow, relieved kiss before pulling away. “Just you.”