I’m losing it. My new boss sent me a contract last week that needed to be signed, scanned, and returned to her so she could start on the paperwork that will allow me to legally work in Switzerland. It’s only an internship, and I’ll be mostly getting paid in food and lodging, but I still need to fill out several trees worth of forms, get fingerprinted, and prove I’m a decent and responsible person.

Not the kind of person who spills coffee all over the signed contract before she manages to scan it, then forgets to print out another copy at her parents’ house and realizes at midnight that she has an hour before the deadline. I could possibly get away with an electronic signature dodge, but my boss was clear that she wanted me to sign a physical copy, and I don’t want to mess up the very first task she gave me.

A mistake like this is not like me, at all, but it’s been a hell of a few days. Knowing Adam is only a few feet away, just on the other side of my wall, is messing with my head. I haven’t been sleeping well. All the doctor’s talk about being able to smell my own eyeballs cooking the other day freaked me right the hell out, and I fled my parents’ house rather than stick around to use the printer. I was afraid listening to my mom repeat every disgusting detail to my father would put me off the surgery for life.

Then I forgot about it, and now I’m screwed.

No contract, no visa.

No internship.

No extra boost to get me into grad school.

Fuck. I close my eyes and picture the brand-new, state of the art printer on my father’s desk. I could get dressed, jump in my car, and drive over there, but then I’ll have to deal with the inevitable lecture from my dad, who is usually a pretty easygoing guy but morphs into a raging lunatic if he thinks someone is messing with Mom’s health. I guess watching your beloved wife get diagnosed with breast cancer—twice—will do that to you.

Plus, my mom screams like she’s being murdered if you wake her up when she’s not expecting it. This is why I have to lock myself in the guest room when I sleep over there: otherwise Chuckles jumps on their bed just to watch the show.

Everyone here is asleep, but none of them can help anyway. Nat came with me last week to use my parents’ machine, and I would have noticed if Adam had a printer on his desk when I was getting his room ready. My cheeks warm thinking about that, and I attempt to swallow down the embarrassment. What was I thinking? All that obsessing, and he’s barely said a word to me since the night he got here and climbed in my window. Three days of tight smiles and no eye contact and me holding my breath when he passes me in the hallway because I’m afraid I’ll crack and grab him if I catch his scent.

He hasn’t even mentioned the Chuckles sheets. Ugh.

You bought him post-its, you big dummy.

I slap my palm against my forehead and tell my brain to shut up. I can only obsess about one problem at a time, thanks. Right now, it’s the printer.

I head out to the garage because there are still some things boxed up out there that my parents left behind. It’s been a few years, but the guys never got around to clearing everything out. Instead, they covered it with gear, stacking boards and tossing old boots into a huge, smelly pile on top. I hold my nose and start excavating. My dad set up a new home office when he moved, so there’s a pretty good chance his old printer is out here and it’s worth a shot.

I try to be quiet, but when I pull out the last boot, I upset the delicate tower of boards and everything crashes to the floor around me. All I can do is stand still and hope I don’t get sliced by a sharp edge or knocked over.

“Piper?”

I press my eyes closed, like maybe it will make me invisible.

It doesn’t.

“Are you okay?”

I turn around to answer, but the sight of Adam steals my voice. His hair is sticking up in a sleep-sexy tangle around his head and he’s wearing a pair of dark boxer briefs. No shirt. No shoes. No service to my brain. I can’t think coherently enough to answer him, all I can do is stare.

I swallow and take in the smooth, tanned skin on his chest. The curving wink of a scar on his left bicep where Ben’s snowboard edge once sliced right through his jacket after a trick went wrong. My fingers twitch to explore the grooves that carve his abs into neat little squares and I have to clench my fist to stop them reaching out when my eyes wander a little bit farther down to the trail of dark hair that disappears into his waistband.

Friends don’t fondle other friends’ happy trails, Piper.

He takes a step toward me and I jump, then raise my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he repeats, looking concerned. He probably thinks I’m silent because I got knocked on the head with a snowboard or something. Not because I’ve been stuck dumb by lust.

“I’m fine.” My voice comes out low and husky, so I clear my throat and try again. “Just looking for a printer.”

“At midnight?”

“I need to print something for my boss and send it, like now, or else it’s going to mess up the paperwork for my internship. I was going to do it at my parents’ house, but I forgot.”

Ben would no doubt roll his eyes at me but Adam nods, like forgetting to organize something this important is perfectly understandable. Normal, even.

“Want me to drive you to your parents’ house?”

“I don’t want to wake them up if I don’t have to.”

He throws his hands in the air and opens his mouth in a silent mock scream. “Your mom?”

“Exactly,” I say. “The neighbors called the cops when I tried to sneak in after curfew in high school.”

His lips stretch into a lazy grin. “I remember.”

Shit. Of course. He was the one dropping me off at this very condo, waving the panties I left in his car like a flag while he drove away after making sure I got safely through the door.

Heat flashes through me and I force myself to turn around because I’m dying to let my eyes wander down that forbidden happy trail and see if the memory of that night is making his blood flow south too.

“Anyway, I think my dad might have left a printer out here. Sorry to wake you up.”

He sighs. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway. I’ll help you look.”

I risk a look over my shoulder and good god of abs, he’s walking straight toward me. Strolling on over in all his nearly naked glory, and maybe his brain hasn’t caught on to the fact that the garage is frickin’ freezing, but his nipples sure have. They’re hard and tight, and I know if I reach out and give them a little flick he will groan and ask for more.

He always wanted more.

I always wanted more.

“It’s okay,” I yelp. “You can go back to sleep. I’ll do it myself.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he reminds me. “Let me help you, Piper. This sounds like a big deal.”

My shoulders slump. “It is. The visa deadline is tomorrow. I can’t believe I forgot.”

“We’ll figure it out.” His voice is calm and soothing, and when he reaches out to rub a warm hand over my shoulder, I let myself lean toward him for a fleeting second. He squeezes my arm, then puts his hands on his hips and looks at the pile of boxes.

“Any idea where to start?”

“Clothes,” I say. “Clothes are an excellent place to start.”

“Is there a closet down here now? You think it’s in there?”

I look at the ceiling. “I meant clothes for you. Aren’t you freezing?”

“I’m okay.”

I risk another glance. Bad plan. He’s leaning forward to grab a box off the pile and the muscles of his back are bunching under his skin and they seem to have multiplied since I saw them last. Wow. It’s like a dirty anatomy lesson. I’ve never had a strong feeling about backs one way or the other, but now my mouth is watering because I want to trace every single delicious line with my tongue.

“I insist,” I bite out. “I don’t want you to catch a cold. You’re going to be flying a lot in the next month and it sucks being stuffed up on the plane.”

He looks down, like he’s only now noticing the icy concrete floor under his bare feet. “You’re probably right.”

Then he raises his eyes, taking in my little sleep shorts. He gulps, and I cross my arms over my chest, even though I pulled an old sweatshirt over my tank top before I came out here and it’s probably thick enough to hide the way my own nipples are reacting to him being this close.

“You’re wearing my shirt.” His voice is a rough rasp, like his throat won’t quite open to let the words out.

I hug the soft cotton. “I thought it was Ben’s.”

Liar.

His eyes catch on the snowboarding logo nearly covered by my arms and he shakes his head.

“Nope. They were my sponsor.”

“Sorry. You want it back?”

He steps back, putting some distance between us. “You keep it. I’ll go pull on some clothes.”

Friends shouldn’t stare at other friend’s tight asses as they speed-walk toward the door, but I do it anyway. Then I open Ben’s beer fridge, crack open a bottle, and drain half of it in one long swallow.

“Can I get one of those?” he says as soon as he returns.

He’s pulled on some track pants and a t-shirt, but to be honest, it doesn’t really help. I still know what’s under those thin layers of fabric. I can’t unsee what I have seen.

I can numb my libido with beer though, so I take another long swig and grab Adam a drink. Because pouring alcohol over a smoldering sexual fire is always a good idea. No potential explosions here, folks.

He clanks the neck of his bottle against mine and takes a slow sip. I’ve seen him have a couple drinks since he’s been back, but never more than one a night. I’m not sure if that’s because of a rule his doctors gave him or if he’s not into drinking anymore, but I’m not going to ask. It’s none of my business and it’s too personal anyway.

It hurts my heart that anything would be too personal to talk about with Adam. He used to be my person, after all. But remembering—in vivid detail—the way his skin tastes and how it felt when he moved inside me doesn’t mean we really know each other. Not anymore.

“Don’t be sad, Pipes.” His voice is soft and sweet. “We’ll find it.”

He puts his half-full bottle down and turns to the pile of boxes, rubbing his hands together like he’s formulating a plan to take them down.

“It’s not the printing,” I whisper. I know he hears me though, because his body goes perfectly still.

“What is it then?”

I take another sip for courage.

“Piper?”

He turns slowly around, and I stare helplessly at his face. His gorgeous, perfect, familiar face. I study his dark eyes, searching out the black ring around his iris and the hidden flecks of gold that you can only see when he’s really close. How many other girls have noticed those since he left? What have those eyes seen?

I’ve been here, in Colorado, studying and going to class and living my same old life, but he’s been out there in the world. I’ve seen glimpses of his experiences through his photographs, but I don’t know what it’s been like for him. His recovery, his struggles, what he thought about when he saw the sun glinting off the golden roof of that temple in Cambodia…none of that deeper stuff ended up on Instagram.

I may have thought about him every single day for months, but the person I used to love most in the world is a stranger, and it breaks my heart.

“Pipes?”

Another sip and the bottle’s empty, but it doesn’t matter. It would take a whole lot more than one beer to give me the liquid courage necessary to tell Adam the truth about why I’m blinking back tears right now.

I lower my eyes and start picking at the label on my empty bottle. “I’m just mad at myself. I don’t usually forget stuff like this.”

His face softens and he moves closer, but I stumble back before he can pull me into a hug. One touch and I’ll shatter. Time to retreat.

“I’ll be right back.”

He nods. “I’ll be here.”

Will you, though? Will you stay this time?

I don’t say anything, but he must read the question on my face because he presses his lips into a thin line and takes off to busy himself with the boxes.

Then I flee like the coward I am. Straight to the bathroom, where I lock myself in and stare at myself in the mirror. I’m breathing hard, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. I look scared, like Little Red Riding Hood after a brush with the Big Bad Wolf. I run a washcloth under cold water and press it to my face, not even caring when icy drops run down my neck and soak the neck of my shirt.

When I come out, Adam is leaning against the wall near my room holding a box. His cheeks are streaked with dust and he’s grinning triumphantly.

“Found it.” He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head toward my door, asking permission to enter. Because he can’t barge in anytime he wants anymore. Apparently, we’re not those kinds of friends.

“I think there’s room on the desk,” I say, waving him inside.

He whistles under his breath as he brushes the dust off the box and grabs a pair of scissors to slice open the six layers of tape my dad put on there. I twist my hands together and tap my foot. Everything feels wrong, like my skin is too tight or my heart is beating to an unfamiliar rhythm.

“You okay?”

He’s got the printer on the desk and he’s digging into the box, searching for the cords and cables.

I nod. “Just need to get this done.”

I honestly can’t tell if I’m freaked out about dropping the ball so spectacularly on the contract or about being alone with Adam in the middle of the night. Either way, I want this to be finished. I need to be back in control.

“I’ll get it done for you, Pipes.”

“I can do it.” It’s automatic, that answer. I’ll take care of it. I’ll do it myself. Don’t worry about it. I’ve been saying it for years. When my mom got sick the first time, I was thirteen, and my dad turned into a zombie. Ben was gone most of the time, traveling for competitions, so I was the one who picked up the slack. Dad took care of Mom and went to work. Ben called her every day to cheer her up with funny stories and made clumsy excuses to hang up if she started to cry. I paid the bills and bought the food and didn’t make a fuss.

It worked. She got better and the rest of us survived and then, four years later, just when we thought it was over, the cancer came back. So we all settled back into our roles, and somehow we never figured out how to change things, even when the doctors gave her the all clear for the second time.

One corner of his mouth tips up. “There are cables involved, Piper.”

Damn. He knows me well. I can name every single bone, tendon, and muscle in the human body and explain how they work together but hooking up any kind of unfamiliar electric equipment always ends with curses and tears of rage.

I smile sweetly. “All the better to strangle you with, my dear.”

“Just let me do it.”

He’s still giving me that mocking half smile, but his voice is soft and vulnerable.

“Please,” he adds. Like me accepting his help is important somehow. Like it means something to him. Like he needs this.

And I want him to have everything he needs—hello brick of post-its—so I give it to him.

“Okay, thanks.”

He beams and goes back to whistling, his hands swift and sure as he examines the cables and then drops to his knees to find an outlet under my desk. His shirt rides up as he stretches his arm toward the wall and my mouth goes dry. I need to get out of this room.

“Do you want some water or something?”

He glances up. “No thanks, but you go. Make yourself a hot chocolate. I’ll have this done in no time.”

I stumble out of the room and up the stairs to the kitchen, where I gulp down a glass of ice water. The sides of my jaw prickle and there’s a strange taste in my mouth. Not quite coppery, like blood, but sharp and almost bitter. I can’t get rid of it, even after I drink enough water to make sure that my bursting bladder will be waking me on the hour for the rest of the night.

It’s familiar, even if I haven’t had it on my tongue in years. It’s the taste of huddling on the floor in my closet back in Denver after my parents told us that my mom found a lump in her breast. It’s the taste of fear, and change, and not knowing what’s going to happen next.

My mind suppressed the terror of that absolute vulnerability, but my body sure as hell remembers, like it’s been there inside me all this time. Lurking. Waiting for me to slip and lose control so it could come rushing back. Now school is over, and I’m leaving the country, and I won’t be here for months if my mom gets sick again or Ben needs someone to bully him into going to the doctor. All this change is spinning around inside of me like an emotional hurricane, and I don’t know how to slow it down.

And then there’s Adam. Who took my little hurricane, added in some confusion and extreme sexual frustration, and upgraded it to a perfect fucking storm.

No wonder my body is confused. I want to run and hide and come all at the same time.

Maybe I should grab my vibrator, find the nearest closet, and stay in there until someone drags me out.

Radical self-care.

It’s tempting, but I’m not going to let an advanced case of Adam-induced blue bean be the thing that breaks me, so I head back downstairs. There’s half an hour left until the deadline, and I need to get this contract sorted. Then I’ll go to sleep—alone—and wake up, have a healthy breakfast, spend an hour googling my eye surgeon to make sure he hasn’t been involved in any malpractice suits, and go to the gym.

I’m not that little girl in the closet anymore. I can handle this.