Inside the blanket fort, the light is soft and warm, diffused by vintage flower-power sheets from the 1970s I grabbed from my mom’s attic the last time I was in Sacramento.

As Carrie settles cross-legged onto a pillow beside me beneath our linen ceiling, her skin glows in the golden light. She looks like she just stepped out of a sixteenth-century Italian painting—a naughty shepherdess taking a break from watching her sheep—and I’m possessed by the urge to lean over and press a kiss to her bare shoulder. To slide the strap of her tank top down her arm. To roll her beneath me and explore every inch of her soft skin with my mouth.

Instead, I curl my fingers into fists that I rest on my knees, determined not to make physical contact.

We’re walking the friend path. It might be hard now, but every step we take toward being buddies is a step away from temptation. Soon I’ll be able to look at Carrie and see just another woman friend—like Emma, or Sophie from the coffee shop—and this gut-twisting hunger will be a distant memory.

Right. And when you wake up tomorrow morning, you’ll have grown a third eye and be able to see into the future.

Ignoring the weak-willed voice of doom, I nod Carrie’s way. “We are in the blanket fort of silence. Let anything and everything shared within these walls stay within these walls.”

Carrie shifts on her pillow, nibbling at her bottom lip in a way that does nothing to banish my urge to bite her pretty mouth. “And what happens when the walls fall down?”

“The secrets go back into the cupboard with them. Scout’s honor.”

“Were you a Boy Scout?” she asks, lips quirking. “Really?”

“No, I was a Future Farmer of America, which is even more trustworthy,” I say. “Because farmers feed people, while Boy Scouts worry about collecting badges. Now quit trying to change the subject and get the shit off your chest.”

Her breath rushes out, her small but perfectly-shaped breasts rising and falling beneath her thin shirt, and I immediately regret mentioning her chest. Do not talk about her chest, do not look at it, do not think about it, I remind myself, forcing my gaze to her face as she begins to speak.

“Jordan and I met at a children’s book conference. He illustrated one of my favorite books that year, he was a fan of my work, and we got to talking over drinks. I ended up offering to mentor him on his first novel. He wanted to move on from illustrating, expand his career opportunities, and I thought I could help.”

“That was generous,” I say. “I’ve done some mentoring for the kids at the local high school who are interested in engine repair. It’s not always easy.”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not, but Jordan was an adult with a lot of experience in the industry, not a kid or a newbie. So I thought it would be fairly easy. And it was, until we started sleeping together and things got…more confusing.”

“Confusing how?” I prod after a moment.

“He started feeling entitled to my time in a way he hadn’t before,” she says, picking at a loose thread on the quilt. “He wanted more critique but wouldn’t put anything I said to use. It started to feel like he just wanted me to rewrite the chapters for him. So…I did, until it got to the point where I was contributing so much that I didn’t feel comfortable moving forward without my name attached to the project.”

“That makes sense,” I say, hating this guy even more than I did before. I can see where this story is going, and I don’t like it. Not a fucking bit. “But he didn’t think you deserved credit, I’m guessing? He thought he should be able to take your work and pass it off as his own?”

Her shoulders inch toward her ears. “Pretty much. He said the story idea was his and that’s what mattered, but that’s not true. Character and plot matter, the voice of the piece matters, and that voice was mine. He wanted to take those things for free. He felt I owed it to him to prove I cared about our relationship.”

“I’m hoping you called bullshit.”

“Um, yeah,” she says. “I called bullshit and informed him that having my name on his first effort as a writer would be a benefit since I had a large, established readership.” She rolls her eyes. “He said I was an egomaniac who let my hubris consume everyone and everything around me and that if I wasn’t careful I would find myself alone, friendless, and loveless for the rest of my life.”

My scowl deepens. “Charmer. Glad you kicked his ass to the curb.”

“But that’s the thing…I didn’t.” Her shoulders slump as her fingers tangle in her lap. “That’s part of the reason I’m so pissed at myself. I kept seeing him, trying to work it out personally and professionally and come to a compromise we could both live with.” She shakes her head. “And then he submitted the manuscript to a publishing house behind my back, without my name on it. I found out when we were out to drinks with friends and he announced that he’d gotten a five-figure deal for his first novel.”

“Motherfucker.”

“No, he wouldn’t do that,” she says with a crooked grin. “He’s repulsed by women who have children, which makes the fact that he illustrates books for kids even more grossly ironic.”

I cross my arms, remembering why I hate drama. Even hearing about it secondhand makes my heart punch at my ribs and my fists itch to smash things. “I hope this isn’t the end of the story. Douchebag gets a publishing deal and then drops some revenge porn while you hide out at your sister’s place? Because that story sucks.”

Her cheeks flush. “No, it’s not. I’d saved every draft of the book that I’d worked on, with my changes tracked. I got in touch with my agent, who got in touch with the publisher, and pretty soon Jordan didn’t have a book deal anymore. Or a steady date. I cleaned out his drawer and dumped it on his front porch with a note encouraging him to stop being a piece of shit.”

I nod, the tension easing from my arms. “Good.”

“No, not good. The note was mean. Very mean.” She winces, baring clenched teeth. “He showed it to some of our friends, who didn’t know the whole story, and all of a sudden they wouldn’t return my calls. And before I had a chance to explain myself, Jordan hacked into my cloud drive and replaced my school presentation PowerPoint with one featuring naked pictures of me. But of course, I had no idea that’s what he’d done until I was standing in front of a hundred middle school kids while a picture of me naked in a claw-foot bathtub flashed on the screen behind me and every teacher in the place started gasping like a fish out of water.”

“Damn.” My jaw clenches as a cringe takes possession of my entire body, head to toe.

“Yeah, right? That’s pretty much what I did.”

“And then you ran? Grabbed your shit and got out of there?”

A laugh escapes her lips. “Um, no. I stayed, actually. I mean, I ripped the plug out of the wall and slammed my laptop closed and got the naked woman off the screen as fast as I could, but…” Her shoulders bob. “Fifty of those kids had already bought books. And more had brought books from home they wanted me to sign. I couldn’t run away and leave them hanging and disappointed.”

I lean back, bracing my arms on the floor behind me. “Wow. You’ve got balls, woman. Balls of steel.”

She grins, a shy grin I’ve never seen before, one that makes a dimple pop in her cheek which is fucking adorable. “No, I don’t. I’m just good at faking it. And I hate letting people down. Especially little people. I don’t want to be one of those grown-ups who teaches kids that promises can’t be trusted.”

I nod, respect for her blooming. “I get it. And I’m with you.”

Carrie looks up, studying me through her lashes. “Really? It doesn’t seem like it.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, fighting to keep from getting sucked into her eyes. They’re a color that immediately draws attention—more violet than blue—but it’s the fire and intelligence in her gaze that gets to me. That makes me want to get closer, closer, until I’ve veered out of the friend zone and am headed way out-of-bounds.

“You think I should have stayed for the rest of it, too,” she says softly. “That I should have held my ground and fought for my life and my friends instead of running off to hide in my sister’s cottage.”

I stretch my legs out with a shake of my head. “Nope. I’m not here to judge. That’s not part of the blanket fort of silence. I’m just here to listen.”

She cocks her head. “Really? You can listen without judging?”

“Most of the time. I don’t like anyone telling me how I should live. That makes it easy to return the favor.”

Carrie blinks as respect rearranges her features. “That’s wonderful. And appreciated. Thanks for that. And thanks for making the fort. I do feel better.” She sighs, her nose scrunching. “Even though I still have no idea what to do next. Or why Jordan’s made it his mission in life to destroy my reputation.”

“Because he thinks you took something that was his,” I say, the motivation behind this weasel’s hate seeming pretty clear to me. “So he’s trying to take something that’s yours.”

“My entire career. My friends. My place in the community.” She blows out a breath, lips fluttering as she stretches out her legs, stacking her shins on top of mine with an ease that makes me wish touching her was as uncomplicated as she makes it seem. “I’m going to have to fight back, aren’t I? This isn’t going to die down and go away.”

“It might.” I reach out, resting a hand on her knee because I can’t resist the urge to touch her another second. “I’d say give it until Wednesday, talk to your agent when he’s back on U.S. soil, and take it from there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she says, voice breathier than it was before. But that might have something to do with the fact that my hand has slid up her knee to her thigh, my fingers curling until they press lightly into her bare skin. “Very…solid.”

Oh, it’s solid, all right.

It’s hella firm and getting harder with every passing second.

“And what about you?” Her thighs part ever so slightly, making my mouth go dry.

“About me?” I echo, gaze locked on hers even as my traitorous hand slides higher, until my fingers brush the threads trailing from the bottom of her cutoff shorts.

“Is there anything you would like to discuss in the blanket fort of silence?” Her husky voice goes straight to my already-suffering cock. “Anything I can help you get off your chest? Aside from your shirt, of course? Though I’m happy to help you with that, too, if you’d like…”

My gaze narrows as my blood pressure spikes. “Guess ‘friends’ isn’t going to work, huh?”

“Considering your hand is almost between my legs and all I can think about is biting your bottom lip, probably not,” she says, before adding in a whisper that slays me, “You have the prettiest mouth, Valentine.”

“Rafe,” I grind out, fisting the edge of her shorts in my hand.

“No, in the blanket fort of silence, I’ll call you Valentine.” She arches her back, drawing my attention to her tight nipples, straining toward me beneath her shirt. “And you can call me Caroline. Different names for the different people we are here. People who are completely capable of keeping what happens here from causing trouble in the outside world.”

I lean in, palm skimming up her hip to her waist as my mouth dips closer to hers. “Any coming in the blanket fort stays in the blanket fort?”

“Assuming you can make that happen.” Her fingers thread into the hair at the nape of my neck. “I’ll warn you up front, that’s not always easy for me, and I’m not the kind of girl who’s going to fake it to make you feel good about yourself.”

“You won’t have to fake anything, sweetheart.” I brush my nose against hers, relishing this charged moment—the second before potential becomes reality, before I discover what this woman tastes like, what she feels like, the way she moves when she’s pinned beneath me and desperate for the orgasm I’m about to deliver. “Just give me a number.”

“A number.” She exhales sharply as I cup her breast and sweep my thumb lightly over her nipple. “Number of what?”

“How many times do you want me to make you come?” My lips skim hers before I pull away, teasing her with the promise of a kiss and so much more.

Sparks flash in her eyes, issuing a challenge I can’t wait to live up to. “Three, Valentine. You manage that, and you’ll hold the record.”

The words are the final blow to my self-control.

I avoid drama, but I never back down from a challenge. Especially one that involves making a beautiful woman come apart in my arms.