Also by Jewel E. Ann

Stand-Alone Novels

Idle Bloom

Undeniably You

Naked Love

Only Trick

Perfectly Adequate

Look the Part

When Life Happened

A Place Without You

Jersey Six

Scarlet Stone

Not What I Expected

For Lucy

What Lovers Do

Before Us

If This Is Love

Right Guy, Wrong Word

I Thought of You

The Chain of Lakes Series

The Homemaker

The Muse

Sunday Morning Series

Sunday Morning

The Apple Tree

A Good Book

Wildfire Series

From Air

From Nowhere

The Fisherman Series

The Naked Fisherman

The Lost Fisherman

Jack & Jill Series

End of Day

Middle of Knight

Dawn of Forever

One (stand-alone)

Out of Love (stand-alone)

Because of Her (stand-alone)

Holding You Series

Holding You

Releasing Me

Transcend Series

Transcend

Epoch

Fortuity (stand-alone)

The Life Series

The Life That Mattered

The Life You Stole

Pieces of a Life

Memories of a Life

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2026 by Jewel E. Ann

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Montlake, Seattle

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ISBN-13: 9781662535482 (paperback)

ISBN-13: 9781662535475 (digital)

Cover design by Eileen Carey

Cover image: © Regina Wamba

In loving memory of Jerry and our last sunset in the park.

Chapter One

Will

This could have been tragic. Thank god it’s empty, because there’s no way I’d send a single firefighter into the crackling inferno, windows popping, glass flying, and smoke so thick I can taste it in the hot July night air. The roof is seconds away from collapsing.

“You know who lives here?” our Station 2 squad captain asks in his tenor tone that matches his high energy.

“Unfortunately,” I grumble, adjusting my helmet as my engine crew keeps their lines on the fire. The owner of this flame-engulfed house tried to get me arrested eleven years ago.

He chuckles. “Why do you say it like that? Do you have a problem with Dr. Reichart? She’s a prodigy, ya know.”

“Yeah, she’s . . . something,” I say because she has ruined all prodigies for me.

After the fire is out and the overhaul is nearly complete, the prodigy flies out of her black Subaru on the opposite side of the street and sprints toward the house. “Marie!” She drops to her knees just past the sidewalk, hand over her mouth, tears springing from her eyes.

The squad captain nudges me. “You should do something.”

I sigh, tossing my jacket onto the front seat of the fire engine before adjusting my two-way radio over my turnout pants straps, boots scuffing along the sidewalk as I make my way to her. “Everleigh, I’m sorry for your loss. Is there anyone I can—”

“You didn’t save Marie!” She leaps to her feet. Despite being half my size, she digs her claws into my shirt, attempting to shake me. Long amber hair falls out of her ponytail while she bleeds tears onto her fitted white T-shirt.

“We did a primary and secondary search. There was no one in the house.”

“Marie Curie was in there! My canary.”

“A bird?”

She stills, but her grip remains firm, eyes narrowed into slits. “Yes, William. Marie Curie was a beautiful yellow canary. And you let her die as if the death of my virginity wasn’t enough for you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I survey the area for onlookers. “I’m”—I grunt and peel her talons out of my shirt—“sorry we didn’t save your bird. The smoke probably took her before we arrived.”

“Please stop trying to placate me. It’s an insult to my intelligence.”

I was one hour, one hour, away from the end of my shift. It shouldn’t be me standing here insulting her intelligence with my placating.

“What started it?” She sniffles and wipes her face with the back of her hand.

“I don’t know. They’ll investigate and let you know when they make a determination.”

“Where will I go?” She stares at the charred remains.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Well”—I reach for her shoulder before rethinking the gesture and dropping my hand back to my side—“I need to return to the station.” Before she tears her gaze from the wreckage, I retreat a step, and then another, and—

“My things,” she mumbles, blotting more tears. “All my things are gone.” Her words die, barely a whisper.

I tell myself to walk away. If this were anyone else, I’d give my condolences and return to the station. It’s been more than a decade since she tricked me into taking her virginity. She’s a doctor who makes a shit ton more money than I do. Her house burned down, but I’m sure it’s all insured. Really, what can I do?

Am I a monster? No, so I do what any decent human would do. I volunteer my ex-roommates. “You should call Jamie. I’m sure she and Fitz would love to help you out.”

“Really?” Everleigh shifts her attention to me with a glimmer of hope in her teary eyes.

“Sure. Do you have her number?”

“I think so. Jamie was one of my favorite nurses. Did you know that?”

“Yeah, she’s great.” I puff out my Good Samaritan chest and grin. “Call her. They have two extra bedrooms. Jamie will loan you some clothes and any other”—I wave my hand in the air—“female things you need.”

“Do you think Fitz will mind?” Her nose wrinkles.

“Nah. He’s very welcoming. And it’s fire season, so he’s not home as much.”

I don’t make direct eye contact. She’s probably a human lie detector. Calvin Fitzgerald (Fitz) is not welcoming, but I’ll let Jamie and him work that out. However, he is a busy Missoula Smoke Jumper, so it’s only half a lie. After I turn and take several steps, Everleigh says my name, and I sigh before pivoting toward her again.

“I can’t thank you now,” she says, “because I’m upset about Marie Curie, but I’ll come around and find it in me to properly thank you. I know I’m overreacting, but this is”—she sniffles, staring at the rubble—“a lot.”

“Don’t sweat it. I just did my job.” Again I turn and make it two steps closer to the rig and my crew waiting for me before she clears her throat.

“I hope it wasn’t arson. A troubled patient. I know statistically it’s an error on my part. I don’t smoke, so it wasn’t a cigarette. It’s unlikely that I left the stove or oven on because I usually order take-out food, and when I do cook, I use the microwave or my toaster oven. Do you think it was an overloaded power strip? Dryer vent? I put a load of towels into the dryer before I left for dinner.”

“Coming, Lieutenant?” one of my guys calls.

“Everleigh, I have to—”

“Sometimes I leave my hair dryer plugged in. Do you think that could have been it?” She squints, studying the ruins of her house.

“The investigators will figure it out. I need to—” I jab a thumb over my shoulder.

“What about my robot vacuum? Have you seen those cause fires?” She slowly shakes her head again, blotting a few tears. “My whole life was in there. I need to rebuild a sense of safety and control. There will be feelings of loss and grief. Maybe even guilt. Yes, it’s all just stuff, except”—she swallows hard—“Marie Curie. And the stuff isn’t important, but it was a connection to my identity.” She clears her throat, nodding several times while trying to regain her composure. “It’s okay to grieve material things. It doesn’t make me materialistic.”

Do I need to be here while Dr. Everleigh Reichart, psychiatrist, self-treats her way through this trauma?

“Everleigh, oh my goodness. Dear, I’m so sorry.” A woman with curly gray hair and a red cardigan opens her arms while rushing across the street to embrace the good doctor.

My work here is done. Thank god.

And now, I await the call.

Chapter Two

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

The next morning, I get the call from Fitz as I pack my duffel bag for the two-hour drive north to Somers, Montana. The bag is old and worn and still smells like the bottle of citronella bug spray that leaked on a camping trip a few years ago.

“My dad is sick, and he fell, so I’m taking a few weeks of family leave to be with him and my mom,” I say, but not to make him feel like a dick. I’m just protecting myself from the fallout of suggesting Everleigh stay with them.

“Shit,” he grumbles. “I’m sorry, man. What happened?”

“I’m not sure yet. My mom was vague. Something about rapid mental decline. He’s in the hospital, and my mom is beside herself. My sister can’t take any more time off work since she just spent three months on maternity leave. But yeah, it sucks that Dr. Reichart lost her home. I’m sure she’s eternally grateful for good friends like you and Jamie.”

Fitz mumbles something inaudible. I think there’s a goddamn and a fuck involved.

“It’s for a few nights. I bet she’ll have a new place before you know it. She’s not hurting for money. And there are at least three other houses on the same street with For Sale signs in their yards. Hell, if my dad’s health continues to decline, my house will be on the market too. I might have to look for a job closer to them so I can help him and be there for my mom.”

“That’s messed up, man. It’s one thing to no longer be your roommate. It’s another to no longer live in the same town together,” Fitz says. “When they moved back to Montana, why did they have to live in Somers instead of Missoula?”

I toss half a dozen socks into the bag atop my bed. “Well, that’s easy. A lake home on Flathead. But yeah, it is messed up to think about not living near you guys. That’s life. I feel too young to deal with a parent’s declining health.”

“Dude, you and your sob story have completely taken the wind out of my sails.”

I laugh. “I’ll trade you—Jamie and a houseguest for a dad with mental decline and a mom who’s having a breakdown on top of her other mental conditions.”

“Guilt me with your sob story. Whatever. Give my best to your mom.”

“Will do. Kiss Jamie for me. Tell her to take good care of Dr. Reichart.”

“You can’t even say that with a straight face,” Fitz says.

I laugh, zipping the bag. “You can’t see my face.”

“I don’t have to. The sarcasm in your voice is unmistakable.”

“I have to go. Oh, tell Jamie that Maren is fielding all inquiries for the rental, so she doesn’t have to mess with it.”

“You’re renting rooms again?”

“Just the shed in the backyard. I listed it on a few online groups for first responders in the area. We know the pay is shit and the hours are long, so I thought it might be nice to offer a cheaper alternative. And to be honest, I wouldn’t mind having someone around here again.”

“I get it. And I love that she shed,” he says.

“You love the girl who lived in it.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. That. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, man. Bye.”

“Later.”

I toss my phone onto the bed and blow out a long breath. I’ve never taken this much time off from my job all at once, and I feel guilty for leaving my crew with a temporary replacement. But what choice do I have?

Last year, my parents bought a cottage in Somers, an older three-bedroom A-frame home with recent renovations, established fruit trees, and a detached shed for my dad’s junk. I wish I had spent more time last summer fishing on the lake with my dad. It’s easy to assume there will be time—until there’s not.

After a two-hour drive in the rain, I find my mom on her covered deck overlooking Flathead Lake. She’s always loved watching the rain and inhaling its earthy scent. My parents are nature enthusiasts. No wonder I’ve never met a national park I haven’t loved.

“My boy is home.” Mom springs from her glider chair, tugging on the waist of her yoga pants and adjusting her sports bra. Steffi Landry, mother extraordinaire, world’s best wife, is sixty-two going on forty—a workout queen who used to love snowboarding and waterskiing until she wiped out and her breast implant got displaced under her armpit. She had to live with it for three weeks until her plastic surgeon returned from Europe.

Six months later, she nearly died (her words) when she and a friend were in a small plane that had to make an emergency landing. A storm forced the pilot to divert to another airport for fuel.

Smooth landing on a runway.

No injuries.

I’m pretty sure snacks were served.

Anyway, she hasn’t flown on a plane since then, and she pops pills for anxiety like they’re peanuts at a baseball game.

I hug her. “I didn’t know if you’d be here or at the hospital. How’s Dad?”

She releases me and frowns, then tucks a leg beneath her as she plops into her chair, curling her long, brown-dyed hair behind her ears. “He thinks we have a cherry orchard and I’m pregnant with a third baby. And he’s pissed off because he doesn’t want another child. When I try to tell him I had my uterus removed fifteen years ago, he scoffs like I’m lying. The doctor said his dementia and loopy behavior could be from the bladder infection or high calcium. All I know is he’s been a real asshole to me for the past week, and when he fell so close to the stairs, I thought I was an instant widow. He’s . . .” She pinches the bridge of her nose as her words catch in her throat.

“Hey.” I squat in front of her, resting one hand on her knee and the other on the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry Dad has been an asshole. I bet you wish you didn’t love him so much.”

She laughs despite the tears, blinking them away while glancing at the ceiling. “Ugh! I do love him. But I need a break. It’s just a lot to handle.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I couldn’t get here sooner. And in his defense, you do have two cherry and one plum tree.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Why does he have high calcium?”

“I’m not sure. Listen, baby boy.” She smiles, resting her hand on my cheek and teasing her thumb along the edge of what she calls my Tom Selleck mustache. “You didn’t have to come at all. I know you’re a hero who runs into burning buildings to save people. That’s more important than old-people issues.”

I roll my eyes at her “old-people” reference. “You make me sound more heroic than I am.” I shift my body to sit in the chair next to her.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Have you ever saved anyone from a burning building?”

I shake my head, giving her a half grin. “Stop.”

“William Thatcher Landry, you, my boy, are a hero. Your dad and I tell everyone. When are you going to learn to smile and just say ‘thank you’ when someone pays you a compliment? Maybe if you’d lift your chin with pride for what you do, you’d have a special young lady in your life.”

Not this again.

“Yesterday, a canary died on my shift,” I say.

Mom snorts. “A canary?”

“Marie Curie.”

“What?” She laughs. “Who names their bird Marie Curie?”

“A psychiatrist in Missoula.” A real piece of work.

“Well, that’s sad that she lost her bird. Did you save most of her house?”

I slowly shake my head. “She wasn’t home. Unfortunately, by the time the neighbor across the street called it in, the house was in flames.”

“Poor lady.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. Despite my aversion to Everleigh Reichart, I wouldn’t wish that destruction on anyone.

“Well, we should visit your dad and find out what flavor of nonsense he’s serving today,” she says.

I stand, holding out my hand, and she takes it with a heavy sigh. Her bravery doesn’t completely mask the nervous smile. She’s worried about him, and so am I.

Running into a burning building to save a life is easy compared to watching someone slowly wither away, knowing there is no way to save them from the inevitable. There’s an arbitrary age that feels like “a good life,” and reaching said age is supposed to make the death process less tragic. It does not. When the day comes that my father passes, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker, and there’s nothing I can do to prepare for or run from it.

What’s most frustrating? Amid my father’s decline and my mother’s uneasiness about it, my mind keeps drifting to the late Marie Curie and her infuriatingly annoying owner.

Chapter Three

I used to live with Fitz the smoke jumper, Maren the tanker pilot, and Jamie the traveling nurse.

My house.

Three of the best roommates.

Then Fitz and Jamie broke the house rules and not only slept together, but fell in love and moved out. After that, Maren fell for a mechanic, even though we agreed to be each other’s backup spouses.

Do I need a roommate financially? No. Would I mind occasionally sharing space with another human? Also no.

Maren answers her phone on the second ring. “Hey. How’s your dad?”

“He’s messed up,” I say, staring at the mesmerizing sunset over Flathead Lake, muted pinks, purples, and yellows as a backdrop to the pristine water. There’s a weathered dock and an idle fishing boat below the haze from a nearby fire. A residual aroma of garlic chicken from dinner on the grill lingers in the air, along with a stickiness from the hot afternoon.

“How did he go from being relatively fine for his age to a frail, confused, and angry old man in a matter of months?” I rub the tension from my neck. “It’s hard to believe I saw him in March, and he was moving snow for the complex with his tractor and repairing a neighbor’s shed. I’ve only been here a week, and just since I got here, he’s declined even more. He’s using a fucking walker. It’s not right.”

“Dang, Will. I’m sorry to hear that. What do his doctors say?”

“They treated him for a urinary tract infection, but he’s still loopy. Mom said something about high calcium, but I’m not sure what that’s from. He’s eighty-two. I know he will not live forever. But whatever this is feels like it’s progressing quickly.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Tired. Stressed. Worried. I don’t know. She’s hard to read.”

“Well, give her my best. Your dad, too, if he remembers me.”

I laugh. “I’ll see if he perks up hearing your name. He’s always loved you.”

“Aww . . . that’s sweet. Oh, by the way, I have good news. I interviewed a few roommate candidates, and I found the perfect one, and she’s very excited.”

“She?”

“You said as long as they were a good fit, it didn’t matter if they’re a male or female.”

“Whatever,” I mumble, picking at the frayed knee of my jeans.

“She wants to move in immediately, so how do you feel about me getting her settled? You can send me the rental agreement. I can go over the house rules and take this off your plate. By the time you get home, she’ll be situated and in a routine. You’ll barely know she’s there.”

“Is she ugly?”

“William Landry, what kind of question is that? Why does it matter what she looks like?”

“It doesn’t, but if she’s ugly, I’m not tempted to stare too long and risk her thinking I’m being inappropriate.”

“I’ve already told her you’re inappropriate. She said she is too. So this should be fun.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Is she ugly?”

“She’s cute. And she has a great job, so rent should never be an issue. Also, I told her you like to clean the house once a week, and she’s fine with that. She said if she’s too busy to help, she’ll just pay for a housekeeper.”

“Oh.” I twist my lips. “That’s fine by me. I kind of hope she’s too busy to help, so she’ll pay for it.”

Maren chuckles. “I’m sure you do.”

“What’s her name? What does she do? Fire? EMT? How old is she?”

“Uh . . . I think she’s in the medical profession. Late twenties. Oh, I have to go. Lola needs me. Love you. Talk soon.” She disconnects the call so abruptly I don’t get out a simple goodbye.

“Who were you talking to?” Mom asks, handing me a beer before sitting in the glider beside mine.

“Maren. She found a renter for my shed.”

“Oh, how is she?” Mom sips her red wine.

“Good.” I take a swig of my beer. “Listen, I know you don’t want Dad going into skilled care, but he’s not well. And you can’t take care of him at home. And he’ll get daily PT.”

She frowns. “My husband doesn’t belong in a nursing home.”

“Skilled care.”

She rolls her eyes. “What’s the difference?”

“One is short-term and helps him regain his strength so maybe he can come home, and the other is forever. A gateway to God. Heaven’s waiting room.”

“William.” She winces. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s life.” I shrug and smirk behind the neck of my beer bottle. “Dad will be fine. He’s the strongest man I know. We have to find humor anywhere we can,” I say.

“Death is funny?” She sets her glass aside and gathers her hair, pulling it over her shoulder.

“Life is funny. It’s so cruel sometimes. I don’t know why anyone keeps playing the game. The world is a dumpster fire, the kind firefighters can’t extinguish. Yet we willingly keep playing.”

“That’s pretty dark, honey. Do you think being a bachelor for forty years has made you a little cynical? Don’t you want to fall in love? It’s not too late. You’re the age your dad was when I met him. When you have someone to live life with you, it’s a little less dumpster-fiery.”

Is it, though?

“What are you going to do when you don’t have him?” I ask in a reverent tone. No sarcasm. I’m not trying to be cynical. “He’s twenty years older than you. If not soon, it will happen eventually.” I’m asking her, but I’m also asking myself the same question. A world without my father in it feels unnatural. Unimaginable.

She quickly wipes a tear before it slides down her cheek while hiding her emotions behind a smile. In the past week, there have been many of these smiles.

“I can promise you this—I will not be with anyone else. Women aren’t like men. Despite our perceived fragility, we can live on our own just fine. I have two grandchildren, and I want you to give me at least two more. Don’t put all the pressure on your sister.”

She’s dreaming. No one should feel pressure to have kids. I have no interest in it. I’m the fun uncle and damn good at it. Maybe a godparent for friends who have kids but don’t think they’ll really die before me.

“How do you feel about a granddog from me instead?” I ask.

She nudges my leg with her foot and rolls her eyes. “No. Go find a woman and put a baby in her.”

I bark a laugh, which makes her smile bloom into something real. This is the mother I know and love.

Still, I’m not impregnating anyone, not even for her.

Chapter Four

“The only good thing to come from this is big breasts,” Dad says, staring out the hospital window.

I’ve been here for two weeks, and he’s still confused and weak. A few days ago, he could walk up and down the hallway with help. Today, he’s had a catheter inserted, which will probably give him another urinary tract infection.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, sliding his plate of meat loaf closer, hoping he’ll eat something. He’s lost a lot of weight. The fat is gone, and his muscles are melting away.

“Your mom. When she’s pregnant, her boobs get enormous.” He holds up his hands and cups them like he’s squeezing invisible breasts.

“Mom’s not pregnant.”

He narrows his eyes. “She is. I don’t think it’s mine, but I don’t want to start a fight, so I’m just going to raise the damn kid as my own.”

It’s not funny. He’s unwell. But I can’t help but snort behind my hand fisted at my mouth. “Well”—I clear my throat to compose myself—“that’s really nice of you.”

My phone vibrates, and I pull it from my back pocket.

Fitz: When do u come home

Will: 2 weeks

Fitz: K

Will: Why

Fitz: Don’t worry about it. We’ll discuss when u get home

Will: Discuss what

Fitz: Your new roommate

Will: ????

Fitz: Give your parents my best

Will: Knock it off asshole. What’s going on

“Thatcher, I’m giving you a bath today,” the nurse says, sauntering into the room in burgundy scrubs and white Hokas. “I can come back to do it later.” She eyes me and smiles.

“You can do it now. I’m leaving.”

“I don’t need a bath. I’m not having sex.” Dad takes a bite of his meat loaf with a shaky hand.

The nurse presses her lips together, and I close my eyes for a few seconds, slowly shaking my head.

“Sally took my wallet. When is she bringing it back?” he asks.

“Who’s Sally?” I ask.

“That nurse with the nose ring.”

I look at the nurse without the nose ring.

She takes his fork when he hands it to her. “Thatcher, your wife has your wallet. It’s safe with her.”

“Dad, enjoy your bath.” I rest my hand on his shoulder and kiss the top of his balding head. A sheen of oil has matted what little hair remains. He definitely needs a bath.

When I make eye contact with the nurse, I realize enjoy might have sounded inappropriate. “What I meant was behave. Okay?”

Dad stares at the window. “That bird was here yesterday.”

There’s no bird.

“Love you,” I say.

He returns a slow nod, staring blankly at the birdless window.

As soon as I step into the hallway, I call Fitz. He doesn’t answer, so I call Jamie.

“Hey! How’s your dad?”

“Where’s Fitz?”

“Uh, maybe on his way home. Did you try calling him?”

“He texted me. What’s up with my new renter?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“Has she done something to my place?”

“I don’t think so. Did Fitz say something?”

“It’s what he didn’t say.”

Jamie laughs. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two. There’s nothing to worry about. Your new renter is lovely.”

“You’ve met her?” I press the elevator button half a dozen times.

“Uh, yeah. How’s your dad?”

“He’s full of shit. What’s up with the new renter? You’re all terrible liars. What aren’t you telling me?” I step into the elevator.

“Did you hear a curling iron started the fire in Everleigh’s house?”

“I did not. Quit changing the subject.”

“She lost her canary. Did you or your guys notice the cage when you went into the house?”

“Is that what this is about? Fitz is pissed because I suggested Everleigh stay with you, so he’s trolling me about my new roommate when there’s really no issue? Has Everleigh not moved out of your house?”

“Oh, yeah. She moved out.”

I step off the elevator and head to the exit. “How pissed off was he?”

“A lot at first, but he’s fine now.”

“Then why is he trolling me?” I look both ways and cross the street to my vehicle.

“Why does Fitz do anything?” She laughs.

“Well, I appreciate you taking Everleigh in. I felt bad for her.” I climb into my red Bronco, immediately rolling down my windows because it’s so hot.

“You did? Then why didn’t you suggest her staying at your place? After all, you were leaving for a month. You have two spare bedrooms and a she shed.”

“You know why I couldn’t offer her a place to stay.” I glance in my mirror and pull into traffic.

“I do?”

“Jamie . . .”

“If this is about your taking her virginity and then crushing her heart, that was years ago. I’m sure she’s moved on, and so have you.”

“Jaymes, she brought it up the night of the fire. That woman will never let it go. I hate talking about it. Everyone thinks it’s funny, but I saw my whole life flash before my eyes when I found out.”

“Will, that’s a little extreme.”

“It’s not. But whatever. Just drop it for good. Okay?”

“I’ll do my best. Just let me reiterate one last time: I really think she’s moved on. In fact, I think the two of you could be friends.”

I laugh. “Well, there’s no need for that, but I love that you’re a peacemaker. I’ve always said Fitz is one lucky bastard, and he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Aw, I love you. Don’t you ever forget that. Not now. Not when you get home.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“I didn’t say it like anything. Love you. Gotta go. I have cookies in the oven for Fitz.”

“Is it wrong that I hope his parachute fails so that I can be there for you? Then you’ll make me cookies as a thank-you. If it turns into grief sex, so be it.”

“That’s probably why Fitz was reaching out to you. He wants to know you’re going to meet my sexual needs if he dies.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

Jamie giggles. “Bye, Will.”

I end the call with a big grin on my face. Why do I need a wife and children when I have friends like Jamie and Fitz?

Over the following weeks, my dad goes into skilled care, and I install grab bars in the bathrooms and a railing at the front door for if (when) he returns. Then we find a comfy leather lift chair for his room at the care facility. For now, I hope he’ll level out and be okay, but I haven’t ruled out moving closer, if he declines more and Mom needs me.

The drive back to Missoula is bittersweet. I’ve enjoyed spending time with my mom, even though she steered most of our conversations toward my love life. But I’m ready to return to work, my friends, and my house.

From the second I try to pull into the garage, the first red flag pops up. There must be ten thousand dollars’ worth of home gym equipment, including a machine cage, free weights, kettlebells, and medicine balls.

It’s nice. I wouldn’t mind using it, but it’s taking up my whole garage.

When I open the back door, I smell the mess before I see it. Pungent and foul. I search for the source of the rotten stench. Dirty dishes fill the sink. There’s an open bag of bread by the stove next to a bottle of ranch salad dressing and an empty plastic cheese bag.

Coffee grounds on the floor.

A pair of pink sneakers in front of the fridge.

A laptop on the kitchen table beside a plate with a half-eaten piece of toast and an abandoned cup of coffee.

“What. The. Fuck?” I set my bag on the wooden floor. “Hello?” I call.

Nothing.

I’m not a neat freak, but a certain level of tidiness among roommates is just common decency. A little dust on the bay window shades? No biggie. Is my living room slightly overpacked with old brown leather furniture and a repurposed tree trunk coffee table on casters? Perhaps. The beige carpet is old and worn. There’s a buck’s head on the wall. It’s clear that a man lives here. But it’s not squalor.

I pivot and head straight to the red she shed, knocking on the door.

Nothing.

I turn the knob, surprised to find it unlocked.

“No.” I cringe. “No. No. Hell no.” I stab my fingers into my hair while inspecting the inside of the shed. There’s a bed, but I can’t see it beneath the pile of bags overflowing with clothes. Tags strewn all over the navy-painted floor, along with shoes, some in and some out of their boxes. Stacks of books cover the dresser, and the plant that’s been on the windowsill for years has wilted. Who am I kidding? It’s dead.

Maren will be dead before long too.

Of course, when I try to call her, she doesn’t answer. Granted, she’s a tanker pilot, and it’s wildfire season, so I text her: Our friendship is over

Next, I try Jamie because I know Fitz is working fires too. Jamie doesn’t answer, but she gets a text from me as well.

Will: Never mind. If Fitz dies you’re on your own

Jamie: ???

Will: Pick up Your Phone

Jamie: Can’t I’m at an appointment

Will: My house is a fucking mess! So is the shed. And I can’t pull into my garage!!!

Jamie: Have you talked to your roommate

Will: I just got home. She’s not here

Jamie: Talk with her then we’ll talk

I frown at my phone, slam the shed door shut, and then take my bag to my room to unpack and shower. After an unsuccessful attempt at washing off the anger, I throw on a pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt. One beer doesn’t take the edge off, so I open another and clean the mess in the kitchen. Just as I’m putting away the last dish and considering a third beer, the back door opens.

A hazel-eyed gaze locks with mine; red lips part into a soft O.

“What are you doing?” I squint at Everleigh Reichart.

She swallows and slowly shrugs; her mouth pulls into a nervous smile. “I’m just . . . home from work. How’s your dad?”

It takes longer than it should to do the math because I don’t want to hate my asshole friends, but I do. I hate every single one of them.

“No.” I shake my head. “This isn’t going to work.” I march toward her and shove my feet into my black boots.

“What’s not going to work?” Everleigh jogs behind me to the shed, feet swooshing through the grass that needs to be mowed, the smell of barbecue in the air from the neighbor’s grill.

“If you were going to stay here, I’d tell you to lock this damn door.” I open said door. “But you’re leaving, so it doesn’t matter.” I collect the stray clothes and shoes and stuff them into whatever bags have extra room.

“I signed a lease and paid the first and last month’s rent. You can’t kick me out. You let my house burn down with Marie Curie.” She rips a bag from one of my hands and a shoe from the other.

I freeze and glance up at her. She sets the bag and shoe on the bed, then slides her hands into the back pockets of her high-waisted, plaid-gray dress pants. Her wide belt has a shiny silver buckle, and her black sleeveless blouse accentuates her toned arms and perky breasts.

Fuck!

No. I will never think about her toned arms or perky breasts again. Maybe my mom is right. I need a steady relationship. Sex with one person. Then I can think of that one person all the time, and noticing things like toned arms and perky breasts will be a distant memory.

“I’m sorry that I’m merely a mortal firefighter. I couldn’t save your house or your bird. But that’s life. You left your curling iron plugged in. I don’t owe you anything. It’s an insult to both of our intelligences to think for one second we can be roommates. I left California, running as fast as I could just to get away from you. And then I practically became a monk for the next three years as I waited for the fucking statute of limitations to run out. I waited for the call or knock on my door. Do you have any idea what that did to my psyche? You should. You’re a goddamn psychiatrist!”

She flinches. “Will—”

“You should have told me!”

Again she flinches, but this time, her back hits the door like my words physically propelled her into it. Tears fill her eyes.

I hate these fucking tears because they take me back to the girl I thought was the girl. My foolish heart made space for that girl. But I was so very wrong.

Chapter Five

Everleigh

Eleven years earlier . . .

I was four when they suspected I was different from other kids. I remembered everything with exceptional accuracy. And my insatiable curiosity presented a unique challenge in raising me.

College at twelve. Undergraduate degree three years later. By the time I met William Landry, a sexy firefighter, I was a second-year med student at Stanford University. Of course, I had my pick of any medical school. And to everyone’s disappointment, I shunned all the Ivy League schools, opting to get as far away from my mom as possible. California was as good as it got.

“Is that a dick?” A tall guy with sandy blond hair, a mustache, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen perched on the stool next to me at the bar.

I was there with friends from medical school. It was the first of a week’s worth of celebrations leading up to Victoria’s wedding. The doodle on my napkin was a detailed anatomical drawing. Yes, there was a penis, but I didn’t label it like I did the other parts: frenulum, superficial and deep fascias, spermatic cord, perineal membrane . . .

Wadding up the napkin, I returned a nervous smile. “I’m a medical student.” My voice shook. He smelled of cologne, the rugged wilderness kind, not the overbearing kind rich guys wore with three-piece suits.

“Are penises going to be your specialty?” He smirked before nodding to the bartender and ordering a beer.

“You mean a urologist? No, and they specialize in more than penises. They deal with the kidneys, bladder, adrenal glands, ureters, urethra.”

He took a slow swig of his beer before offering a lopsided grin.

“But yeah, if you need help down there, I suppose a urologist could be considered a penis doctor. However, that won’t be my specialty. Who wants to look at that all day?”

He coughed behind his fist to hide his laughter. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Every time I take a piss, I roll my eyes like, ‘Jesus, not this again. I’m so tired of looking at that flaccid glob of skin.’”

It was time to abort. Make a run for it. But I immediately liked this tall guy with an addictive sense of humor.

“Cheers to that,” I said, tapping my water glass to his beer mug.

His grin doubled. “I’m Will. Are you in med school with Victoria?”

“I am. Are you one of Tyler’s groomsmen?”

He nodded. “I am.”

Will had a tiny mole beneath his left eye, like a little beauty mark. He also had a jaw that looked as strong as his broad shoulders, stretching his white T-shirt.

“Are you an accountant too?” I asked.

“Firefighter. Tyler and I were childhood friends,” he said, blue eyes assessing me as he took a long pull of his draft beer.

Victoria said I needed some life experience to be a good doctor. It wasn’t my fault that most of my fellow med students were in their mid-twenties to early thirties, while I was a month shy of my eighteenth birthday. In hindsight, an evening at the bar just off campus wasn’t the best way to gain life experience. But Victoria had dried the hell out of my amber-dyed hair until it was straight and silky, and she applied enough makeup to make me look twenty-seven instead of seventeen.

Push-up bra.

Tight jeans.

Heels.

And a fake ID.

Will looked at me as if the glow-up was a believable success.

Before Victoria abandoned me at the bar, she said, “Order white wine and drink half the glass. There are so many hot guys here tonight. And remember your ID says you’re twenty-five.”

I smiled stiffly under Will’s appreciative gaze. No man had ever looked at me like . . . a delectable meal.

“Can I get a red wine?” I said to the bartender, then I quickly shook my head. “White. White wine. Here.” I slapped my ID onto the bar.

The bartender with a long black ponytail glanced at it and slid it back to me.

“Everleigh. That’s a unique name,” Will said, scraping his teeth across his lower lip, which made me perspire more than usual.

In fact, I rarely sweated in stressful situations because I’d become accustomed to being the smartest one in the room, which meant there was no need to feel stressed. At least, that’s what my mom had always told me.

But my IQ did nothing for my confidence in a bar filled with intoxicated, rowdy people, and unfairly handsome guys like William Landry.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll tell my parents you approve. My dad wanted to name me Shabnam after his mother, Shabby for short, but my mom vetoed it in favor of Everleigh.”

Will paused his beer at his lips, then he smirked just before taking another drink.

The bartender set my wineglass in front of me, and I sipped it, unsure what to expect with my first taste of alcohol. A bitter taste and burning sensation. Yuck!

“Not a fan of white wine?” Will asked.

“I should have gone with my gut and ordered red.” I shrugged.

“So are you in your second year like Victoria?”

I nodded. “Yes. Second year, just like her.”

“Tyler said Victoria spends an ungodly amount of time studying. I can’t imagine that level of dedication,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m sure she does.” I glanced around the bar because Will was too sexy for lengthy stares.

“I’m sure you do too.”

My gaze returned to him. “Study?”

He nodded.

“Of course. But I’m uh . . .” I twisted my lips. I couldn’t tell him I was a genius. That seemed like an arrogant confession so early in a meeting. And the point was to fit in and gain experience, not to list my academic accolades. “I’m a quick study.”

“Is that a humble way of saying you’re smart?” He turned on the barstool, and his knee touched my thigh.

There was no wiggle room in the crowded bar, so I had to deal with our legs touching.

“I suppose everyone who gets into medical school at Stanford is smart.” I mentally patted myself on the back for navigating that answer in the most humble way possible.

“Well, smart women are very sexy.” His grin reached his ears before he set his empty glass aside and leaned in closer. “It’s loud in here. Want to take a walk?”

My head swiveled, searching in all directions for Victoria like she was my mom. But my mom was in New York, and my mom’s best friend, Maya, who I lived with, was in Salt Lake City for a business trip. I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen so I could live by myself.

Maya was cool. She trusted me because I had never given her any reason not to. Hence, feeling confident about leaving me alone for a week.

When I spotted Victoria and Tyler across the bar, talking to friends, I hopped off the barstool. “I’ll tell Victoria I’m taking a walk.”

“Cool. Maybe I should tell Tyler too.”

Was he making fun of me? His smile was hard to decipher.

He slid off the stool. “Don’t worry. I’ll get your drink so they don’t send the cops after you.” He deposited cash onto the bar.

I wrinkled my nose. “I was going to do that when I came back.”

Will rested his hand on my lower back, mouth close to my ear. “Our seats will be taken in two seconds. Why come back?”

I barely heard him because I couldn’t focus on anything but his big hand on my back. We wormed our way through the packed bar, and as we approached Victoria and Tyler, I took a quick step to the side so they wouldn’t see him touching me.

“We’re going for a walk,” I yelled over the deafening noise that vibrated so much I could feel it like teeth chattering.

Victoria eyed Will and then me before leaning closer, hand by her ear.

“We’re going for a walk,” I repeated.

She pulled away and grinned, eyebrows raised. Then she leaned in again. “Good choice. Will is trustworthy. Make sure he wears a condom.”

My head reared back. Was she serious? My gaze shot to Will, but he was busy laughing about something with Tyler.

“You can’t be a virgin doctor, Everleigh. I’m sorry. You just can’t,” Victoria yelled in my ear, and I turned red because she said virgin so loudly.

Surely my father would have thought I could absolutely be a virgin doctor, as any good dad did. As for my mom, well, I think she wanted a normal daughter who went to prom and discussed girl drama after school. Instead, she got the daughter who provided essays on the psychological effects of girl drama, teenagers, and social media. And, for the win, a comparison between Isaac Newton’s and John Locke’s theories on the age of reason.

Maya had a drawer in my bathroom with a box of condoms. And sometimes I caught her checking the drawer, only to frown when she discovered the unbroken seal on the box.

I imagined every day she sent my mom a text that said: Still a virgin.

“Can you take her home?” Victoria asked Will, squeezing his arm to get his attention.

I could get a cab or take a bus. There was no need for an escort. I’d just met the guy. Had I ruled out serial killer? Of course not.

Will glanced at me as if silently asking if I was okay with him taking me home and potentially dismembering me while whistling something catchy like the Nationwide insurance jingle. Maybe not. As a fireman, he was probably more of a homicidal pyromaniac. But I appreciated his checking with me. It made him even sexier, if that was possible.

Again, I felt a blush settle into my cheeks and perspiration in my pits as I shrugged and nodded.

“Sure thing,” Will said, satisfied with my consent, despite not really being old enough to consent to anything in California.

Tyler eyed us and then gave Will a smile. Was it a foregone conclusion that I would have sex with him? He returned his hand to my lower back and guided me out the door, dropping his hand to his side as we fell in step walking down the hill toward blocks of restaurants.

“Do you live here?” I asked, getting to know the man who would take my virginity or my life.

“Nah. I live in Missoula, Montana. I’ll be starting a new job at the fire department next month. I’m just here for the wedding. I’ve been hiking in Yosemite.”

“By yourself?”

“Part of the time. My dad joined me for two weeks.” He shrugged like it was no big deal. But the idea of camping alone in the bear-infested wilderness felt like a huge deal to me. “My dad is a park ranger, so I’ve spent a lot of my life in the wilderness.”

“Were you born in California?” I asked.

“No. Kalispell. It’s south of—”

“I know where Kalispell is.” I laughed. “It’s basic geography.”

“Basic geography?” Will shot me a quick sideways glance.

I adjusted my purse strap. “It’s on a map.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, then he slid his hand around my waist to pull me closer while we squeezed past a group of cackling women standing in the middle of the sidewalk. I liked how tiny and protected I felt tucked under his arm.

“That’s more than basic geography. I bet most people who don’t live here in the West have never heard of Kalispell,” he said, releasing me after we passed the women.

“I’m just trying to be sexy. You said smart women are sexy.”

“Touché, Everleigh. What else do you know that I might find sexy?”

That was a trick question. How was I supposed to know what information was sexy versus intimidating? My intelligence often intimidated men. Will’s finding it sexy was not only thrilling, it was rare.

“What are you into?” I asked. “Sports are my weak area. I’m not saying I’m weak. I have athletic skills, I just haven’t taken the time to study any particular sport.”

I loved Will’s laugh. It wasn’t like he was laughing at me. No, there was genuine joy in his reaction. “Well, I don’t study sports, but I love watching them. Are you hungry?”

I was starving, but I thought we were supposed to have sex.

“I could eat,” I said instead of mentioning sex.

“How do you feel about clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl?”

“I feel like you’re speaking my love language.”

He playfully nudged my arm. “Good answer.”

I felt his body heat cling to me like lava sliding down a hill.

For someone who didn’t live in the area, Will led me straight to a place with outdoor seating. He ordered us drinks and two clam chowders in sourdough bowls.

“Have you considered a specialty other than dicks?” he asked.

“Stop.” I giggled. “I’m considering psychiatry.”

His eyebrows jumped up his forehead. “You’re going to medical school to counsel people?”

I averted my gaze, thinking about my answer, and then I just said what came naturally. “I’m going to medical school because my dad expects me to become a doctor. I’m specializing in psychiatry because I find the mind more tolerable than any other part of the body.”

Will barked a laugh. “You don’t really want to be a doctor.”

“It’s an okay profession. Do you really want to be a firefighter?”

He sipped his water, then nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Well.” I drummed my fingers on my legs. “Good for you.”

Will had a way of smiling without really moving his lips. It was all in his expressive blue eyes, and the way the small mole under his left eye almost disappeared when he squinted. Were we really going to have sex?

Would it make me a better doctor? I thought it might. How could I genuinely understand patients with sexual issues if I had yet to experience a penis inside of me?

“Does your family live in California?” Will asked.

“No.” I paused for a moment, thinking about Will spending two weeks in Yosemite with his father, and I felt a pang of envy. “My father is a brilliant neurosurgeon in Delhi, and my mom is an artist in New York. They never married,” I said.

His brow furrowed. “That’s interesting. Who raised you?”

I liked Will so much, and I wanted him to like me back. “Both. I traveled back and forth. Three months with one, three with the other.”

“That’s a lot of time on a plane.”

“Yes. Sometimes one or the other would make the trip with me, but most of the time, a flight nanny escorted me. There were two I got to know pretty well.”

“How did your parents meet?”

I drew lines with my fingertip in the cool condensation on my water glass as dishes clinked and clanked behind me. This was my favorite story. “My father spoke at a medical conference in New York. One of his colleagues invited him to a private exhibition at an art gallery where my mom’s ‘tastefully painted’ nudes were on display.”

Will’s eyes widened a fraction.

“She said she was thirteen when her obsession with painting the human body in its truest form became her whole life.” I shrugged. “I’m not embarrassed by it. She’s very talented. Anyway, it was a one-night stand. That’s it. Two parents on two different continents. No siblings. Neither one has ever married. They’re married to their jobs.”

Will gave my words time to settle. I liked his patience. He never cut me off, which meant he was a good listener. And I felt like he found my story fascinating in the best way.

“What about you?” I asked. “Do you have the all-American dream? Great parents? Siblings? A hundred cousins?”

He picked off a piece of his bread bowl and dipped it into the chowder. “I have a younger sister. My parents are happily married. Yes, I have a few cousins. So I suppose in comparison, my family is the all-American dream. Whatever that means anymore.”

“That’s nice.” I tried to smile past my jealousy. “I think at least one brother or sister would have been fun. Even just parents who tried to make a marriage work.”

“Well, maybe you’ll have what they didn’t.”

“Slow down, William. We just met.”

Will’s grin engulfed his face. “No marriage proposals tonight?”

As hard as I tried to act cool, I wasn’t. I giggled and fidgeted. Did I look like a seventeen-year-old virgin with a crush on a sexy firefighter? Probably.

“So, you and Tyler were childhood friends?” I asked as the server refilled our waters.

“Yes.” He rested the napkin on his leg. “His family moved from Kalispell to Oakland just before his sixteenth birthday. There were four of us who hung out. He broke the pack.”

“Like a pack of wolves?”

He chuckled. “Sort of. What about you? How did you go to school if you were living three months in the US and three in India?”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat, skimming my spoon along the surface of the hot chowder. “I had private tutors.”

“You were privately tutored for twelve years?”

It took me only six years. But that wasn’t important. Will didn’t need to do any math that night.

“It wasn’t so bad.” I blew on the spoonful of soup before taking a cautious sip.

“That must have been lonely.”

He had no idea. Starting college at twelve made it hard to find friends. Not that I had no friends. Most of them were adults.

“I made friends online,” I said, picking at the top of my bread bowl.

“Social media?” Will asked.

“Gaming.”

“You’re a gamer?” He perked up.

“Yeah, why?” I sipped my lemonade through the straw.

“I’m a gamer too.”

His confession shook my composure. I had a million questions, per usual. What did he like to play? What system did he have, and what were his favorite platforms? Did he enjoy single or multiplayer games?

“Would you like to play with me?” I asked.

After swallowing his soup, he licked his lips. “Are we still talking about gaming?”

“Of course, what else would we be talking about?” I bowed my head for the next slurp of soup. As soon as it touched my lips, I got the innuendo.

Oh my god.

I cleared my throat, trying to figure out what a mature young woman would say to his suggestive reply.

“Um . . .” I dropped my spoon in my soup, then pressed my napkin to my lips, keeping my chin tucked. My heart rattled my chest as much as his words rattled my composure.

I couldn’t imagine what a twentysomething woman would say. Being a genius didn’t expedite certain life experiences. When it came to flirting, I was no more experienced than any other seventeen-year-old. If anything, fast-tracking through school robbed me of even the average experience.

“I’m kidding. I know we’re talking about gaming,” Will said.

I nervously laughed. “It’s fine if you’re not.”

Yes. I said that.

Maybe my sex CV was empty, but always being the youngest in every classroom had made me very brave, even when that bravery got me in over my head. That was the case with William Landry.

I peeked up at him.

“Check, please,” Will said, holding up a finger to get the server’s attention.

Then, the most embarrassing thing happened—tears welled in my eyes. I was on the verge of becoming a full-fledged woman, and it hit me all at once.

Chapter Six

Will

“Don’t.” I shake my head at Everleigh. “It’s been eleven years. You’re not allowed to cry.” I jab a finger into my chest. “I’m the only one who gets to cry over what happened between us. You nearly destroyed my life.”

Everleigh quickly wipes her tears. “Oh my god, Will . . . if you hadn’t freaked out and run down the street half-naked, we could have had a civil conversation about the misunderstanding. I did not know you thought—”

“Misunderstanding?” I lean forward, eyes narrowed at her. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her lips part for a second as she blinks with a blank stare. Then she steeples her fingers, tapping them against her lips as her self-control rebounds, nostrils flaring with a deep breath.

“What is it they say about doctors being the worst patients? Is it possible that you can see everyone else’s issues, but you can’t see your own?”

She exhales without a single muscle in her face twitching, flexing only her practiced composure. It’s impressive. I try not to grin because this isn’t funny, but in hindsight, there were so many moments I should have known something was different about Everleigh Reichart. For example, she can’t help her analytical side from creeping into conversations. I know she’s dying to say something doctorly, but she should be thinking, Holy shit. Am I the problem?

“Why didn’t you say something to Tyler? Why didn’t you return my calls or texts? You’ve spent all this time thinking that I was going to have you arrested for statutory rape? Victoria said you were mad that I didn’t tell you my age, not that you were afraid of going to jail. Will, that’s heartbreaking. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop placating me, Everleigh. It’s an insult to my intelligence,” I say, throwing her words back at her.

She frowns, brow tight.

“Why would I tell anyone we had sex and I was afraid of getting arrested? Do you know how fucking embarrassing that is?”

“Will, I’m—”

“I know. You’re sorry.” I roll my eyes. “Just pack your shit. I’ll find you a place to live right after I murder Maren. In the meantime, don’t come into the house. You’re a goddamn disaster.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Will, I have to use the bathroom. And I take my lunch to work, so I need access to the kitchen. Also, my bras are hanging to dry in your laundry room. And I’m paying rent, so you have to abide by the rental agreement at least until I find a new place. I won’t get in your way when you bring women home for the night. Can’t we just talk about it?”

“Oh, how nice of you not to get in my way if I bring someone home.” I turn toward the door.

“If anything, I’ll be a great reference.”

What the hell?

I glance over my shoulder.

Everleigh offers a creepy smile, chin up. “Sure. I could . . . well, I could tell them you’re eager but considerate.” She gives me a sharp nod. “And you’re an above-average kisser. And you make sure the woman orgasms first. Do you know how rare that is?”

Kill me now.

I open my mouth to speak, but what can I possibly say? Is she being the awkward girl I met in California? Or is she a well-respected doctor just fucking with my mind because she can?

Her smile vanishes with a long sigh. “Will, I’m very sorry, and ironically, I need a minute to figure out the best way to make amends. And maybe you need to talk to someone. Have you thought about that?”

I laugh past a cough. “Talk to someone? Like you, Dr. Reichart?”

“Of course not me.” She shakes her head a half dozen times. “That would be unethical. And just because we’re roommates, doesn’t mean you get free therapy.” She pauses, eyes wide like her words just registered.

I squint.

“I’m mean . . .” She clears her throat. “You could get a discount. Maybe. But I can’t be your doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

Her head bobs side to side. “Well, that’s debatable.”

“It’s not. But if it were, I’d hire a therapist. Psychiatrists are just overeducated, overpaid drug dealers.”

She slides her hands into her front pockets while stepping closer to me, bringing her soft floral scent with her. “William.” She wets her red lips. “You have every right to be upset.”

“No shit.” I don’t back away.

Her gaze seeps along my face, and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Do you feel that? The sexual tension from eleven years ago is still there.”

“It’s tension minus the sexual part. I’d rather jerk off to a smoked rack of ribs than think about having sex with you again.”

Her eyebrows peak. “Oh, you have objectophilia or fetishistic disorder. Would you say the rack of ribs gives you feelings of love and desire or just arousal? Maybe even painful arousal like you don’t want to feel the attraction?”

I hate her.

“I see you have a PlayStation,” she says. “Assassin’s Creed Shadows isn’t my favorite. I mean, the combat is fine, but other parts like the hideout mode are underwhelming. We should get Dragon Age: The Veilguard. Oh! And if you like sports, let’s get Gran Turismo 7. I’m really good at it.”

“We?”

She shrugs. “Of course. I think it would be a good way to work through our issues. And if we’re not going to have sex, since it’s against house rules, then that only leaves gaming. And Maren told me you don’t need a roommate; you just feel lonely sometimes. So I’m here for you, roomie.”

“You have a week. Then you’re out.” I brush past her to drive straight to Maren’s house with my sharpest knife.

“Hey, Will.” Maren’s stepdaughter Lola greets me, licking a Popsicle, blond hair falling out of her braided pigtails.

“Hey, sweet pea. Is Maren or your dad here?” I step inside and toe off my boots.

“Nope. Samantha from next door is supposed to be watching me, but she’s out back making a TikTok.” Lola steps aside to let me into the house. “Besides, I’m twelve. I can watch myself. Maren should be back soon. She’s picking up groceries on her way home. We’re having cheesesteaks. Are you staying? Where’s Everleigh?”

I pass Maren’s cherished blue velvet sofa on the way to the kitchen. Then, I steal a beer from the fridge. “How do you know Everleigh?”

“Duh, Jamie used to work with her. Everleigh suggested I try VR when I wouldn’t ride in a car after my mom died. And now she’s your roommate. And you were her first love.”

I cough, choking on my swig of beer as this twelve-year-old delivers her words without a hint of sarcasm. “Um . . .” I clear my throat. “Who told you that?”

“Told me what?” She leans over the sink as her Popsicle drips.

“Who told you I was Everleigh’s first love?”

“Nobody,” she mumbles after shoving the rest of the red Popsicle into her mouth before it falls off the stick into the sink. “I heard her talking to Maren when I was sort of listening at the bottom of the stairs.”

“When you were eavesdropping?”

“Maybe.” She giggles, wiping her mouth with a paper towel. “Will, she’s so fun, and the coolest doctor ever. She plays video games. And did you know she started college when she was twelve? Like, dude! That’s so cool. Why did you break her heart? She’s so pretty and probably the smartest person in the world. Maren says you’re a little broken.”

Fuck me.

What the hell happened during the weeks I was in Somers with my parents? When did my friends decide to conspire against me? And who brings a child into such a mess?

“Did Everleigh mention why I supposedly broke her heart?”

Lola shakes her head.

I set my beer on the counter and lean my backside against it, rubbing my nose because they have a stupid cat and I’m highly allergic to cats. “She lied to me. She’s a liar. So let this be a lesson to you, young lady. If you lie, boys will break your heart.”

“William!”

My gaze shoots to Maren in the doorway, grocery bags in her hands and blue eyes shooting daggers at me. “You did not just tell her that, did you?”

“Run along, sweet pea.” I wink at Lola. “You’ll be fine. You’re not a liar.” My smile fades as I sneeze three times in a row.

Stupid cat. This is why I rarely visit.

Maren sets the bags on the counter and adjusts her long, blond ponytail before giving Lola a quick hug. “Give me and Will a minute. Go clean Bandit’s litter box.”

I wrinkle my nose and wipe it with the back of my hand, hoping the tickle subsides before I go into a full sneezing attack or anaphylactic shock.

“Serves you right,” Maren says.

After a brief pause to let Lola get out of earshot (unless she’s eavesdropping), I cross my arms over my chest. “Everleigh fucking Reichart? Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“You pawned her off on Jamie and Fitz. It’s called karma.” She pulls the groceries out of the bags.

“Suggesting someone help her out for a few nights is not the same as a twelve-month lease.”

“She wanted a six-month one, but I knew you preferred twelve.”

“Fuck you.”

“Language, William. This is a family home, not your bachelor pad.” She unloads the groceries, talking with her back to me. It’s all too dismissive.

“I don’t have a bachelor pad because you invited the girl who nearly put me in prison to live in the shed. And she’s a mess, Maren. Shit everywhere. And my garage looks like a gym. Seriously, what were you thinking?”

“You love to work out, so I told her you’d be okay with it. You rarely park in the garage anyway. And Everleigh is an excellent influence. She’s in phenomenal shape. Have you seen her legs? Good lord, her muscles just pop.” She sighs.

I frown because I don’t care what Everleigh’s legs look like. Okay, I mostly don’t care.

“I think she’s the one,” Maren says, dumping a bag of grapes into a glass bowl and filling it with water and vegetable spray.

“The one what?” I sip my beer.

“The woman for you.”

Again, I choke and shake my head. “N-no.”

She shuts off the water and turns while drying her hands with the towel.

“Maren, I could have gone to prison for statutory rape. I don’t know why everyone thinks this is a joke. It’s not. I lived on pins and needles for three years. I jumped every time someone knocked on my door. It wasn’t funny then, and it’s still not.”

Maren rolls her eyes.

“No.” I shake my head. “You don’t get to do that. That’s the shit I’m talking about. You can’t act like the law is everything when it suits you, but nothing when you want to dismiss it. If Lola were seventeen and a twenty-nine-year-old man had sex with her, Ozzy would end that guy’s fucking life and still insist they throw his dead body in prison for a decade. But what if Lola dresses up to look twenty-five, has a fake ID, and doesn’t disclose to the poor guy that she’s seventeen before she willingly has sex with him? Whose fault is that? I’ll tell you. It’s still his fault.”

Maren doesn’t blink, and her lips part, but nothing comes out.

I lace my hands behind my head and look at the ceiling. “Just let it go.”

“Jesus, Will,” she says. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing. You don’t have to say anything.”

Her expression tenses. “I do have to say something because I had no idea you were that traumatized by it.” She deflates. “I’m an asshole,” she whispers.

I sigh. “You’re not.”

“I always thought it was just an embarrassing experience, not something that gave you PTSD for three years. That’s awful.”

“Now you make me sound like a pussy.”

She winces. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, it’s how I feel.”

“Will.” She grabs my arms, and we stare at each other. “I didn’t know.” She closes her eyes for a few seconds and shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I . . . we didn’t see the pain she caused you. I’m a terrible friend.”

“Mare—”

“I’m going to do whatever I can to make this right. If Everleigh has to live with us until she finds a new place, we’ll make it work. I’ll talk to Jamie, and we’ll make this right. Okay?” Maren wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek on my chest.

Why do I feel so uneasy? This is all I’ve wanted—for my friends to understand that what happened between Everleigh and me was a bad thing, borderline tragic. But I feel like a baby who blew everything out of proportion.

Did I?

“She was clearly a troubled teenager,” Maren says, releasing me. “I can’t imagine what being forced to grow up so quickly does to someone. But it doesn’t make what she did to you okay. I’m going to have a heart-to-heart with her. And not only will we get her moved out ASAP, I’m going to insist she not contact you. She’s a psychiatrist, for crying out loud. She should know exactly what all of this has done to you. Even if Jamie, Fitz, and I didn’t realize the depths of your trauma, Everleigh certainly should have. I’m starting to question why everyone says she’s such a good psychiatrist.”

I nod slowly.

“What?” she says. “What’s that look?”

“Nothing. Just, god, now I feel like a whiny baby. I don’t want to downplay it like it was no big deal. At the time, it was. But when you treat me like a victim, eleven years later, it feels like overkill.”

“Don’t, Will. You’re sounding exactly how someone who’s been emotionally abused would sound. You’re second-guessing and blaming yourself for overreacting, but you’re not overreacting. We, your friends, underreacted. Jamie and Fitz will feel terrible when I tell them, but they need to feel bad just like I needed to really feel it to understand what you’ve gone through.”

I hate being a victim. Why the hell did I say anything?

“We’re going to make this right. And I hope you’ll forgive us for ever making light of it.” Maren rests a flat hand on my chest. “When Ozzy gets home, I’ll have him and Lola take you out to dinner while I have a long talk with Everleigh. We’ll have the spare room ready for her by tomorrow.”

This feels so wrong. But it’s not wrong. It’s necessary. Right? I’m a victim, and I need to sit back and let my friends gather around me to lick my wounds.

Fuuuck . . .

Chapter Seven

Ozzy and Lola take me to dinner and try to distract me in the crowded bar and grill with random stories of Lola’s friends and funny things the cat does. Ozzy has trouble looking me in the eye. When Maren called him on his way home, she must have painted me as the abused victim. I feel emasculated.

“You didn’t have to take me to dinner,” I say, hoping to ease the awkward tension when Lola decides to eat more and talk less.

Ozzy is my friend, but Maren is using him as an accomplice in her intervention.

“It’s no problem. Glad to do it. So how are things going?”

I took at him, eyes slightly narrowed.

He shakes his head and wipes his mouth with the napkin. “Uh, aside from the current situation.”

I continue to look at him.

He closes his eyes while pinching the bridge of his nose. “And of course your dad and that situation. Have you been to any Paddleheads games?” Ozzy offers a goofy grin while changing the subject to baseball.

There’s not an ounce of happiness in my body, but he manages to squeeze a smile out of me. “I have not,” I say, going along with this conversation that’s meant to distract me from the real shit show.

Ozzy nods before glancing at his phone. “Crap,” he mumbles, reading his phone screen. “Everleigh’s mom is there.”

“What?” I slowly set my spoon in the empty ice cream bowl. Is this a joke? Hell no. This is not happening.

“Uh, yeah. Her mom is at your place, settled into Maren’s old room.” He rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “It’s fine. Our spare bedroom has a king-size bed. They can both stay in there.” Ozzy tries to hide his displeasure with a fake smile.

“Thanks for dinner.” I stand. “But this isn’t Maren’s problem to solve. And it’s definitely not yours. I’m heading home to deal with it.”

“Man, you can’t do that. Do you have any idea how much trouble I’ll be in?” Ozzy scratches the back of his head.

“Oh, hey! Ask Everleigh’s mom what it was like to have a genius as a daughter,” Lola says.

“Shhhh.” Ozzy frowns at Lola.

She shrugs and mumbles, “What?”

“Later, sweet pea.” I kiss Lola’s head, then squeeze Ozzy’s shoulder. Yeah, he’s going to be in trouble, but this situation has spun out of control.

When I arrive home and open the back door, three heads whip in my direction. A real meeting of the minds in my kitchen.

Maren cringes, and Everleigh averts her red-eyed gaze.

The lady, who I assume is her mother, offers me a genuine smile. “You must be the infamous Will Landry. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Liz.” She sets her wineglass on the counter and meets me at the door with a proffered hand. Her long, wavy hair is amber like Everleigh’s, but her skin is fair without the warm undertones of Everleigh’s, and she’s at least three inches taller than her daughter.

Long lashes.

Hazel eyes.

One-piece black jumpsuit with white heels and gobs of gold jewelry around her fingers, wrists, and neck.

Not at all what I expected. Then again, I’m not sure I had any expectations.

“Infamous isn’t the word I would use.” I shake her hand.

“Well, it’s the one that fits because you ruined my little girl for all other men.”

“Mother!” Everleigh’s face turns crimson, matching her eyes. “Let’s just get a hotel. Come on.”

“There’s plenty of room at my house,” Maren says as Everleigh marches toward the back door, giving me a wide berth.

I should ignore her. Why do I care?

She and those fucking crocodile tears. Dammit!

I hold up a finger to Liz and Maren. “Give us a sec,” I say, following Everleigh to the shed.

“Get back, William. I don’t want Maren calling the cops on me.” She kicks one of the solar lights on the path, and it falls off its stake.

Totally unnecessary.

“Everleigh, stop.”

She throws open the shed door and starts shoving the rest of her belongings into bags.

“You told your mom about us?”

“Yes. So what? What did you expect me to do after you broke my heart?”

“I didn’t break your heart.”

“You did!” She stands straight and clenches her hands at her sides. “I’m sorry, Will. But I didn’t lie to you. Yes. I should have been more open with you. But I was on the precipice of womanhood. All of my friends were almost ten years older. I was living with my mom’s best friend, and I didn’t have any clue what normal felt like. But you—” She wipes her face. “You felt normal to me. For one week, I got to experience what my friends felt when they kissed their boyfriends and compared the number of orgasms they had. I just wanted to feel like everyone else. Not like a genius. Not special. Not like a child. Not privileged. Normal.”

I drop my head and sigh. She’s an emotional terrorist.

“Will, I know I didn’t break your heart, but you broke mine. And had you not run away, I could have eased your mind, assured you no one would ever knock at your door and send you to prison. But you just stomped all over my heart and ran off without a glance back. You wouldn’t answer my texts or calls.”

A bitter apology sits on the tip of my tongue. How did my confession to Maren and a sympathy dinner from Ozzy turn into my being on the verge of apologizing to Everleigh for thinking less about her young heart and more about doing hard time?

Before I open my mouth, she stabs her fingers into her hair, clenching it. With a sigh, she closes her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m too close to this.”

I don’t know what she’s talking about or what’s going on, so I hold my tongue and let it play out.

“I’m just”—she shakes her head—“too close.” When she opens her eyes, her hands flop to her sides. “How did I not see it? All this time, I remembered that day from the perspective of an immature seventeen-year-old thrust into an adult world and experiencing love for the first time.”

Her brow furrows. “I didn’t think about state laws or prison time. Not for a single second. You were traumatized, and I never saw it. And it doesn’t matter why I never saw it. This is on me. Not you, Will. My excuses are no longer justified because I’m not seventeen. I’m sorry.” She rests a hand on her heart. “Truly.”

“Will?” Maren interrupts in the doorway behind me as bugs swarm into the shed, buzzing around the light. “Can I have a word with you?”

I don’t know what to say anymore. This is not what I wanted, people feeling sorry for me. Fuck. I don’t know what I want anymore.

Everleigh tucks her chin and turns toward the bed to continue packing, so I follow Maren into the garage, capturing the last bit of daylight glowing along the mountain ridge. I frown at Everleigh’s exercise equipment as I step into the garage. But I don’t say anything because I don’t need to be reminded that she has fantastic legs and toned arms.

“Oh my god!” Maren grabs my shirt and shakes me. “She hasn’t had sex since you took her virginity!”

My face sours. What is she talking about?

“That’s what Liz just said. That’s why you’re infamous in her mind. This is all so messed up. But I profusely apologized to both of them for suggesting Everleigh stay here. I’m sure Liz thinks I’m out of my mind. But I didn’t know she was coming to visit.”

I grab Maren’s shoulders. “Go home. It’s okay. I’ve got this. You’ve helped enough.”

She nods with the cadence of my words, then shakes her head when they register. “No. I did this. Jamie helped too. But ultimately, it was my idea. So I’m responsible for making things right.”

“I’m a grown-ass man who can handle this. And I should have been here to deal with this instead of you. Liz must be really impressed with the coward her daughter chose.”

Maren sighs, but then she furrows her brow. “Why do you care what her mom thinks?”

“I . . . I don’t. Just go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Will—”

“Go.” I kiss her forehead. “You’ve done so much. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

She gives a reluctant nod and steps over the lined-up kettlebells toward the door before turning back to me. “Wait. You mean that in a vengeful way, not in gratitude.”

“Correct.” I return a toothy grin.

“Ozzy told me to mind my own business,” she mumbles while opening the door.

“Listen to Ozzy. He’s always right.” I follow her outside and head toward the shed, where I knock before opening the door.

Everleigh strips the sheets from the bed.

“When’s the last time you had sex?” I ask.

“What?” She squints.

“You heard me.”

Her head jerks backward. “Why are you asking me about my sex life? I just opened my heart to you with a sincere apology. I had an epiphany. We shared a healing moment. There was an admission of wrongdoing. Responsibility. Remorse. What does that have to do with my sex life?”

“How many sexual partners have you had?”

She folds the fitted sheet with precision, just like Jamie used to do when she lived here.

How is Everleigh a walking disaster, yet she’s shockingly perfect when it comes to folding fitted sheets? This girl—this woman—has my mind all over the damn place.

She glances over her shoulder, hazel eyes framed in smeared mascara, giving me a slow assessment before rolling her eyes. “You’re unbelievable. Why are you asking me that? And how many sexual partners have you had?”

“Ever? Or just this past month? It was a slow month for me since I was at my parents’ house.”

“And by slow you mean you haven’t had sex in the past month because you’ve been at your parents’ house.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There are women in Somers, Montana. Just not a lot. Slow means slow, not idle.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you really so desperate to have sex that you slipped away from your dying father’s bedside to get laid by a stranger?”

I roll my eyes. “I never said he was dying. There was no slipping away like I had a curfew. And only one woman was a stranger. The others were acquaintances. And for the record, I had a beer every night, but not because I was desperate or an alcoholic, just because I enjoy having a beer. Guess what else I enjoy.”

The blood drains from her face.

“Everleigh, can I make an observation?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

She doesn’t answer.

“I think you hate being a doctor. I think you hate living your life for your father. That disgusted look on your face is actually envy. You wish you could have sex with strangers or mere acquaintances just because having an orgasm with a naked body grinding against you feels so fucking good. I bet the last time you had alcohol was the night we met in Stanford. And I bet the last time you had . . .” I bite my tongue before going too far.

She looks away and quickly wipes her eyes. I wonder if she cries with her patients.

“If you want to feel normal, then go make some fucking mistakes. Get a speeding ticket. Stop worrying about what other people think of you. Drop your panties for a stranger in the bathroom of a bar. Stop trying to live up to anyone else’s expectations. That’s normal. Or . . . it should be.”

She presses a hand to her neck as if there’s an invisible string of pearls to clutch. Her absent gaze lingers on the center of my chest for a few seconds before slowly lifting to my face. “I burned down my house and killed Marie Curie,” she murmurs.

“Yeah, don’t do that again. Let’s not normalize burning shit to the ground.”

She fights the grin that tries to steal across her lips, but I see it, the beautiful smile she gave me when we met eleven years ago. “Well”—she looks at her watch—“I need to book a hotel room before it gets any later. I’m . . .” Her brow furrows. “I’m glad you told Maren how you felt, and I’m glad you told me. Thank you. I’m truly sorry for not only missing the real reason behind your anger but also for not trying to imagine how it’s impacted you all these years.”

I stare at her hand as she offers it to me.

“Friends?” she asks.

“Friends?” I raise an eyebrow.

She shrugs. “Why not? Everything is out in the open. The healing can begin. And maybe things between us ended badly, but during the week leading up to the wedding, we were friends. The really good kind.”

I blink at her delicate hand, and I don’t know why I slide mine against it, but when I do, its warmth sparks those old memories. God, I used to love touching her.

Chapter Eight

Eleven years earlier . . .

It took forever to get the check, so I emptied the cash from my wallet, and we left the restaurant. Everleigh was hard to read. She seemed nervous and anxious. Willing, yet a little terrified. As we waited for our ride, I held her sweaty hands, fingers interlaced, while pulling her into me. She swallowed and squeezed my hands while gazing up at me with wide eyes.

“Thanks for dinner,” she said, her voice breathy and shaky.

“Are you nervous?” I squinted.

Her head bobbed in a way that I couldn’t tell if she was shaking it or nodding. “If you’re going to kill me, make it fast. Okay?”

I didn’t move. Not a blink or a breath for several seconds. Then I barked a laugh, throwing back my head. “You think I’m going to murder you?”

Everleigh curled her lips between her teeth either to hide her grin or control her quivering.

“Then why are we going back to your apartment?” I asked.

“In case you’re planning on kissing me instead of killing me.” She wrinkled her nose while giving me a goofy grin.

I released her hands and took a step backward, running my fingers through my hair. “Everleigh, you take the ride when it gets here. I’ll walk to my hotel.” My hands flopped to my side. “We just met. Skepticism is good. It’s safe. If it works out, we can meet up another night this week for dinner again. If it doesn’t, then I’ll see you at the rehearsal, and that’s cool too. It’s been fun.” I retreated another step as the ride pulled up to the curb.

She whipped her head to the left, looking at the car before turning toward me again. “Th-that’s it? You’re giving up that easily?”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tell me you’re a sane, honorable man. Then kiss me or something like that. Because I’ve never been kissed by a tall fireman with a mustache. And now I won’t be able to sleep without knowing what that’s like.”

Everleigh was different, a little quirky, but in the best possible way.

“For what it’s worth,” I said. “I don’t know what it’s like to kiss a tall fireman with a mustache either. But I bet it’s pretty amazing.”

Her smile engulfed her face.

“Have a good night.” I turned.

“Jeez, just kiss me already,” she said.

I smirked before turning. We stepped toward each other, and I grabbed her face. Before our lips touched, she sucked in a quick breath. It was an arousing sound, or maybe it was the way she hummed while her body melted against mine. It was something. She was something.

“Hey! Do you need a ride or not?” the driver yelled out the window.

Everleigh grinned, ending the kiss. “Just promise not to kill me,” she said.

“No promises. Get in the car.” I rolled my eyes and held open the door as she slid into the back seat.

When the driver pulled away from the curb, I leaned over and kissed her again. She had the softest skin. Silky hair that held a faint floral scent.

“Has anyone told you that you’re a good kisser?” she mumbled while I kissed her neck. Her fingers teased my nape as she giggled. “But your mustache tickles.”

“I’m not sure anyone has said those words”—I smirked—“but it’s been implied.” I kissed her again.

Everleigh wasn’t too shabby a kisser either. She moved her mouth against mine, and hummed when my tongue swept into her mouth. It made my dick so hard that I had to keep adjusting in the seat. The visceral attraction was stronger than anything I had experienced in a long time, maybe ever.

We stumbled out of the car and into the building’s entrance. She swiped a card that got us into the lobby, then she swiped it again to make the elevator ascend.

“Tell me to slow down,” I whispered over her lips while backing her into the corner of the elevator.

“Don’t slow down.” She fisted my shirt and rose onto her toes.

I grabbed the backs of her legs and lifted her off the floor. When she gasped, I quickly swallowed it with another long kiss while guiding her legs around my waist. We staggered to the apartment at the end of the hall on the fifth floor.

She broke the kiss with a little giggle, and I set her on her feet to open the door.

“Do you want a beer?” she asked, stepping into the dark room.

“Everleigh,” I whispered in her ear, standing behind her while my right hand slid up the front of her shirt and under her bra.

She drew in a sharp inhale that did things to me.

“I want to take off your clothes and bury my face between your beautiful legs,” I whispered.

“Cunnilingus?” She flipped a switch that turned on a standing lamp beside a sage green upholstered sofa with floral decor pillows. Plants filled every corner of the apartment, and some hung from macramé holders.

“What?” I stepped in front of her and curled her hair behind her ears, narrowing my eyes. Surely I heard her wrong.

She wrinkled her nose. “Um, the medical term is cunnilingus. Well”—she averted her gaze and blushed—“on a female. On a male, it’s fellatio.”

I laughed, dropping my hands to my sides as I bowed my head. “This is what I get for trying to seduce a medical student. I think I’ll take that beer after all.”

“Yeah?” She seemed excited that I opted for the beer.

Digging my teeth into my lower lip to control my grin, I nodded.

“I love Lego Star Wars, but my uh . . . roommate’s boyfriend plays Call of Duty, so if you want, we can play it. I’m not that good, though.” She handed me a can of beer.

“Well, maybe I can teach you,” I said, opening the can. “Where is your roommate?”

“London.” She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. “But if my mom finds out, she’ll be livid.”

“Why?” I squinted before drinking the beer.

The apartment held a spice and wood scent with a hint of smoke, like she or her roommate burned incense.

“Uh, well, my mom is really protective.” Everleigh shrugged.

“You’re a grown woman.”

“I don’t think moms ever stop worrying about their kids.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Here. Let me see if the controllers are charged.” She stepped past me to dig them out of the basket under the coffee table.

“Have you been in a lot of weddings?” I asked, sitting on the lumpy sofa. The window air conditioner hummed behind it.

“No. This is my first time being a bridesmaid, and I’m really excited.” She handed me the controller and turned on the TV. “Is it your first time being a groomsman?”

“Nah. I’ve done it at least half a dozen other times.”

“Really?” She sat next to me and expertly worked the remote to bring up Call of Duty. “What are you going to do when you get married? You’ll have to reciprocate and have a dozen or more groomsmen.”

I chuckled. “I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it.”

She zoned into the game, even while I continued to look at her and the way she gnawed on her lower lip while focusing on the screen. After a few seconds, she gave me a quick sideways glance.

“What?” She narrowed her eyes for a second before refocusing on the screen.

“Nothing.” I grinned.

We played Xbox until three in the morning. While I finished a game by myself, she drifted off to sleep beside me on the sofa.

“I should leave,” I said, turning it off.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, her eyes barely open as she grabbed my arm.

“You’re tired, and I am too.”

“I thought”—she yawned—“we were having sex.” Her words came out a little slurred, as if she were barely conscious. “Or cunnilingus.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. I wasn’t into having sex with sleeping women. Still, I ducked my head and kissed her neck. “Want me to make you come, Everleigh?” My erection returned just from saying the words aloud. She still smelled like flowers, and I could only imagine how she tasted.

“I . . .” she mumbled, eyes closed, “think . . . so.” She was out.

It was a first. I didn’t know what to do, but when I stood, her grip on my arm tightened.

“Please,” she whispered without opening her eyes.

“Fine. But I’m taking off my shirt because it’s hot in here.”

She made a noise, but it didn’t sound like an objection, so I ditched my shirt and wedged my body beneath hers on the sofa.

Hours later, the sunlight hit my face through the sheer curtains, and I squinted open an eye. Everleigh was in the kitchen, and it smelled amazing, like eggs and butter. And she looked just as delectable with her hair in a bun, a clean white T-shirt, and frayed denim shorts.

“I made coffee,” she said. “Well, the Keurig did. Do you want cream or sugar?”

I sat up and stretched. “I want a shower, and I need to brush my teeth.”

“Oh, um. Sure.” She turned off the burner and set the spatula aside. “There are towels in the bathroom. And Maya has extra toothbrushes on the bottom shelf of the linen closet. We both use electric ones, but the dentist always gives a free one at our six-month checkups.”

I headed toward the bathroom. “Cream, no sugar, please.”

What was I doing spending a sexless night with a woman I met at a bar, and sticking around the next day for a shower and breakfast? As I stepped into the tub and closed the glass sliding door, I shook my head and grinned. During my shower, I noticed the bathroom door was no longer completely shut, but I knew I’d closed it.

“Are you going to join me or just watch?” I said because I was an asshole who liked to make her blush.

Click.

The door shut.

I laughed.

After the shower, I brushed my teeth and sauntered into the kitchen with my hair wet, shirt still on the floor by the sofa. “Whose violin?” I asked, nodding to the case on the floor by an overgrown plant.

“Mine.”

“How long have you played?”

“As long as I can remember. I think they handed it to me the second I came out of the womb.”

I chuckled.

“Here are your eggs and toast.” She shoved the plate into my chest without looking up at me.

“Thanks.” I took it and sat at the small table by the window overlooking a park with weathered wood play equipment and a tornado slide. “Are you any good?”

“I’m okay.” She shrugged.

“Play something for me.”

“What do you want me to play?”

I lifted an eyebrow at her while picking up the fork. “You can take requests?”

“Maybe.” Her nose wrinkled. “What are you requesting?”

“Surprise me.”

She lifted the case onto the other end of the table and pulled out the violin. I had never met a violinist before her. It didn’t match the vision I had of the gamer from the previous night. With it tucked under her chin, she began playing. It took only a few seconds for me to recognize the song. “Are you playing ‘Titanic’?”

She rolled her eyes without pausing. “‘My Heart Will Go On.’”

I slowly ate my breakfast, barely tasting it because I was so enamored of her performance. Her body swayed and dipped as she played it flawlessly. Everleigh was fucking amazing.

When she finished, I dropped my fork and clapped as she held the violin in one hand and the bow in the other, taking a dramatic bow. Then she blushed while returning it to its case.

“That was incredible.”

“Thanks.” She averted her gaze for a second. “My paternal grandfather was a conductor, so my dad played, and that’s why he insisted I play.”

“Did your mom make you practice too?”

“Yes.” She latched the case and stepped past me to the counter, where she poured a cup of coffee. “She made me practice violin, and in return, he made me practice ballet since that’s what my mom insisted I do. It was all about them.” She laughed.

“Are you going to pirouette for me?”

She grinned, setting the mug on the table. Then she backed away and raised her arms in front of her, bending at the knees. “Plié,” she said.

I grinned.

She lifted onto her toes. “Relevé.” Then she raised one leg and spun. “Pirouette.” As she came to a stop, she extended her leg behind her and spread her arms like wings. “Arabesque.”

Did ballet turn me on? Apparently. Or at least, Everleigh making it look so easy made my dick hard.

“Come here,” I said.

She dropped her arms, and the big smile on her face softened as she padded her bare feet toward the table.

“You’re incredibly surprising,” I said, pinching a few threads hanging from the leg of her cutoffs.

She clenched her fists at her sides.

“Did you enjoy watching me shower?”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“You do.” I slid my hand along the back of her bare leg. “Why didn’t you join me?”

Again, she made an audible gulp, and her chest rose and fell slowly despite her racing pulse. I dragged my hand to the side of her leg and inched my thumb up her inner thigh.

Her lips parted, eyes closed. My gaze shifted between her face and my hand on her leg, thumb breaching the crotch of her underwear.

Chapter Nine

I shake Everleigh’s hand so long it’s obvious I’m thinking back to our “really good” kind of friendship. She grins, so I clear my throat and let go.

“Did you only tell your mom that I stole your virginity and stepped on your heart? Or did you mention your Peeping Tom episode and how much you enjoyed my fingering you at the kitchen table after you played your violin and danced for me? How when I had second thoughts about it, you grabbed my wrist and begged me to keep going?”

I have to hand it to Everleigh; she’s more controlled than she was when we met in California. She can easily channel Dr. Reichart and deliver her punches as needed.

When she smiles, I prepare for the impact.

“William, now that we’re friends again, you should let me stay in the shed. And if you leave the bathroom door unlocked, I might take a peek or two when the mood strikes. In return, when my mom’s not here, I’ll let you finger me at the breakfast table. Deal?”

Damn . . .

How is it possible that in less than six hours, I’ve gone from wanting to kill her, to realizing I was her victim of emotional abuse and manipulation, to being on the verge of apologizing for breaking her heart, to the recipient of a real apology from her, back to friends, and now I want to fuck her senseless? Perhaps I should hire a therapist.

“If you need to get off, I suggest you look into a good vibrator. Messing around with roommates is breaking the house rules. And I have better options,” I say.

“It’s your rule.”

I twist my lips for a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah. It’s a good one.”

“Fine.” She offers a one-shoulder shrug. “I’d rather drop my panties for a stranger in a bar restroom, anyway.”

“Attagirl,” I say because we’re friends, and friends cheer each other on.

What the fuck?

Did I really just agree to be friends with Everleigh Reichart?

“Let’s tell my mom the good news. Her body is on Eastern time, so she’ll go to bed soon, and we can game for a while.” Before I can reply, she marches toward the house like our evening plans are final.

“I’m sorry,” Fitz says as soon as I answer the phone the following morning on my way to the fire station.

“For what?”

“Everleigh. We didn’t know, man. I feel like such an asshole.”

“Oh, yeah. Actually, it’s—”

“Don’t tell Jamie I used this word. She hates it. But Everleigh is a cunt. That’s all there is to it. After everything Maren told me, I can’t imagine what you must have felt. Scared to open your door for three years? Will, that’s messed-up shit. And seriously, what if one of her parents had turned you in to the authorities? Can you imagine?”

“You know, I was in a bad place yesterday, stressed about my dad. And then the kitchen was a mess. I may have overreacted. After all, it’s been eleven years since that happened, and I didn’t get a knock on the door. Had I just stuck around to talk to her, I would have found out that there was no way she or her parents were going to turn me in. I’m just ready to put the past behind me and stop thinking about it. Let bygones be bygones. You know?” I rub my temple while waiting at the stoplight. Then I flip my visor down because the rising sun is in the worst spot.

“Listen, buddy, don’t do this. You know I buried shit from my past, and it didn’t stay buried. You have to deal with it if you really want to move forward. I’m going to make sure Maren gets Everleigh moved out today or I’ll do it myself. Okay?”

What’s happening? What have I done?

“Fitz, I told Maren I’d handle it. Everleigh’s mom is in town. As much as I have harbored ill feelings toward Everleigh all these years, it’s not fair to take it out on her mom. And I don’t want things to be weird between Everleigh and Jamie since they used to work together. Also, Lola really likes her because she offered to help her with some VR stuff when she was struggling after her mom died. So, as tempting as it is to just blow everything up—and believe me, I’m so grateful to have friends like you who would do that for me—I think it’s best to let things ride for now. When her mom goes home, then we can sort out Everleigh’s living situation. Besides, I spend most of my time at the station and doing other things. But thanks, man. Really. I appreciate you.”

He clicks his tongue. “Well, you’re a better man than I am. But okay. I’ll tell Jamie that you’re willing to slow things down to avoid World War III. She’ll be grateful. But if you change your mind, I’ve got your back.”

“I know you do. Thanks.”

“Later,” he says.

I end the call just as I pull into my parking spot along the street by the station. Then, my phone chimes with a text.

Everleigh: Bruh! I’m exhausted. The only thing getting me through today is the satisfaction of knowing I sniped u in less than 30 seconds. CU tonight!!!

I shake my head, but not without grinning at her “bruh” and not-so-humble bragging about beating me in Fortnite. We played until after two in the morning.

Will: You’ll only see me tonight if u start the house on fire. Please don’t. I work a 48 hr shift. While ur not starting the house on fire make sure u clean up after yourself

She sends a saluting emoji.

Again, I grin while hopping out of my Bronco.

“Welcome back,” Anderson says, sipping coffee while his squad sets up to run drills in the parking lot. “How’s your dad?”

“Old. It’s not pretty.”

“Sorry to hear that. But what can you do? It’s life, huh?” He squeezes my shoulder as I walk past him.

I field more questions about my dad as I pass people on the way to the chief’s office, stopping just outside to get an update from Bellamy, the previous shift’s engine lieutenant who always smells like he bathed in cheap cologne.

“Morning,” I say to Chief Killmer after Bellamy finishes his update and heads home.

“Landry, good to have you back. How’s your dad?”

I sit in the wooden armchair in front of his old mahogany desk littered with files, wrappers, and empty coffee cups. “He’s okay for now. Thanks for asking.”

Chief leans back in his squeaky chair, hands folded over his broad chest. The skin along the right side of his neck is mottled from burns he sustained after the floor collapsed in a fire. His wife begged him to retire. That was ten years ago.

He now has a new wife, a headful of gray hair, and a two-year-old son who everyone thinks is his grandson. My father has dealt with the same thing. I’ve lost count of how many times people have referred to him as my grandfather.

“I really appreciate your offering Dr. Reichart a place to stay,” he says with an approving nod.

“You know her?” I can’t hide my surprise.

He hums. It sounds like a growl coming from his burly chest. “This stays between us, but I’ve been seeing her for the past three years. Lillian made it a condition of marrying me. I was skeptical at first. Shrinks have never been my thing. But it’s really helped. Anyway, Dr. Reichart is a good egg. And losing everything in a fire is tragic. We know this all too well. So your act of kindness hasn’t gone unnoticed by me. Thank you.”

“I, uh”—rubbing the back of my neck, I sit up straighter—“can’t take credit for it. Not really. Maren had a lot to do with it while I was visiting my dad. It’s only temporary. But yeah, glad to help.”

This situation is a fuckfest. I like a nice separation between my work and home life. Now Everleigh is a connection between the two, and it makes me uneasy. But since he wants this to stay between the two of us, maybe we never need to discuss it beyond today.

“Bellamy did a nice job filling in for you. There were a few minor hiccups, but that was to be expected as everyone acclimated to the new lieutenant. But we’re glad to have you back.”

“Thanks,” I say, giving him a tight smile. Am I back to stay? I don’t know. My dad is okay, but not great. It would pain me to leave this firehouse, but I’ll do it if the time comes when my mom needs constant help with Dad.

Before I can elaborate, the siren sounds, and a call comes in from dispatch. Chief and I stand and head toward the door.

I welcome anything that takes my mind off a certain doctor. Everything about this situation spells catastrophe.

Chapter Ten

“Good morning.” Liz greets me when I return home after a forty-eight-hour shift. Much like my mom, she’s in workout attire and has her hair pulled back, with a fancy to-go coffee in one hand as she scrolls her phone.

“Morning,” I say, removing my leather boots.

“Coffee?” she asks, dropping her phone into her purse on the kitchen table. “I got a latte from the shop down the street, but I can make you a pot or run and get you something.”

“Nope.” I head toward the stairs. “Sleep.”

“Sweet dreams.”

I mumble a “Thanks” and drag my tired ass up the stairs. My welcome-back shift was nonstop chaos with no sleep.

When I turn the corner at the top of the stairs, I bump into Everleigh.

“Oh, sorry,” she says. “Long shift?”

I yawn and nod, but not without eyeing her white blouse unbuttoned to reveal just a tease of cleavage. Her floral scent hijacks my next breath.

“Your hair is darker,” I say.

She runs her fingers through the long, straight strands. “Yes. I’m going back to my natural color. I haven’t done anything to it. The fading and outgrowth are more noticeable when it’s straight.”

“That wasn’t your natural color?”

“No.” She laughs. “I added red to it. I have for years, just like my mom.”

“I like . . .” I clear my throat. “I’m going to bed.”

She smirks. “Were you going to say you like it?”

“Nope. I’m going to bed. That’s all I was going to say.” I brush past her toward my room.

When I let myself think of her as a grown woman instead of the underage girl I did all kinds of things to over the course of a week, I begin to like things about her such as her natural hair color. And that’s a terrible idea.

After five hours of sleep, I shower and head to the kitchen for food. When I get there, it’s a damn mess.

“Sorry, I’ll get everything cleaned up,” Liz says, jumping off the sofa and setting her book on the coffee table. “I make my own protein bars. Here, try one.” She offers me a square.

“I’m good, but thanks.” I wipe the trail of rolled oats off the counter and into the sink.

“You know what they say about artists.”

“What’s that?” I set a skillet on the stove while she flutters around me, cleaning up her mess.

“Creatives are messy.”

“I bet your daughter would disagree and dismiss that as a stereotype with no definitive data to support it.”

Liz laughs, scrubbing her dishes in the sink. “For someone who has spent very little time with Everleigh, you seem to know her well.”

“I know virtually nothing about her. We didn’t exactly start off with the truth.”

“She just wanted to fit in with her peers. Who can blame her for that?”

“Me. The guy who could have gone to jail. I can blame her for that.” I drop some butter into the hot skillet and then crack two eggs.

Liz sighs, rinsing her dishes and setting them in the strainer. “For her eighteenth birthday, I took her to a spa. Then we got her ears pierced. Lunch at a tearoom. Matching tattoos. And we ended the night with drinks and a show. And you know what? She sulked the whole time. Finally, I grabbed her shoulders and shook her, demanding she tell me what was ruining her big day, and that’s when she broke down and told me about you.”

I break the egg yolks with the spatula. “And what did she say?”

“I won’t betray her trust by telling you.”

I nod. Whatever.

“She said you were her soulmate.”

So much for not betraying her daughter.

Liz pulls a clean towel from the drawer and dries her dishes. “She said that week with you was the best week of her life. And when you two made love, she knew it was something that would last forever. Then you eviscerated her heart the next morning.” Liz sighs. “I don’t think she’ll ever be the same.”

I was so close. Maren and Fitz were ready to get Everleigh out of my life, like a magician with a sleight of hand. But no. I let her big tears send me back eleven years, reminiscing about that week. I let her make me feel guilty for breaking her heart.

Dammit! I’m being manipulated again.

“I think she’s doing just fine,” I say. “She has a solid reputation. A good staff. Family and friends who care about her. A bright future. Maybe not being the same is a good thing. Move on. Evolve. Grow. Spread your wings. Don’t you think?” I sneak a sideways glance at her.

Liz frowns. “Will, I’m talking about her heart. It will never be the same. You never forget your first love. It’s the most impressive one.”

I try to remember my first love. Nope. I’ve got nothing. Perhaps it’s a female thing. Or maybe I’ve never been in love.

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” I say, retrieving a plate before pulling two slices of bread from the bag and sliding the eggs onto one piece.

Liz watches me as I add mayo and hot sauce. Her nose wrinkles when I take a bite. “You mean like that sandwich?” she asks.

“I noticed Everleigh is growing out her natural hair color,” I say, eyeing Liz’s amber hair. Honestly, I had no idea it wasn’t natural.

She tucks a few strands behind her ear. “My daughter has my eyes. That’s it. Everything else she got from her father. When she started college, I took her to get her hair colored like mine.”

“But that’s not your natural color.”

She frowns. “Watch it, young man.”

I smirk after taking another bite of my sandwich.

“I’m a mousey brunette. This color suits me better. It’s what I looked like when I met Everleigh’s father.” Her pleasant smile slips for a second. Then she swallows hard and finds a new smile that’s less believable before clearing her throat. “It’s become part of my identity, so when I took my daughter to get hers colored to match, I felt like she was really mine.”

That’s ridiculous, but whatever.

“Her darker hair is nice,” I say.

“Yes. She’s a beautiful young woman. She has a real Ritu Arya look to her when her hair is black. My daughter is stunning. It’s a shame you can’t see that.”

I can see just fine. “Who’s Ritu Arya?”

“Umbrella Academy?” Her eyes widen, waiting for me to light up with recognition. I’ve got nothing.

“So how long are you here for?” I ask.

“Two more days. I’m going house hunting with Everleigh tomorrow.”

Excellent.

“If you need a list of homes for sale, just let me know. I have a friend who’s a Realtor,” I say because I’m a helpful guy who just wants what’s best for everyone.

“Will, has anyone ever painted you?”

“Painted me?” I mumble over a bite of sandwich.

“Yes. Or drawn you? I bet you’d look stunning as a graphite pencil sketch. How would you feel about my painting you this afternoon? I bet there’s an art supply store in this town. I could pick up a few things and be back in less than an hour.”

“Oh, no. Really.” I brush my hand down the front of my T-shirt. “I have nothing nice to wear. All of my clothes are old and wrinkled.”

“You’re cute, Will.” She bats her eyelashes at me. “I’m sure Everleigh told you I paint nudes. Who cares what your clothes look like?” She grabs her black leather tote off the table and hikes it onto her shoulder. “Be back soon.”

“Sir, can I help you?” The blond behind the desk jumps out of her chair as I blow past her.

“Everleigh?” I call, looking right and left into rooms as my boots stomp on the floor down the clinic’s hallway. “Dr. Reichart? Where are you?”

“Sir!” The blond catches up with me and grabs my arm. “You need to stop, or I’ll have to call security.”

“Where is she?”

“Dr. Reichart is unavailable. You need to make an appointment.” She tightens her grip on my arm while blowing her bangs away from her black-framed glasses.

I turn toward her, pulling out of her hold and narrowing my eyes. “Find her and tell her that her landlord is here.”

“Will?”

I pivot toward Everleigh’s voice. She has a VR headset resting on her forehead, nose wrinkled as she squints at me.

“Are you seriously playing games at work?”

She frowns, glancing behind her. I follow her gaze to a little boy, who has a VR headset on his head as well.

“Austin, I’ll be right back. Okay?” she says.

The little boy with messy red hair and freckles nods.

She gently closes the door behind her, then grabs my wrist and pulls me down the hallway, opening the door with her name on it. “Is this an emergency?”

I step inside her office. It’s nothing but bare white walls, save for a slew of framed licenses and accolades. The only things on her sleek glass desk are a computer and a candy dispenser. Why can’t she be this clean at my house?

“Will, I have a patient. If this isn’t an emergency, then take a seat and wait for me. I will be finished in thirty minutes.”

I press the button on her M&M dispenser, and several drop onto her desk. “Okay,” I murmur as she exits her office, closing the door behind her. It’s weird being in here.

It’s weird observing her in a white lab coat.

It’s weird seeing her name on the door. Dr. Reichart. She’s a fucking medical doctor. How is that possible?

After surveying everything in her office, or lack thereof, I sit in her comfy leather chair and prop my boots atop her desk to doomscroll on my phone. Before I know it, thirty minutes fly by, and she’s back, standing in the doorway, eyeing my boots.

I drop them to the floor and sit up. It shouldn’t matter. She and her mom don’t think twice about making a mess of my place.

“I have twenty minutes. What’s going on?” she asks, sliding her hands into her coat pockets.

“Chief Killmer said he’s been seeing you for three years,” I say for whatever reason. Probably because witnessing her in her element has caught me off guard, and for a second I forget why I’m here, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. “I thought kids were your specialty.”

“Kids make up 80 percent of my practice. Not all of it. And I can’t discuss my patients with you. So I can neither confirm nor deny anything. If that’s why you’re here, I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time.”

I shake my head. “No. Uh, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because, as we speak, your mom is shopping for art supplies to paint a picture of me.”

Everleigh is in Dr. Reichart mode. She doesn’t so much as flinch. Not a twitch of her lips or a slight raise of an eyebrow. “Oh, sorry about that. You can say no. Did you try that?”

“Not exactly. I told her I don’t have anything nice to wear.”

“It’s a nude painting.”

I give her a dead stare. “I’m aware now.”

“But you didn’t tell her no?”

“I didn’t know what to say. She gave me this look. It was as if she was daring me to say no. I felt like my manhood was being challenged.”

“Will, you don’t have to take off your clothes to prove you’re a man.” She scrapes her teeth along her bottom lip for a second. “I realize you’ve taken off your clothes for charity calendars.”

I frown while standing. “That’s not accurate because in those calendars I’m wearing my gear, minus my shirt. I’m far from naked. Besides”—I run a frustrated hand through my hair—“what is she going to do with it? Gift it to me like I really want to stare at a naked painting of myself?”

“She’ll probably give it to me for my birthday.”

My face sours.

She waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I don’t want it either. I mean, I’d be fine with it if your legs were crossed or folded off to one side. Maybe a hand tastefully placed in front of you like a fig leaf. I think penises and scrota are ugly. Don’t you?”

“Is that a trick question?”

She grins, lifting one leg to sit on the edge of her desk.

I study her for a few seconds, seeing everything I should have seen when we met. “When you weren’t wearing makeup, I thought you looked young, like a teenager, not a girl in her mid-twenties. I should have followed that instinct.”

She deflates. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Because you feel guilty? Because you know it’s true?”

She rolls her eyes. “I told you I can’t be your doctor. Stop trying to get free therapy.”

A slow grin steals across my face. “I’m going to send you a bill for putting out your fire.”

“I pay taxes, so I’ve already paid for it.”

“What’s up with gaming during work?” I nod toward her head even though she’s no longer wearing the VR headset.

“I use virtual reality exposure therapy, especially with children. I’ve designed and patented several programs, including one that can be personalized for a patient’s unique needs. For some, it’s easier to deal with reality when it’s not actually real. It’s a transformative tool for anxiety disorders, involving gradual exposure in immersive environments. VR is a great place to practice coping skills.” Everleigh’s whole body straightens as she talks. Confidence gives her petite posture an extra inch or two.

“Your work might be cooler than mine. But maybe not. We have robots we can send into fires. Do you have robots?” I ask.

“Not yet.” She folds her hands in front of her. “But I’m working on it.”

It’s hard not to let my gaze linger on her because every day feels like I’m seeing her in a different light. “Well”—I glance around the room as if I haven’t inspected its minimalistic decor a dozen times in half an hour—“I’d better let you get back to work. I’ll tell your mom I haven’t properly manscaped in a while, so I’ll have to pass on the painting offer.”

“Just tell her no. It’s that simple.”

“Yeah, but she’s probably purchased supplies.”

“Oh, William. You really need to find your voice.” She slides her phone out of her coat pocket, then her thumbs speed across the screen. “There. I just told her you don’t want to be painted. And she won’t waste any supplies because I’ll let her paint me after work.”

Well, shit.

A nude painting of Everleigh. Do I like that idea?

Before my dick thinks too hard about it, I open the door. “Thanks. I appreciate it. And for the record, my voice works just fine.”

Everleigh doesn’t respond, so I glance over my shoulder. She’s staring at my ass. When she lifts her gaze, she smirks.

Chapter Eleven

Eleven years earlier . . .

As if it wasn’t enough that I stayed the whole night with no sex, I played games in her apartment until she was done with her classes the next day. When Tyler called to see if I wanted to have lunch with him and his parents, I lied and said I had a headache.

Who was this girl? And why was I so fascinated by her?

“What do you want to do?” I hollered, continuing to play the game while she changed her clothes in the bedroom.

“Let’s fly a kite,” she said.

I wrinkled my nose, keeping my focus on the screen. “Fly a kite?”

“Yes. My father sent me a new one, and I haven’t had a chance to fly it yet.” She stepped around the corner in a sleeveless cream sundress and Birkenstocks. “When was the last time you flew a kite?”

I shut off the game and stood. “When I still had deciduous teeth.”

Everleigh eyed me with a hesitant smile. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. When was the last time you flew a kite?”

She pulled the kite out of the coat closet. “A couple of weeks ago.”

“You just . . . fly kites by yourself? For fun?”

“Yes.” She laughed, handing me the kite before threading her arms through her mini black leather backpack. “Don’t you have a solitary pastime?”

“Well, yes. But it’s not polite to talk about it.” I opened the door.

Everleigh studied me. I knew she wouldn’t get my joke, and there was no way I would tell her it was a quip about masturbating.

“We’re not in public. There’s no need to be polite,” she said, stepping into the hallway.

“True. But if something’s not suitable for public discourse, it’s also not suitable for the ladies.”

Her laughter filled the air as I walked to the elevator. “You’re a peculiar guy, William Landry. And I mean that in the best way.”

I puffed out my chest, even though she was the second-year medical student who flew kites by herself as a pastime. Peculiar? Absolutely.

When we arrived at the park, she jumped out of the cab and pulled the kite from its bag before we made it past the sidewalk.

“It’s a designer fighter cheel kite. Isn’t it beautiful?”

I nodded as she handed me the reel to hold. The kite was sky blue with pink and green. It was fine. Beautiful felt like a stretch.

In a matter of seconds, she had it assembled. I handed her the spool, and then she kicked off her shoes and tossed the kite into the air, but the breeze didn’t catch it. She tried several more times.

“It’s not windy enough,” I said.

“It’s fine. Here. You’re taller. I’ll hold the spool, and you hold the string close to the kite and run with it, slowly letting out more string.”

I stared at her. What happened to my one-night stand? Why was I at a park flying a kite without so much as a hand job? More than that, why was her grin so big? And why did it do weird things to my chest?

“Fine,” I said with an exaggerated sigh.

Everleigh lit up, eyes wide and shoulders at her ears like she was on the verge of squealing.

I jogged with the kite, letting out the string as it took flight. “Faster!” she yelled.

I laughed. “How fast do you think I can run with my hand in the air?”

“Okay, let go!”

I released the string, and the kite caught a wave of air. Everleigh released more string and gazed up at the kite, eyes squinted against the sun. I looked at her face-splitting grin, the breeze blowing her hair into her face, and the way she moved back and forth, side to side on her toes as if flying a kite were a dance.

“Do you want to fly it?” she asked.

“It’s your thing. I’m good.”

She stole a quick glance at me. “I invited you, so it’s our thing. Maybe you can let me do your top-secret pastime with you. That would make us official friends.”

I choked on my laugh, pressing a fist to my mouth. “We’ll see.”

She handed me the spool. “Got it?”

I nodded, taking it from her.

“Fun, right?”

I grinned without answering.

“See? There’s plenty of wind once you get it up there. Let’s lie down.”

“What?”

She crossed her feet and squatted before rocking onto her back.

“What do the directions say? Is it safe to fly a kite while lying on the ground?”

“It’s easier on your neck,” she said.

I lowered to my knees and then eased onto my back beside her.

“Don’t let it go.”

“I’m not,” I said.

“See? Easier on your neck.” She rolled toward me, head resting on her bent arm.

“You’re not even looking at the kite.” I chuckled.

Everleigh hummed. “I like looking at you.”

“You’re making my dick hard, and I can’t let go of the kite, so you’ll have to adjust it for me.”

She giggled. “My looking at you gives you an erection?”

I rolled my head toward her for a second as she blushed. “After this morning’s kitchen table incident, yes.”

“Incident? Is that what we’re calling it?”

I peered at the kite and smirked. She was right. Kites were meant to be flown while lying on the ground.

“What are you doing?” I asked, stiffening as she rested her hand on my chest and buried her face in my neck.

“You smell so good. What is that? Vetiver?”

“It’s sweat, Everleigh. You’re making me sweat, and I’m going to lose this kite if you don’t stop touching me.”

“It’s definitely vetiver.” She crawled onto me.

“Everleigh,” I warned, tipping my chin and stretching my arms toward the sky as she crawled on top of my chest, kissing my neck up to my jaw.

“Vetiver oil is called the oil of tranquility. Did you know that?”

I cocked my head to the side to see past her to the kite. “Then it’s not working because I don’t feel tranquil.”

“How do you feel?” She teased my earlobe with her teeth.

The kite headed behind us, losing altitude.

“It’s going to crash. I need to stand up.” I spun the string around the reel as quickly as possible, but she was in my way, and my dick was hard. And I didn’t want to hold on to the kite. I wanted to grab her ass and kiss her senseless.

The kite headed toward the trees, so I sat up, and she fell off my chest onto the ground. I jumped to my feet and sprinted in the opposite direction to keep it out of the trees, my hands speedily winding string.

It was close. So close. Too close.

Crash!

Her kite landed in a tree.

Everleigh cupped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide as she gaped at the kite.

“Sorry.” I cringed before following the string to the scene of the crash. “But I blame you.”

She gasped and then jogged ahead of me. “William, I wasn’t the one flying the kite.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“From India? My dad made this kite. It took him nearly two hundred hours to construct it. Then he handwove the string from silk and cotton. Do you have any idea how long it takes to handweave three hundred yards of kite string?” She stopped under the tree, head back, hands parked on her hips.

What the hell? Who weaves kite string?

“The string is fine. The kite can probably be salvaged. It’s not that far up there. Here. I’ll lift you onto my shoulders, and then you can probably reach it.”

Her nose wrinkled. “What if you drop me?”

“You’re a half-pint. Why would I drop you?”

Everleigh’s lips twisted for a beat before she nodded. “Fine. But if you break my dad’s kite and his daughter, this won’t end well for you. My dad is very protective of his little girl.”

I rolled my eyes and squatted. She climbed onto my shoulders, and I gripped her legs while standing.

“Forward. Back. Back . . . stop!” She guided me while freeing the kite.

I set her on her feet, and we walked toward the parking lot while I ordered a cab. She kept her head bowed, inspecting the rip in the kite. What was I supposed to say? It was her fault. And yet, I felt bad.

“I’m sorry. Really. We’ll fix it.”

She sniffled.

Shit. I made her cry, so I slipped my phone into my back pocket and sighed, contemplating what else I could say.

It was over. A fun night. Gaming. A breakfast orgasm. Kite flying. Crash. The end. Would seeing her at the wedding be awkward? Undoubtedly. Would she tell Victoria and Tyler? I hoped not.

The cab arrived, and as I opened the back door for her, she scuffed her feet along the sidewalk toward the trash bin and shoved the kite and string into it.

My lips parted, eyes unblinking, as she sauntered toward me.

The biggest shit-eating grin engulfed her face. “My dad sends me a kite every month. Like a kite-of-the-month club. He buys them at a little shop down the street from his place. I think they’re the equivalent of a couple US dollars.”

I hated her.

Also, I grabbed her face and kissed her so hard I nearly chipped a tooth against hers.

The cabdriver cleared his throat. “The meter’s running.”

I didn’t care if I had to pay to kiss her. Everleigh was unlike anyone I had ever met. Everything about her was sticky and hard to shake.

She was smart and sexy.

Sassy and downright evil.

More addictive than any drug.

Chapter Twelve

I play Call of Duty while Liz paints her daughter in the upstairs bedroom. There’s a west-facing window, so I guess the light is good. I should have gone to tai chi class or the bar. I should have found a friendly hookup to keep my mind from wandering into naked Everleigh territory. So many should-haves, but here I am, killing characters on a screen and thinking about a specific painting.

“You missed out,” Liz says, descending the stairs.

Bang. My character dies, so I toss the controller aside.

“The lighting was perfect. In fact, I like the painting so much, I’m going to have it shipped home and display it in my gallery.”

“Everleigh is okay with that?” I ask, resting my elbows on my knees and glancing up at her as she washes her hands in the kitchen sink along with a few brushes.

“No, I’m not okay with it. No, she’s not shipping it home,” Everleigh says, coming down the stairs in a white kimono robe. “She’s just trying to get you on her side to convince me to say yes.”

“Sweetheart, you can’t see your face behind your hair. It’s an elegant painting. Stunning, really. If it sells, I’ll give you all the money from it. You can donate it to your favorite charity or whatever.”

Everleigh opens the back door. “Nope.” She slams it shut behind her.

“That girl,” Liz grumbles, ripping paper towels from the holder. “She’s stubborn. And she didn’t get that from me.” After setting the brushes on the paper towels, she shoves her feet into her white canvas shoes and opens the door. “I’m going for a walk.”

The door closes, and I drop my head into my hands. Why did I think I needed a roommate? I lumber off the sofa and head upstairs. Maybe it’s not too late to go to the bar. It’s definitely not too late to hook up with someone. As I pass Maren’s old room with its door slightly ajar, I cave to my curiosity and push it open a few more inches. The canvas on the easel is facing away from me.

Shut the door and go to the bar.

My common sense has been honed from years of making mistakes. It’s earned a badge of honor. That was before Everleigh moved into my shed. Now, said common sense gets discarded to the floor, and I squash it with my foot on the way to the easel.

“Damn,” I whisper, gawking at the painting. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but it’s incredible. I grin, taking in her crossed legs and casual gaze over her shoulder out the window to hide her face.

Her curves and her breasts are just—

“Shall we hang it above your bed?”

I jump, attention shooting to Everleigh with her shoulder resting on the side of the doorway, hands in the pockets of her loose, white linen pants.

“I was just thinking what a relief it is that your pussy isn’t visible. They’re pretty ugly, don’t you think?” I spew the first nonsense that comes to mind.

Her eyes flare as she curls her lips between her teeth to hide her grin. “Hmm, yes. That’s a good observation.”

Despite the erection straining against my jeans, I continue to stare at the painting, thoughtfully rubbing my chin. “You know what I can’t help but wonder?”

“What’s that?” Everleigh’s ease with me staring at this painting is so damn sexy. Her confidence has come a long way.

“Where’s your tattoo?”

Her right eyebrow makes a slow ascent up her forehead. “My mom has been oversharing.”

“Nah. Oversharing would have been disclosing the location of the tattoo or what you got tattooed on your . . .”

She laughs. “On my body?”

I step around the easel and sit at the end of the bed.

“It’s stupid,” Everleigh says.

“I think that’s the point, right? If people overthought that stuff, no one would get a tattoo.”

“You have one on your tricep.” She points to her arm.

I nod. “It’s the date Maren’s brother died.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I shrug. “It’s been years. Where’s your tattoo?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Is it a cheap-ass kite from the shop near your dad’s place?”

A slow grin of recognition works its way up her face, and she shakes her head.

“Is it your IQ?”

“Stop.” She giggles. “No.”

“Is it the outline of New York? So you never forget where you came from?”

She shakes her head.

“A paintbrush?”

Another headshake.

“A brain?”

Again, she giggles.

“Tell me.”

“No. You’ll make fun of me.”

“Everleigh, I’m going to make fun of you no matter what.”

She narrows her eyes.

“How big is it?”

She purses her lips. “Three-quarters of an inch.”

“A penis? Scrotum?”

“Wilbur.” She sighs.

“Wilbur? Who’s Wilbur? And why get his name tattooed on your . . .”

“Body?”

“Inner thigh,” I say.

“Nice try. Wilbur is the pig in Charlotte’s Web.”

“You and your mom have matching pig tattoos?”

“Matching Wilbur tattoos. Not just a random pig.”

“What’s the significance?”

“I’ve read Charlotte’s Web more than any other book. In fact, it’s the only book I’ve reread. I related to Wilbur because I was a sensitive and lonely child. Emotional. Scared. But then I found my courage and bravery. And my mom said I was a loyal friend, even though I didn’t have many friends.”

A necessary voice in my head reminds me of the seventeen-year-old girl who let me think she was older. That voice keeps me grounded so I don’t think about doing anything stupid.

“Well, that was unexpected and lackluster,” I say, even though I think it’s pretty fucking cool. “I’m heading out. Good luck house shopping tomorrow.” I stand.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I’m going to drink a lot of beer. Don’t wait up. If things go as planned, I won’t be home until tomorrow morning.”

“Mind if I tag along? I don’t want to be here when my mom gets back. She’ll spend all night nagging me about the painting. And tomorrow is Friday, and I don’t work Fridays.”

“Everleigh, I don’t think a tagalong is a good idea when I’m planning on getting laid tonight.”

“How long will it take you? I’m planning on getting laid, too, but I’m taking your advice and just dropping my panties for some stranger in the bathroom. Are you planning wine, chocolate-covered fruit, a canopy bed, and a lot of foreplay? If so, just grab a ride home. I won’t drink, so I can drive us there. This way, you won’t have to leave your Bronco at the bar.”

Her delivery is worthy of an award. Is she really planning on getting laid? If she hasn’t had sex since being with me, then that seems unlikely. Was Liz lying about that? This woman and her mother are fucking with my head.

“So really, you’re just suggesting we ride to the bar together? Because I can’t have you hanging out with me if I’m trying to find someone else to be with for the night,” I say.

“Same. I’m just giving you a ride. I can’t have you messing with my game either.”

Does Everleigh Reichart have game? I rub my fingers across my lips to hide my grin. “Whatever. I’ll change my clothes and meet you at your car in ten minutes,” I say.

“Fifteen minutes. I need to put on some makeup, change into a dress and heels, and remove my underwear.” She spins on her toes and heads downstairs.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I grumble.

“I think my dress is too short to go without underwear,” Everleigh says, tugging on the skirt of her short, white, strapless dress before sliding into the driver’s seat.

Her deep-red lips, eyes painted smoky gray and brown, and subtle floral fragrance give me instant regret. I don’t want to leave the driveway with her, let alone go to the bar where I’ll have to watch her draw the attention of every other man there.

“Maybe you should wear underwear. You can always take it off later.” Words I never imagined coming out of my mouth.

“It’s fine.” She checks her lips in the rearview mirror before shifting into reverse. “I don’t want to waste any more time and risk my mom coming home and either talking me out of going or insisting we take her too.”

I stare at her toned legs, and when I shift my gaze to her face, she gives me a sideways glance and smirks. “Do you have condoms? I have some in my purse if you need one.”

“Do you always have condoms in your purse?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Do you have one?”

“Of course.” I stare out my window. “The speed limit is forty-five.”

“Thought you were a firefighter, not a cop,” she says, continuing to drive sixty in a forty-five. “And you told me to get a speeding ticket.”

“If a child runs into the street and you run them over, who will fix your mind when you want to slit your wrists?”

“Jesus, Will.” She brakes hard, and I grab the dash. “That’s pretty dark.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen some pretty dark situations. The fire department gets called for more than just fires.”

Dang! I sound old.

After a minute of silence and following the speed limit, she asks, “What have you seen that haunts you the most?”

“Can’t say.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not in my network, and I have it on good authority that you’re way out of my price range.”

“If I weren’t paid up on rent, we could barter.”

“Is that so? You’d get a place to live for thirty days, and I’d get what? Two or three hours of therapy?”

“And drugs. Don’t forget I’m an overpaid, overeducated drug dealer. But I don’t give you the actual drugs. I just write the prescription.” She pulls into a spot along the street, across from the bar. “So you’re good on condoms?” She unbuckles.

“I’m good.”

“Great.” She steps out of the car and locks it as soon as I shut my door. “Have a good night, Will.” She struts in front of me, her hips swaying with each step as she tugs at her dress to keep her perfectly shaped ass covered.

When she breezes past a group of guys standing at a tall, round table, drinking beer and watching the game on the TV, one of them cranes his neck to watch her, then he pulls his trucker hat lower on his head and mumbles, “Shit, that’s my shrink. I’m not supposed to be at the bar this month.” He ducks his head and bumps into me on his way out.

“Phil, where ya going?” one guy calls, but Phil doesn’t stop to respond.

I chuckle to myself, making my way through the crowd to sit at the opposite end of the bar from Everleigh. Before I get my butt planted on the stool, she hops down, straightens her dress, and grabs a guy’s hand. They strut past me toward the restrooms.

“What the fuck,” I whisper, jumping on her tail before she gets to the door. “A word,” I say, clasping her free hand and yanking her away from the guy who looks like a teenager.

“William,” she scolds as I drag her out of the bar and around the corner of the building.

“What are you doing?” I release her hand and back her against the brick wall.

“What do you mean? I’m getting laid in the bathroom of a bar. Are you having memory issues?”

“Everleigh, we just got here. It literally wasn’t a full minute. Who is that kid, and how the fuck did you convince him to go with you so quickly?”

She squints. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence. But in case you haven’t noticed, I look hot tonight. How long did you think it would take me? I’m playing Fortnite with some online friends at eleven. I don’t have all night to engage in small talk. He asked me if he could buy me a drink. I said I was just looking to have sex in the ladies’ room since I have to stay sober to drive. I asked if he was interested. And as luck would have it, he is.”

I open my mouth to speak, but as luck would have it, no words come out. So I grunt and shake my head, hoping to knock a few words free. “Do you know how old he is? Is he legal?”

“Kade is a running back for the Grizzlies. Don’t you follow football? So, yes. He’s legal. But I understand your concern. And I appreciate your looking out for me. Also, don’t say anything because I don’t want him to know I recognize him. Nobody likes an obsessed fangirl.”

“Ebony?” Kade says, popping his head around the corner.

I grit my teeth. “Her name is Everleigh.”

“Sorry. My bad. Listen, my friends just showed up. They want to get pizza, so if you’re still wanting to”—he eyes me before returning his attention to her—“you know, then we need to make it quick. I mean, I’m still down for it.”

“Yes. I’m ready, Kade—”

“Actually, no, Katy. She’s no longer interested,” I say, because I’m losing my fucking mind.

“Kade,” he corrects me.

“Sorry. My bad. Enjoy your pizza.”

He lifts an eyebrow at Everleigh, and she sighs with a slight headshake, so he disappears back around the corner.

When I look at Everleigh, she has me ensnared in her unblinking gaze.

“William,” she says slowly.

“Everleigh,” I say just as slowly.

“I think we need to set some boundaries. Would you like to share what your expectations were of me tonight? Then I’ll reciprocate, and we can find a healthy compromise since we’re friends.”

I twist my lips to keep from laughing. Is she serious? “Okay.” I nod. “I expected you to order some fruity virgin drink and awkwardly try to flirt with an old married guy who just came into the bar to pick up some burgers and chicken fingers for his wife and kids. Then I figured you’d give up and go home.”

“You thought I’d fail?”

“No. I thought you’d feel too . . .”

“Too? Too what?”

“Too sophisticated to have sex in a bathroom with a stranger.”

“But you suggested it.”

I rest a hand on my hip and stare at the gray evening sky, a sliver of light still visible over the building across the street. “Not literally,” I say. “The things I suggested weren’t literal. It was more of a vibe.”

“There’s a vibe to sex in a public restroom?”

“Stop shrinking me.”

Her grin explodes. “You think I’m shrinking you?”

“I think you like fucking with my head.”

Everleigh bats her eyelashes at me, just like her mom did. “Let’s go home. I’ll have sex with you.”

She’s proving my point. Why would she say that? She’s not serious. And she can’t really think I’d agree to such a ridiculous suggestion. Sure, history repeats itself, but smart people learn from their mistakes and don’t make them twice. I’m too old not to be smart.

“My dick still has PTSD from eleven years ago. Sorry.”

“Maybe I want to apologize.”

“You already did.” I slide my hands into my jeans’ back pockets.

“I apologized to you, not your penis.”

“Please don’t call it that.” I cringe.

“That’s what it is.”

“Maybe if you’re diagnosing herpes or circumcising it.”

“Well, I can do both while I’m down there apologizing to it. But I thought you were circumcised. I don’t recall for sure. You never let me get a good look at it.”

There is nothing normal about this woman. And I don’t know if that’s frightening or endearing.

“Have you ever performed a circumcision?” As soon as the words are out, I internally berate myself for continuing this absurd conversation.

She glances to the side. “Hmm. No. But I observed a pediatrician performing the procedure. Looked pretty simple.”

“Everleigh, go home. I don’t need any medical procedures. I’ll tell my dick you’re sorry. Let’s just leave it at that.”

She deflates, and we have a brief stare-off. “Do you remember that kiss standing outside of the cab after you crashed my kite? I think about it every day. Do you think that’s weird?”

“Do you think this is weird?” I glance around and chuckle. “You have a fucking medical degree and, by all measurable standards, are a genius. You make a lot of money. You’re still in your twenties with endless potential. Yet, you’re standing outside of a run-down bar in downtown Missoula with a smoke-eating man-whore who graduated high school with a three-point-one GPA. There are a million guys with fancy degrees, impressive financial portfolios, and knowledgeable views of the world who would love to spend the evening in your company. Do you not see that?”

She keeps a poker face. After I lose and look away first, she turns and walks toward the street. “I’m going to IHOP.”

Chapter Thirteen

Eleven years earlier . . .

I never needed a woman to look at me with any sort of wonder in her eyes. I was a guy with simple needs.

Food.

Beer.

Sex.

Everleigh Reichart made me question my priorities because all she had was wonder in her eyes when she gazed at me.

Our first night together ended in gaming. Sure, I slid my fingers into her panties while she served me breakfast the following morning, but that ended with her gripping my shoulder and the edge of the table as her knees buckled and her mouth fell agape with a long “Oh god . . .” filling the air. When she opened her eyes, there it was, sheer wonder.

We had yet to have sex. But for the first time in my life, I didn’t care. There was something about Everleigh that made sex feel like an afterthought. While we were on our way back to Everleigh’s apartment following the kite incident, Tyler called me. The guys were having drinks, and after skipping lunch with his parents, I couldn’t weasel out of anything else.

The following afternoon, Everleigh attended two classes and then showed me around Stanford’s gardens. I carried her backpack while she skipped ahead of me, talking nonstop and turning to walk backward a few times, facts spewing endlessly from her lips. She was an encyclopedia of information. Since I was far from a genius, it never occurred to me she was smarter than literally everyone I knew. After all, Tyler’s fiancée was smart and in medical school with Everleigh.

We meandered through the winding pathways of green spaces around the Memorial Church to a private area for reflection. A place for peaceful solitude. She pointed to the words inscribed in the circle on patterned pavers. Then she stood in the middle and whispered each word.

For the troubled may you find peace ~ For the despairing may you find hope ~ For the lonely may you find love ~ For the skeptical may you find faith

Her bright eyes found mine. “Which are you, Will? Troubled? Despairing? Lonely? Skeptical?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“Of course. I can’t fix you if you don’t tell me.”

“Fix me?” I grinned. “You think you can fix me?”

“I can try.”

I stared at the circle of words. “I’m lonely.”

“Then we go to IHOP.”

My gaze lifted to hers. “IHOP?”

“Yes.” She jumped out of the circle and took my hand, leading me back the way we came. “At the end of my first week of medical school, I went to IHOP with friends. I just wanted one pancake. The server told me I needed to order the short stack. I said I only wanted one. But he said one is lonely. If I wanted to find love, I needed to have at least two—one to eat and one to share. I think he was just flirting with me because he then said, ‘Unless you’re already in love.’ So I ordered the short stack.”

“And did you find someone to share with?” I asked.

“No.” She laughed. “But I haven’t given up. When I’m lonely, I go to IHOP and order the short stack. Eventually, I’ll find that special person.”

I marveled at her reasoning, her enthusiasm for something as simple as pancakes. She was effortlessly persuasive and contagiously optimistic.

“Keep your eyes peeled for owls in the eucalyptus,” she said as we passed through more gardens on the way to the parking lot.

I was too busy looking at her to care about owls in eucalyptus.

Chapter Fourteen

Shay. Mariah. Becca.

I pass up three opportunities to have meaningless sex. My excuses are lame at best.

Too tired. Past my bedtime. A friend is meeting me.

All lies.

If I say I’m thinking about a dark-haired short stack in a hot dress with no underwear, it will be the last time Shay, Mariah, or Becca offers to scratch my itch.

After a third beer, I glance at my watch. Then, I slide my phone out of my pocket to order a ride. Thirty minutes later, the chatty driver wishes me a good night as I step out of his vehicle and head to the entrance. It takes only a quick scan to find the good doctor in a booth by herself.

Earbuds in. Head leaned back. Eyes closed.

There’s a plate of half-eaten pancakes on the table beside her phone. I slide into the opposite side of the booth, and my leg brushes hers. She jumps, eyes springing open. Then she taps her phone screen, and her audiobook cover illuminates before she presses pause and removes her earbuds.

“Your mom is at my house. Why are you here? Why are you lonely?” I ask, using her fork to stab a chunk of the pancake and shove it into my mouth.

There it is. That wonder in her eyes. A triumphant grin steals across her lips. “You remembered.”

I shrug. “Lonely is IHOP.”

“Troubled?” she quizzes.

I finish chewing and swallow. “The ocean.”

“Because?”

“Because you read some book right before we met that theorized a connection between water and peace or something like that.”

“Blue Mind Theory.”

“Sure,” I mumble, adding more syrup to the last pancake.

“Skeptical?”

“The NICU.”

“Because?” She folds her hands on the table.

“Because that’s where true miracles happen.”

Her smile swells. “Despairing?”

“I don’t remember that one.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. Do you need my Realtor to help you find some good houses tomorrow?” I focus on eating the rest of her pancakes instead of looking at her because I know she wants me to finish answering her question about despairing.

“Did you get laid?” she asks.

“Yes. It was good. Thanks for asking.” I set the fork on the empty plate and wipe my mouth. Then I make the mistake of looking her in the eye as I take a drink of her water.

She knows I’m lying, but instead of calling me out, she averts her gaze. “I’m thinking about buying some land to build a house. Think you can not evict me until it’s done?”

I draw a long breath and hold it in my cheeks, then I blow it out slowly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Because Maren, Fitz, and Jamie know too much about what happened eleven years ago. And they think it’s a bad idea for us to live together.”

“Oh, Maren, Fitz, and Jamie think it’s a bad idea? But you don’t? And it’s your house, but they are the decision-makers? Or did you lose control when you returned from visiting your parents, and they jumped on your side, and now you can’t undo what you’ve done without choking on your pride?”

“You’re a terrible therapist. Did you know that?”

“That’s because I’m a psychiatrist.”

I roll my eyes. “What’s the difference?”

“I perform psychiatric evaluations and make medical diagnoses. I offer pharmaceutical interventions, and as you know, I use virtual reality for behavior modification. Therapists rely heavily on talk therapy. A therapist isn’t going to deal with a forty-five-year-old man who wants to kill himself since his wife found out he was raping his nine-year-old stepdaughter because the convincing voice in his head told him to do it. That’s just one example of things I’ve dealt with in my training.”

I bristle, slowly shaking my head. “Have you ever thought that you’re too young to emotionally handle men raping their stepdaughters? Is your emotional IQ as advanced as your other IQ?”

“No. My emotional quotient is lower than my Wechsler test, Stanford-Binet, Woodcock-Johnson, RPM . . .” She smirks. “I’ve been tested a lot.”

I nod several times. “What if it’s all bullshit? What if this life of yours is great until it isn’t? What if you feel eighty when you’re forty because your mind has been spinning at such a fast pace? Is being a genius a genuine gift?” I’m sure she thinks I’m an idiot. And I am. My thoughts aren’t based on anything more than unoriginal musings.

Scratching the back of my head, I mumble, “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes,” Everleigh whispers.

I pause, taking a moment to see if I heard her correctly.

She stares at the empty plate while picking at her fingernails, a rare glimpse of her that’s not the controlled doctor with gently folded hands and a well-practiced neutral expression.

“Burnout is real. Balance is important.” She smiles, holding up her phone. “So I listen to fantasy novels because they’re an escape. And I attempt to have sex with random men. And when I get lonely, I come to IHOP for a short stack.”

“Name one random man you’ve slept with, because I don’t believe you ever have. And I don’t think you were going to earlier at the bar.”

“I slept with a random firefighter. It was years ago.”

Our gazes lock, but I look away first and slide out of the booth. “Don’t you have a date on Fortnite at eleven?”

“I do.” She stands, slipping her AirPods into her purse along with her phone. Then she straightens her dress. “And I need a pair of underwear.”

“Agree to disagree,” I say.

She wrinkles her nose at me before I lead the way to the door.

“Can I get a ride home?” I ask, holding it open for her.

“What do I get in return?” She flips her hair over her shoulder while I watch her sexy legs and ass in that short dress. “How about you tell your friends that after a little self-reflection, you’ve decided I’m pretty awesome, and you want me to stay in your shed while my house is being built?” She opens her door and disappears into her car.

I slide into the passenger seat. “I’m a terrible liar. They’ll never believe that.”

“You’re right. You are terrible.” She starts her car and turns up the music. It’s reminiscent of a classical song, but like Beethoven played by a heavy metal band.

When we get home, it’s just after ten thirty.

“Think your mom is still awake?” I unbuckle.

“No. Why? Are you wanting to make her an offer for the painting?”

I open my door. “Tempting, but no.” I meet Everleigh on the driver’s side just as she shuts her door and locks it. “I shouldn’t have stopped you from having sex with the football player. I was out of line, and I apologize.”

She slides her purse strap onto her shoulder. “You didn’t stop me. You expressed your jealousy, and after careful consideration, I chose to abstain so you wouldn’t lose sleep over another man being with me.”

“Whoa. What? No.” I laugh. “I told you I was looking out for you, not me.”

“Since when did you make it your job to look out for me?”

“I never said it was my job. More of a . . .” I glance around because she’s practiced in staring at people for long periods of time, and it’s creepy. “It was a courtesy since we’re roommates. Nothing I wouldn’t have done for Maren or Jamie when they lived here.”

“So it doesn’t bother you to imagine me getting railed in the bathroom by a football player?”

“Jesus.” I shake my head. “Is this how you talk to your patients?”

“You’re not my patient. You can’t—”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. I can’t afford you.” I turn and head toward the back door. “For the record, I don’t imagine you having sex, so I’m obviously not bothered by anything you do. Good night.”

“I’ll be inside soon. Don’t forget I’m playing Fortnite at eleven.”

“It’s my PlayStation, and I’m playing tonight, so too bad.”

“You’re not even supposed to be here.” She jogs after me. “And I told you I was playing.”

“Well, I’m here, and now I’m fucking playing.” I reach for the doorknob just as she grabs my arm.

“Let’s be honest. It’s past your bedtime, old man.”

I slowly turn. “What the fuck did you just call me? Old man?”

“You’re forty. Right?” She folds her hands in front of her.

“If I were, it would hardly be considered old.”

“You like the word fuck. There are other great words you could use. Some of the kids I work with have wonderful alternatives like: freaking, frack, fudge, flip, drat, barnacles.”

I squint at her.

She shrugs. “I should get you a thesaurus. It’s never too late to expand your vocabulary.”

“Do that. I’ve always wanted a dinosaur.” I turn and open the door.

Everleigh giggles, and I grin with my back to her, but quickly compose myself before she kicks off her heels and steps in front of me, face splitting from her smile. “I’m getting you a synonym dinosaur. And I like the word fuck too. But it loses its luster and impact when you use it too much. I let my young patients use it once per session. But I tell them to use it wisely. Use it like a hundred exclamation points.”

“Stop shrinking me.”

“Stop saying that. It sounds like you’re getting smaller.”

I rub my temples. “Then stop making me feel so small.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widen as she shakes her head a half dozen times. “William, I may not have looked at your penis well enough to evaluate your foreskin or lack thereof, but I know you’re not a small man. Granted, aging can make it appear smaller. Things like abdominal weight can hide the base, therefore making it appear shrunken. I don’t think you have that problem yet. Also, less collagen production can cause a decrease in elasticity, leading to a softer and smaller appearance. And obviously, medical conditions like ED result in flaccidity when you need it to stand up and answer its call to duty.”

Fuck. And I mean fuck!

“Have you had sex since I stuck my big dick inside of you eleven years ago?”

Everleigh gives it her best shot. And her attempt not to react almost works, but then she swallows hard. “Why are you asking?”

“Because your mom told Maren you haven’t been with another man since me.”

She curls her lips between her teeth for a few seconds before offering a slow nod. “You’ll never know.”

“What do you mean I’ll never know?”

With a dismissive eye roll, she pivots and gets a glass of water.

“Just freaking tell me.” I turn.

She gulps half the glass and then sets it on the counter. “See. Freaking fits nicely there. But I’m not telling you because it’s none of your business. And I like that you don’t know the answer. Your reaction to not knowing is quite telling.”

“Oh yeah?” I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s it telling you?”

She checks her watch. “It’s ten forty-five. I have to put on my pajamas and brush my teeth.”

“I’m not letting you use my PlayStation tonight.”

She frowns. “I’ll let you play with me.”

I’m forty years old. More mature. More controlled. My mind can make the responsible choice to stay out of the gutter.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says.

I swallow the “fuck you” on the tip of my tongue, even though it would fit perfectly at this point in our conversation. She wants me to be a dirty old man, but I’m too mature to give her that level of satisfaction no matter how hard she tries to shrink me.

“I think it’s gross that you just brush your teeth and don’t floss.” I grab a beer from the fridge and plant my ass on my sofa to play my PlayStation.

But all I will think about for the rest of the night is . . . has she had sex with anyone since me?

Chapter Fifteen

Everleigh

“Oh!” My mom gasps, coming out of the bathroom just as I reach the top of the stairs to brush and floss my teeth. “Where did you go? And why didn’t you leave me a message? Did you have to deal with a patient?” She flips her hair over her shoulder and rubs her tired eyes.

I glance down at my dress. “Do you think I dress like this for patients?”

She inspects me. “I’m half asleep, dear. I didn’t focus on your outfit.”

“I went to the bar with Will.”

She perks up like I just infused espresso into her veins. “Do tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I squeeze past her to brush my teeth.

“Was it a date?”

I shake my head, turning on my electric toothbrush.

“He’s cute,” she whispers with a hand cupped at the side of her mouth.

I nod and smirk over my mouthful of suds.

“He’s still upset about taking your virginity.”

I stare at her while I finish brushing my teeth. After I spit and retrieve the floss, I turn toward her and lean against the counter, wrapping the floss around my fingers. “He’s upset I was seventeen. And there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“You can apologize.”

I shrug. “I’ve done that. And maybe he just needs time to accept my apology. It’s still new, and he might need a minute to gauge my sincerity. But sometimes an apology (no matter how sincere) is not enough. Sometimes the only thing that will make something better for someone is going back in time and undoing it. Of course, that’s not possible. I have this discussion all the time with patients. We look for a solution to make amends or find a way to take what is available. Maybe that’s an apology or compensation. And often the patient thinks that will make things better, but then they get what they think they need and find out it’s not enough.”

“So then what?”

I work the floss between my teeth and mumble, “Then nothing. It’s called job security, Mom.”

She chuckles. “That’s terrible.”

I nod. “It is. But it’s life.”

Mom blows me a kiss and heads back to bed. “Night, hun.”

I rinse my mouth with mouthwash, remove my makeup, and head back to the shed, passing Will on the way. He ignores me because he’s in the gaming zone.

After I change into a tight white tank top and cotton shorts, I return to the house, plopping down on the sofa next to Will.

“I didn’t tell you I was seventeen because I was seventeen. So close to eighteen.”

His thumbs furiously punch the controller as he ignores me.

“I’m thinking about building a barndominium. Do you know what that is?”

“I do,” he says.

Will’s two-word response is a thrill. I’m easily satisfied. Does he remember just how easily?

“A house that resembles a barn on the outside, usually built with a steel frame and metal exterior.”

“Correct. I heard you’re pretty handy. If you want to make some extra money on your days off, I’d consider hiring you to help me finish the inside after it’s constructed.”

“Who told you I’m pretty handy?” he asks, killing two guys.

“When Maren showed me your house, she mentioned you built the she shed and did a lot of renovations around here. I can do most of it, but sometimes an extra set of hands is helpful.”

He whips his head to the side, eyes narrowed, and just as quickly turns back to the TV, but his avatar is dead. “Shit,” he mumbles, tossing the controller aside. “What do you mean you can do most of it?” He rubs the back of his neck while glancing at me again.

“I watch a lot of videos, and I’m a quick learner. Construction is just good math, measuring, and following instructions. But it also can be physically demanding, so that’s where an extra set of hands is helpful. I remodeled a bathroom in my previous house. I love tiling.”

Will returns a blank stare with slow blinks. “So you can tile?”

I nod.

“You put in the substrate, mixed the thinset, cut the pieces, and grouted?”

“Why do you look so shocked?”

“I’m not.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“Because you’re you.”

I rest my back against the arm of the sofa and playfully kick his leg while stretching out mine. “What do you mean by that?”

Will eyes me, rubbing his fingers over his lips, but it doesn’t erase his amusement. “You’re so analytical, a brainiac. I look at you as a thinker more than a doer. But then you play video games and tile shit. You’re”—he scrubs his hands over his face—“all over the damn place.”

“You mean I’m unexpected and refreshingly delightful.”

He barks a laugh while reclining and stretching his arms along the back of the sofa. “I don’t know what I mean.” He yawns and brings a fist to his mouth.

“Told you it’s past your bedtime.”

“Because I’m older than you?”

“Because you’re older than half of the US population.”

“Normal people wouldn’t know that more than half of the US population is under forty.”

“Normal is boring,” I say.

He smirks. “And yet, you love that word. I bet you’ve said it to me half a dozen times or more. All you’ve ever wanted is to be normal.”

I drum my fingers on my legs and then fold my hands to stop fidgeting.

“What would Dr. Reichart say about Everleigh?” Will asks.

I return a hesitant chuckle. “That’s a tough question. I haven’t found an answer since Everleigh doesn’t fully trust Dr. Reichart, and Dr. Reichart is too emotionally attached to Everleigh.”

Will rubs his chin, eyes narrowed. “Hmm, let’s expand on that. Why doesn’t Everleigh fully trust Dr. Reichart?”

Laughter bubbles up from my chest. “Are you shrinking me?”

“Trying. But I don’t use the right words,” he says.

“What are the right words?”

“I don’t know. Probably words or phrases like: it’s my observation, positive correlation, proclivity, insofar as, plethora, universal consensus . . . It’s a long list.”

My face hurts from grinning so much. “It’s been my observation and experience”—I giggle—“that even if a psychiatrist or therapist has a proclivity for using clinical language, they try to use layman’s terms when speaking with people who are not their colleagues. And I try not to correct malapropisms. It can be embarrassing, and it’s pointless if I know what they mean.”

Will blinks without speaking.

“A malapropism is when you misuse a word, a sort of verbal blunder, like meaning congregate but saying conjugate. Sedentary and sedimentary. It happens to most everyone at some point.”

“But not you?”

I shake my head. “Even me.”

“Such as?”

I shrug. “I don’t know off the top of my head.”

Again, he yawns.

“I’m going to bed.” I stand, pulling my hair over one shoulder.

“What?” he asks when I don’t move beyond the sofa.

“Nothing. Good night.” I smile.

He returns a chin lift. It’s a lazy nod.

“You say, ‘Good night, Everleigh. It’s been lovely chatting with you.’”

Will’s right brow makes a slight lift like his chin did. “Actually, I don’t say that. I didn’t say that. And I have no plans of saying that. Is this some weird role-playing you do with your patients?”

“Everleigh, let me walk you to the shed since it’s so late. I’d hate for a bear to attack you,” I say, ignoring his previous comment.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on. I’m enjoying this little skit.”

“Everleigh,” I continue with a deeper voice, which draws a smile from him, “I’d love to help you finish the inside of your barndominium. I’ll bring the beer. You order the pizza.”

“I’ve got news for you,” he says. “If I’m helping you, then you’re providing both the beer and pizza.”

“So that’s a yes?” I inflate with giddiness.

He stands, forcing me to step away from the sofa. His gaze slides along my face as he slowly studies me with an unreadable expression. We’re close, so close, like we were outside of the bar.

“You tell me if you’ve had sex with anyone but me, and I’ll tell you if I’m going to help you with your barn.”

I blink several times. How often does he think about my sex life?

“Have you lost sleep over this? Do you lie in bed at night, imagining me in my bed, thinking of you—my one and only sexual encounter? And when you think of yourself as my one and only, how does that make you feel?”

“It makes me feel how I always feel after a woman I’ve had sex with can no longer imagine another man giving her such pleasure. Powerful. But you know what they say. With great power comes great responsibility.”

“Voltaire,” I say.

He wrinkles his nose. “Uncle Ben. Spider-Man.”

I roll my eyes. “Voltaire coined the phrase.”

“Good night, Everleigh. It’s been painful chatting with you.”

Gah!

I want to grab his shirt and make him kiss me. I’m not seventeen anymore. And I’ve accomplished a lot over the past decade, but I haven’t stopped thinking about William Landry, my first.

“You did,” I say on my way to the back door.

“I did what?”

I don’t answer before closing the door behind me. A few seconds later, the door clicks open, and I bite my lip to keep from grinning even though my back is to him.

“You can’t breadcrumb me like that.”

I giggle. “Breadcrumb you?”

“What would you call it?”

I turn just before opening my door. “Strategic ambiguity.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd.”

“How about a cliff-hanger?” I ask.

“How about you just tell me?”

“You. Did. You left me with the feeling that no other man could give me such pleasure. But”—I turn and open the shed door—“that was a long time ago. You were much younger. And I was a virgin with nothing and no one to compare you to. You know how when you’re young everything seems better than it really is?”

I close the door and lean my back against it before he can respond. It’s such a fucking amazing feeling.

Chapter Sixteen

Eleven years earlier . . .

Kissing Will was all I could think about. He was the best kisser. Granted, I had only kissed two other guys in my life, both with braces and pimples.

We had barely made it two steps out of IHOP before Will grabbed my face and kissed me into another life. It was passionate but slow, a savored moment. I loved the way his fingertips ghosted along my neck, a feather’s touch and a contrast to his demanding lips. When he dragged his mouth along my jaw and down my neck, those gentle hands possessively gripped my ass.

“I have to go,” he mumbled, “and so do you.”

We had bachelor and bachelorette parties to attend that night, but I didn’t want to drink gross alcohol from a penis straw while my friends got plastered. And I definitely didn’t want to think about Will ogling a stripper.

“Let’s skip it,” I said breathlessly, fingers in his hair as he kissed my shoulder. “We can go back to my place or your hotel room.”

“Fuck, Everleigh . . .” He gripped my ass tighter.

We were helpless, beholden to public transportation and separate plans (obligations) for the night. What I wouldn’t have given for the back seat of a car. I assumed my first time might not feel amazing despite being so enamored of Will. He was the epitome of sexy. A muscular firefighter with a killer smile who was funny. He didn’t feel older. I wasn’t even sure how much older because I was afraid to ask for fear that he would ask my age, but I felt certain there were close to ten years between us.

“Do you like strippers?” I couldn’t help myself. The words fell out on a wave of a seventeen-year-old’s insecurities.

In case he hadn’t noticed, I didn’t look like a stripper. I was short with very few curves and an A-cup bra.

Will’s grip on my butt disappeared as he stood straight while adjusting himself in his jeans. “Is that a trick question?” He chuckled, avoiding eye contact at first.

“Yeah. I’m kidding.” I laughed it off while leading the way to the bus stop. My advanced cognition didn’t fully prepare me for everything in life, like falling in love. It had no control over my emotions. But I could predict and process potential outcomes quickly, which made it easier to pretend I wasn’t losing my mind over a hot firefighter who loved gaming as much as I did. And of course he liked strippers, or at least he enjoyed looking at naked women.

“Do you like strippers?” he asked.

I glanced behind me just as he looked at his phone screen. “Does Magic Mike count?”

He shot me a quick look and grinned. “Sure.” After ordering a ride, since Will preferred that to a bus, he slid his phone into his back pocket and stepped closer to me. “Brunch tomorrow?”

“I have classes.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You have classes the day after a bachelorette party?”

“The Stanford University School of Medicine doesn’t care that Victoria and Tyler are getting married.” I laughed. “They should have planned this during our brief two-week break, but they didn’t. So yeah, we have classes.”

It was a wild week of socializing with family and friends while still attending classes. Bachelor and bachelorette parties were usually weeks before the wedding, not days. But most of the bridal party was from out of town, and Victoria wanted at least two days to recover. That’s why the parties were on a Thursday. Rehearsal Saturday. Wedding Sunday, because it was cheaper. And back to school on Monday—no honeymoon.

“Dinner tomorrow night?” he asked.

I shook my head as the bus turned onto the street a few blocks away from us. “Bridal shower.”

“On a Friday night?”

“Yes.” I giggled. “Everything about the wedding is happening in one week,” I said.

Will glanced over his shoulder at the approaching bus.

“Saturday morning brunch?” I suggested.

He shook his head, returning his attention to me. “The guys are golfing on Saturday.”

I tried to hide my disappointment, but I wasn’t sure why. He seemed equally disappointed.

“I guess I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner,” I said.

Will frowned. It was cute to see a grown man pout. “Rehearsal dinner.” He grabbed my face and kissed me just as the bus pulled up.

It made my knees wobbly, and he grinned against my lips. I blushed while searching for my legs just as the bus opened its doors. “Bye, William Landry,” I said before biting my lower lip. “Enjoy your strippers.”

He rolled his eyes because the couple exiting the bus heard me and grinned.

There was no amount of advanced reasoning, no amount of genius, that could have prepared my heart for what was to come.

Chapter Seventeen

Will

“Morning, dear,” Liz says, pouring a cup of coffee when Everleigh opens the back door.

I keep my head ducked, filling my water bottle before my tai chi class. The sight of Everleigh in a tiny sports bra and even tinier shorts, skin glistening with sweat, is not what I need.

“Good morning,” Everleigh chirps on her way to the stairs.

“Coffee?” Liz asks her.

“No. I’m going to shower. That will wake me up. Then I’ll have a nappuccino after we look at properties.”

“Good idea,” Liz says.

The shred of self-preservation that still exists in my brain after spending the evening with Everleigh screams for me not to ask the obvious question.

“What’s a nappuccino?” I ask, losing that shred while I tighten my water bottle lid.

“Daniel Pink?” Liz eyes me.

I shake my head.

“Oh.” She takes a sip of her coffee before continuing. “He’s an author. Anyway, in his book he mentions drinking caffeine right before taking a short nap. The effect of the caffeine then kicks in at the end of the nap, and you get an extra boost from combining the nap with caffeine consumption. Everleigh takes one every day. She schedules out time at work. I think around one or two in the afternoon. It’s such a smart idea.” Liz doesn’t question it for a second.

But I do. Who has time to schedule midday naps? Two-year-olds, not doctors with a practice to run and patients to see.

“So smart,” I mumble just as my phone rings. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“I think she’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?” I head upstairs to grab my wallet.

“Your mom. I think she left me for the baby’s real father.” His voice is weak.

“Dad, she’s—” Before I can say another word, Everleigh steps out of my bathroom, dripping water everywhere, towel around her naked body, hair lathered in shampoo.

Her eyes widen when they meet mine. I drop my gaze to her hand and my razor in it.

“Mom’s not pregnant. She had a hysterectomy,” I say to Dad.

“She didn’t have her breasts removed. They’re big as ever,” Dad says.

“My razor broke,” Everleigh whispers. “I’ll return yours when I’m done.”

When she tries to jump past me, I grab her wrist to stop her. “I didn’t say mastectomy, Dad. I said hysterectomy. She had her uterus removed. I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes.” I end the call. “What the hell?”

“I’ll just shave below my knees and return it as soon as I’m done. No armpits. No pubic hair. Not that I have that much, but I have a little landing strip.” She wrinkles her nose.

I glance at the wet carpet beneath her feet.

“You’re supposedly a doctor. How can you not know that sharing a razor is not recommended? It’s like having unprotected sex.”

“Will, the risk of blood-borne pathogen transmission is much lower than unprotected sex. And my shower is running.” She twists her wrist to wriggle out of my hold. Then she prances on her tippy-toes to her bathroom and kicks the door behind her, but it doesn’t completely shut. So when she drops her towel to the floor, I see her naked backside through the inch opening that might as well be a foot.

I look away and grab a towel from my bathroom to dry the carpet, but my curiosity gets the best of me, and I sneak another peek. The splattering of water on the glass shower door doesn’t totally obscure her breasts as she lifts her arm to shave her pit, which she said she wouldn’t do. As I step on the towel to soak up the water, my gaze lifts a fraction, and she’s staring at me.

“Shit,” I mumble, quickly picking up the wet towel and then tossing it onto my vanity before I fetch my wallet and jog down the stairs.

“Enjoy your class,” Liz says.

“Mm-hm,” I mumble a second before closing the door behind me.

I’ve been practicing tai chi for years. I’m not the youngest person in the class, but I’m close. My friends enjoy razzing me about it, but I’m too secure to give a shit what they think. It’s my favorite way of meditating and bringing everything back into balance.

Except this morning.

My moves are jerky and chaotic instead of gentle and controlled. Today we’re in the park instead of the studio. There are plenty of good distractions: the trees, the clouds, the breeze. Yet, every time I think of Everleigh’s naked body, I get an erection, so I hold my breath as if it’s a balloon that I can choose to stop inflating. After suffering through the hour of my day that’s supposed to be least stressful, I head home.

Thankfully, Everleigh and her mom are gone, so I make an omelet and toast and then mow the yard. Just as I’m blowing the grass off the sidewalk, the women return.

Liz gives me a quick glance and smile before continuing into the house, but Everleigh saunters toward me with a knowing smirk.

I turn off the blower and slide my safety glasses onto my head. “Did you find a place? Awesome. When are you moving out?”

“Funny. I told you I’m building a barndominium. But yes, I found ten acres with a pond for fishing, and I’m meeting with the Realtor on Monday to sign papers. If you don’t work this weekend, I’ll show it to you. The view is breathtaking.”

“Sounds great, but I do work this weekend, so I’ll just take your word for it. I’m happy for you.” I carry the blower to the garage and return it to its hook beside the Weed eater.

“Sorry I didn’t get the bathroom door completely shut this morning,” she says.

Jesus. She has no tact. Who says that shit? I know she knows. She knows I know. That’s where it ends. At least, that’s where it should end.

“I’d rather you be sorry that you lied to me about not using my razor to shave your pits.” Two can play this game.

“I’ll buy you a new razor.”

“No need. You’re leaving.”

She laughs. “Not until my barndo is finished.”

“You’re messy and invasive. I can’t have you stay until your barn is filled with hay and oats.”

“Stop.” She giggles.

I return my safety glasses to the top drawer of my workbench, grumbling because her exercise equipment is everywhere. As soon as I turn, she’s right in front of me, invading my personal space.

“You make me sound like a mold infestation,” she says.

“Speaking of mold. If you don’t use the exhaust fan when you take a hundred-and-ten-degree shower, I’ll have mildew on the bathroom ceiling.”

“I had to shut off the fan to listen for you before I ran into your bathroom to borrow your razor. And then you flustered me, so I forgot to turn the fan back on.”

“Sorry. Being flustered isn’t a good excuse.” I step past her and then bend down to brush the grass off my boots.

“Did you call your dad back?”

“Fuck,” I mumble.

As soon as I stand straight, she’s back in my space, lips slightly pursed into a smirk I don’t trust. “Let me guess, you were too flustered to remember?”

“Isn’t it time for your nap?” I squint.

“Nappuccino. And no. Not until after lunch. Speaking of lunch. Maren and Jamie asked me to brunch tomorrow morning. Did you hire them to do your dirty work?”

Really. She’s way too close to me.

I take a step back and cross my arms to keep a barrier between us. “I don’t need to hire anyone to do my dirty work. I already told you this arrangement isn’t going to work. Maybe they feel sorry for you and want to help you in the interim until your barn is complete.”

“So you don’t want me to say anything about our sexual tension?”

“There’s no sexual tension.”

“You cockblocked me last night. Then you watched me shower this morning.”

“Pfft.” I jerk my head back before shaking it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Everleigh takes a step forward. “If they offer me an alternate place to live, I’ll consider it, but not before calling your bluff.”

“What bluff?”

“The one where you pretend to hate me for what happened eleven years ago. Then there’s the one where you pretend you’re not attracted to me. I love mind games. I’ve made a living playing them. So even when I call your bluff, we can continue to let your friends think we’re enemies. I love a good affair, like Jamie and Calvin. Sneaking around. The thrill of almost getting caught.” She waggles her eyebrows.

“I think you’re mentally unstable. Is that an asset when treating patients? Like you can literally put yourself in their shoes.”

“Will, you’re not using literally in the most literal way because you don’t mean that I’m going to wear anyone’s sneakers.”

“You’re such a liar. All that talk about not calling someone out for saying the wrong thing or wrong word because it’s embarrassing. Yet, here you are doing just that.”

“I don’t think you’re embarrassed that I’m fine-tuning your grammar. I think you’re embarrassed that I caught you looking at me in the shower this morning.”

I scoff. “The way I caught you looking at me in the shower eleven years ago? And I wasn’t checking you out. I was looking at your implants.”

She snorts. “My breasts?”

“Let me guess. Your implants are in your breasts, so the literal term is breasts since I can’t actually see the implants? Is that what you were going to say?”

“No.” She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I was going to say I’m surprised you were focused on my breasts after being so curious about Wilbur.”

Shit. I forgot to look for that pig tattoo.

“What do you think of them?” She glances down at her chest. “I think they’re the perfect size. Perky with just the right amount of bounce. But now everyone is getting their implants removed because they’re making them sick. So don’t get too attached to them. I might not have them forever.” She looks up at me and shrugs like we’re talking about her keeping her car or selling it.

“Well”—I glance over her shoulder before she says anything about me staring at her boobs—“not everyone is getting them removed. That’s not literally true.”

“I didn’t say literally everyone.”

I hate her. Sure, I want to rip off her clothes and see just how bouncy her new boobs are, but mostly I hate her.

When I look at her again, she grins. It’s big and toothy. Obnoxious. In the next breath, it simmers a bit.

“Sorry to hear about your mom. How’s she doing?”

“What?” I squint.

“You told your dad she had a hysterectomy.”

“Fifteen years ago. My dad has dementia or something going on with his memory.”

“Oh. That must be frustrating. Has he had a neurological evaluation?”

It’s mind-blowing just how easily this woman can shift from batshit-crazy Everleigh to completely normal and professional Dr. Reichart.

As if she can read my mind, she folds her hands in front of her.

“Everything about my dad is frustrating at the moment. But mostly it’s sad with the occasional comedic relief, like when he goes off about my mom being pregnant with another man’s child because her breasts are big. And before you ask, yes, she has implants too.”

“Was that difficult for you? It’s not uncommon for sons to feel uneasy or awkward about their mothers changing parts of their bodies that are associated with both comfort (for example, breastfeeding or the familiarity of a warm embrace) and sexuality.”

“Are you shrinking me over my mother’s implants?”

“It could be awkward for her too. Especially if you stare at them.”

I cringe. “God! Stop that shit, Everleigh. I don’t stare at my mom’s breasts.”

She purses her lips, but that doesn’t hide her amusement. Her body shifts, and I notice something. It’s the hands. When she’s no longer Dr. Reichart, she folds them behind her like she’s on the verge of dropping her chin and saying “Aw, shucks.” It’s her tell.

“You’re a terrible psychiatrist.”

“I’m not your psychiatrist. I’m your friend. And friends tease each other.”

Hence, the hands folded behind her.

“We’re not friends.” I step past her and keep walking toward the house.

“Then what are we?” She jogs to catch up.

“I’m your landlord. You’re my tenant, whom I’m evicting.”

“On what grounds?”

“Theft.”

“What are you talking about?”

I unlace my boots by the back door. “You stole my razor.”

“Borrowed it.”

“There are some things you don’t borrow. Like condoms, toothbrushes, and razors. Borrowing implies you will return it. And no one returns a used condom, toothbrush, or razor.” I stand, gazing down at her.

“Sometimes, borrow means that you’ll replace the item instead of returning the original. Like borrowing a cup of sugar to bake a cake.”

I grit my teeth and hold up my hands, making connected C shapes, then I shake them, strangling the air instead of her neck.

Her eyes flare as she watches my control wither away to nearly nothing. Then she clears her throat and checks her watch. “I might take my nappuccino early.”

“Good idea,” I whisper through clenched teeth.

When she turns and heads toward the shed, I close my eyes for a second. If I don’t kill her (a 99.99 percent probability), I’ll end up fucking her senseless, marrying her, and having a half dozen kids and a bird named after a groundbreaking scientist who no one with an average IQ has heard of (a 00.01 percent chance).

Chapter Eighteen

Everleigh

“So how’s it going?” Maren asks as she, Jamie, and I enjoy delectable European-style pastries and fine espresso at Le Petit Bakehouse just off the Hip Strip. Its brick walls and fun ’70s vibe make it my favorite place to chill and listen to audiobooks when I have a few hours free, not to mention the sweet smell of baked goods and freshly brewed coffee.

I swallow a bite of my blueberry Danish and shrug. “Things are going great. I dropped my mom off at the airport this morning. Yesterday, I found an acreage on which to build a barndominium. And I’m having brunch with friends. How are things going with you?” I hold my breath and study their reactions to the word friends, hoping I’m correct in making that assumption. I don’t have many friends. If they’re open to a bestie threesome, I might just squeal.

Jamie and Maren exchange a look with hesitant smiles. Maybe I’m rushing the bestie threesome scenario.

“That’s great to hear. I’ve seen some cool barndominiums on Instagram,” Jamie says, curling her black hair behind her ear. “When will it be completed?”

“Oh.” I blot my mouth with a napkin. “I don’t know yet. I meet with the Realtor on Monday. And I’m doing most of the interior myself, well, maybe with Will’s help. So I’m not sure how long it will take. Could be a year or two.”

Jamie’s grin stiffens, like she’s afraid to move, while Maren coughs on her espresso.

“So.” Maren clears her throat. “You’re doing the interior construction on your new place, and Will said he’d help you?”

“Ladies.” I playfully flick my wrist and bat my eyelashes. “What is the saying? Oh, yes. Real queens fix each other’s crowns. Maren, I would never question your ability as a woman to fly a tanker plane. And Jamie, you know I’ve always liked you. I would never imply that a girl who didn’t leave Florida until her twenties is not good enough to land a guy like Calvin Fitzgerald. So, let’s just focus on lifting each other up. You have no reason to believe I can’t install a cabinet or hang a lighting fixture, unless you’re suggesting it’s not something a woman can do?”

They slowly shake their heads, postures deflating.

Oh, no! Am I losing them?

“And Will hasn’t agreed to help me yet, but I think he’ll cave soon. And I’d love help choosing colors, cabinet styles, lighting fixtures, if either or both of you would like to do that with me. We could make it a whole thing. Shopping. Lunch. My treat, of course.”

Chill.

I have no middle ground. Either I’m a doctor in character, saying all the things I know I should say, or I’m a twelve-year-old girl meeting friends in the neighborhood, hoping they’ll play with me even though I just started college and they’re still learning how to multiply decimals.

“So things between you and Will are good?” Jamie asks.

I want to let down my guard and tell them I’ve been in love with Will since I was seventeen. But I don’t know if I can trust them because they’re Will’s friends, not mine—yet. So I play the game because that’s what this is, a game between Will and me. Maren and Jamie are spectators—Team William—until I win them over.

“There’s a lot of sexual tension,” I say. “But we went out the other night to a bar and then IHOP. The night before that, we played his PlayStation until the wee hours. We’re taking it slow. There’s a lot of unresolved feelings, and I have to earn his trust again. That will take time and a lot of patience. Support from our friends, like you, will help too.”

Again, I watch their reaction to our friends.

Jamie and Maren study me with blank expressions. What does that mean?

“What makes you think Will has unresolved feelings?” Jamie asks, a true student of the psychiatric profession. Doesn’t she know I don’t want to be Doctor Reichart on a Saturday morning?

“Well.” I sigh, indulging her for a moment. “My mother painted me—naked, of course. And Will snuck into the bedroom to look at the painting.”

Maren wrinkles her nose while biting her bottom lip.

“Yesterday, I was taking a shower, and the door didn’t get completely shut. When I glanced up while shaving my armpit, Will was watching me.”

Jamie drops her face into her hands, rubbing her forehead while mumbling, “Are you serious?”

“I wasn’t bothered by it. I had my own Peeping Tom incident when we met years ago. I’d say he wasn’t looking at anything he hadn’t already seen, but that’s not true. I didn’t have my implants back then.”

Jamie’s gaze drops to my chest. “I didn’t know you had breast augmentation. Whoever did it did a nice job.”

I blush. “Thanks. I think so too.”

“Do you worry about them leaking?” Maren asks.

“No. I mean, I know it’s a possibility, but worrying about it won’t prevent it.”

“Well”—Maren rolls her eyes—“I’m sure Will loves them. He’s a breast guy.”

Jamie snickers. “Fitz is too. I think all men are.”

When they laugh, I join in because, for the first time since we arrived, I feel included, not scrutinized. This is it. We’re friends. Let the bestie threesome begin.

“Are you close with your father?” Jamie asks, pouring ice water on our cozy friendship.

“You think I’m interested in Will because he’s older? A father figure?”

She shakes her head, yet shrugs as if that might be what she’s implying.

“Fitz is older than you.” I stop short of asking if she has daddy issues because we know that answer. She grew up without him and learned some pretty shocking things about his past.

“He is,” Jamie says with a brave smile, like she’s fine with me talking about her father.

Maren clears her throat, nervously fiddling with the ends of her blond hair that’s pulled over one shoulder. “Has Will met your father?”

“No,” I say, glancing down at my drink.

“Have you told your father about your past relationship with Will?” Maren prods.

“I was thinking of going with modern decor for my barndo, but I’ve seen some really cool designs on Pinterest that incorporate reclaimed wood. So now I’m leaning in that direction. What do you think?”

Maren and Jamie share a look. I fear this bestie threesome is not happening today.

Chapter Nineteen

Will

The Missoula Fire Department gets called by the US Forest Service dispatch to help with a wildfire eight miles south of town. I spend my forty-eight-hour shift on that fire. By Monday, it’s still at zero containment.

As I climb into my Bronco to head home, I get a text.

Fitz: Heard your house got called

Will: Yeah. Heading home to crash. U?

Fitz: Just sent out a group. Staying at the base today

Fitz: Jamie said there’s sexual tension between u and the Dr

I slide my sunglasses onto my head to make sure I’m reading his text correctly.

Will: WTF

Fitz: That’s what I figured. Go sleep

I grumble a few expletives and then drive home. After removing my boots at the back door, I glance up and freeze. My kitchen is a disaster again. Dirty dishes in the sink. Crumbs on the counter. An open bottle of AriZona tea on the coffee table beside a pair of wadded pink socks.

“Sleep first,” I mumble on my way to the stairs, “and kill her later.”

Four hours later, I awaken to the vacuum running downstairs. I pull on jeans and follow the high-pitched hum. Halfway down the stairs, I stop, squinting at the stranger cleaning my house.

“Hello?” I yell.

The young, dark-haired woman jumps and turns off the vacuum. “Hi. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Well, ya did. Who are you? And why are you in my house?”

“Oh, I’m Alba. Dr. Reichart asked me to clean your house. I own a cleaning business. I’m an ex-patient of hers, but she said I shouldn’t tell you that, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I needed her. She helped me so much. You must feel privileged getting to be her roommate. She’s brilliant.”

“Agree to disagree. Listen, Alba, I worked a forty-eight-hour shift, and I need sleep. So maybe you can come back tomorrow afternoon or anytime Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Sorry, sir. I only have Mondays available.”

I pull in a deep breath and hold it while returning a tight smile. Letting it out, I stomp back upstairs, grab a T-shirt, socks, and a hat. Then I breeze past Alba and head to Dr. Reichart’s office.

“Oh! Sir!” The same blond as before follows me down the hallway.

But this time, I know where Everleigh’s office is.

“Sir? Uh, Will?” The blond chases me. “Dr. Reichart is not to be disturbed for another fifteen minutes unless it’s an emergency.”

“It’s an emergency,” I say, opening her office door.

It’s dark except for the light from the hallway. There’s spa music playing. And Everleigh is on the leather sofa under a blanket with a sleep mask over her eyes. I slam the door shut behind me, and she jumps, sliding her mask up her forehead.

“Will?” She squints.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re sleeping while one of your patients is vacuuming my house so that I”—I jab my thumb into my chest—“the firefighter who just completed a forty-eight-hour shift, can’t sleep?”

She wrinkles her nose while standing and pulls her hair back into a ponytail before tucking her black blouse into her cream skirt. “I told her to wait until afternoon. And she’s not my patient anymore.”

“Well”—I smack her M&M dispenser several times, sending some rolling off her desk and onto the floor while a few land in my hand—“I sleep until mid to late afternoon following a two-day shift.”

“You’re making a mess,” she says, picking up the M&Ms from the floor.

“Oh, I’m making a mess? You’re a pig. My kitchen was a disaster when I came home this morning. I think your hidden tattoo says a lot more about you than your favorite childhood book.”

Everleigh tosses the M&Ms into her sleek gold trash bin. “I’m very sorry. I tried to check with you, but you didn’t answer your phone or return my text.”

“I was working the Travelers’ fire. Sorry I didn’t have time to discuss chores with you. I was busy saving homes and possibly lives.”

“Thank you for your service,” she says, holding out her hand.

I stare at it. “I’m not shaking your hand.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m pissed off.”

“Go home and sleep. I’ll call Alba and tell her to dust and clean toilets. I’ll vacuum tonight when I get home. Does that sound like a good idea?”

I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging it while trying to shake this building frustration. “You know what sounds like a good idea to me?”

“What?”

“You staying out of my business. You not telling my friends that there’s sexual tension between us. There is tension between us, but it’s not sexual. It’s the kind of tension that leads to a Dateline murder mystery episode.” I drop my hands to my sides.

“Have you ever taken a Xanax or Ativan?”

“What?” I squint.

“They’re fast-acting benzodiazepines for panic attacks and acute anxiety.”

“I’m not having a panic attack, and I don’t have acute anxiety. I don’t need drugs. I need you to move out of my house and never contact me again!” I stalk toward the door, but she jumps in front of me before I can open it. “Get out of my way.”

She slowly shakes her head, wide-eyed gaze locked with mine. I’m not sure what her game is, but it’s not me. I’m tired of being played.

“Dr. Reichart would tell me to step aside and move out of your shed immediately. She hates seeing grown women chase men who don’t want them. So can we just keep this between us?” she asks in a weird third-person narrative.

“Keep what between—”

Everleigh shifts all of her weight onto her tippy-toes and grabs the back of my neck to kiss me. I could stop her because I’m stronger than she is. But I don’t. Instead, I let her kiss me. And for a few seconds, that’s it. Her kissing me.

She doesn’t stop. No giving up. Everleigh has never been a quitter.

So I kiss her back. Just my lips move at first, then I slide my hands around her tiny waist and pull her to me. Her breasts press against my chest, and I feel a low hum from her before I hear it. I don’t know what’s happening. This is not the beginning of the 00.01 percent scenario.

No.

It’s a kiss.

I know how to just kiss, the way I know how to just have sex. These skills of mine have kept me unmarried and unattached for forty years.

The problem?

This might be the longest kiss of my life. The fraction of space between us fills with the forced breaths through our noses. Her hands slide into my hair, fingers curling to grip it as mine drop a few inches to grab her ass. This makes her hum turn into a moan that I swallow.

Why does she have to smell like a bouquet and taste like a candy cane?

My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. After it quits for a few seconds, it vibrates again. Everleigh’s firm grip of my hair feels like an accelerator, fueling whatever is happening, and I don’t care who’s calling me.

But again, it vibrates. Someone’s antsy to reach me, and just that thought sobers me up enough to release her. We stare at each other, eyes unblinking, lips parted, breaths labored.

Everleigh slowly lifts her hand to wipe the smeared lipstick from her face, and I mirror her because it must be all over mine as well. What the hell do I say?

Oops?

Sorry?

My bad?

She started it.

Again, my phone vibrates, so I pull it from my pocket. “Yeah?” I answer it, turning my back to Everleigh while combing my free hand through my hair. My dick is hard. Mind jumbled. And the voice coming from the phone does nothing to comfort me.

“What are you doing?” Dad asks in his slow Eeyore voice.

“Uh, I’m . . . nothing. Errands. Uh, what’s wrong?” I ask because something must be wrong for him to call me so relentlessly.

“There were raisins in the cookie.”

“What?” I flip the shades and stare out the window overlooking a sports field. Hopefully, Everleigh has a patient waiting, and she’ll disappear before I end this conversation.

“At lunch. The cookie had raisins. You know I hate raisins. I don’t know why God invented them. I told the lady I needed a cookie that didn’t have raisins. She said she’d see what she could do. That was almost two hours ago.”

“Dad.” I press the heel of my hand to my forehead and rub tiny circles. “Are you really calling me about a cookie?”

“Yeah. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Did you call Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Tough cookie.’”

I pinch my bottom lip to hide my grin. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“I want you to call the main headquarters and find out what’s taking them so long to bring me my cookie.”

Main headquarters?

“Dad, you won’t die without a cookie.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not stuck in a jail like I am. You can buy a whole box of cookies.”

“Well, maybe I can arrange a cookie delivery. I don’t know yet. I’ll have to see what I can find.”

“Chocolate chip. No raisins. No oatmeal. No cranberries. No coconut. No nuts.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I got it. No promises.”

“Do you know my room number?”

“I do—”

“It’s thirteen. Unlucky number thirteen.”

“Thirteen. Got it. I’ll check back with you later.”

“Okay. I’ll just be here doing nothing. Waiting for a cookie.”

I close my eyes for a second and nod. Oh the guilt. I don’t want him to die, but I wouldn’t mind if he misplaced his phone. “Understood. I love you.”

He replies with a “Hmm” as if he’s not sure if I do.

Please be gone.

I turn to discover my prayer has gone unanswered.

Everleigh’s fingers fly across her computer’s keyboard. It’s as if I’m not here. And maybe I can lower to my hands and knees and crawl out of her office before she notices I’m gone.

“The best way to know if you’ve successfully raised good humans is to see how they take care of you when you become the child again.” She taps a key with her index finger three times, then rolls back in her chair and rests her hands on the arms.

I don’t know what to do with that pose because her hands are neither behind her nor folded in front.

“Your parents raised a good human,” she says.

“That’s interesting coming from the girl who thinks I crushed her heart eleven years ago.”

She returns a soft smile. “I’m not your mother. Perhaps how you treat me isn’t as important as how you treat her.”

“Did your parents raise you well?” I ask, casually taking a few steps closer to the door as if I can discreetly exit the stage when there’s a break in conversation—the end of an act.

“I don’t know.” A flash of something crosses her face. What? I’m not sure.

She quickly smiles through it. “It’s easy to think that you’ll rise to the occasion, but caring for older people is challenging. You can’t change a diaper, feed them, stick a pacifier in their mouth, and put them down for a nap while you get things done. The milestones aren’t exciting like a toddler walking or saying their first words. It’s reversed. It’s frustrating and sad. The guilt is unrelenting. There can be deep feelings of resentment and loneliness. Caregiver burnout. And other things you can’t anticipate. You’re not bringing a life into the world. You’re easing the transition into a life ending,” Everleigh says, lifting her gaze for a mere second before looking at her watch.

Maybe talking about the kiss would be easier.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

A slow smile tugs at her lips. “For the depressing dose of reality or the kiss?”

I shrug. “They feel like one and the same.”

Everleigh rolls her eyes with a tiny headshake.

“I should not have kissed you,” I say in all seriousness.

“You didn’t. I kissed you.” She folds her hands in her lap.

“I participated.”

She studies me for a few seconds before returning a slow nod.

“I can’t forget the past,” I say. “But more than that, I’m still twelve years older than you. And I am a good son, so I might have to move to Somers to help take care of my dad. And let’s be honest, you’re too smart for me.”

Again, she offers a single, slow nod. So I turn and open her door.

“Will, I’m scared too. And I know the night that stands out in your head is our last night together, but I will never forget the rehearsal dinner.”

My lips part, and I take a quick breath as I prepare to turn back toward her and make a case for why I’m not scared despite what she thinks. But I don’t want to argue with her. It won’t change how I feel, and I doubt it will change her feelings either.

“I shouldn’t have cockblocked you. It won’t happen again.” I open the door without looking back. It’s time to get laid.

Chapter Twenty

Eleven years earlier . . .

“Fancy seeing you here,” Everleigh said from behind me as the wedding party gathered outside of the Stanford Faculty Club for the rehearsal in the courtyard.

It was an intimate setting nestled in the majestic trees and manicured greenery, accented with string lights for ambience. I turned, unable to hide my grin. She had twisted her hair into a bun, with a few strands around her face. All the bridesmaids wore floral dresses in bright colors and patterns. Perfectly mismatched. Everleigh’s was light purple with dark-purple polka dots and thin straps that crisscrossed in front and tied around her neck.

“Hmm, have we met?” I scratched my chin.

“It’s every girl’s dream to be so unforgettable.” She clasped her hands behind her back and swayed side to side, her dress rocking like a church bell.

“Listen.” I glanced around. “Tyler asked me to be a good friend, a groomsman, and nothing else. Specifically, he asked me not to break anyone’s heart this weekend. So can we just keep this between us? You know . . . what’s happened or about to happen?”

“Yes,” she said so quickly my head reared back an inch.

“Okay then. Glad to know we’re on the same page,” I said with a chuckle.

“What I mean is Victoria basically said the same thing to me.”

“She’s worried you might break someone’s heart?”

“Well”—Everleigh stood straight, making her maybe a half inch taller, but still a short stack—“yes. Why the look? Do you doubt I could be a heartbreaker?”

I rubbed my fingers over my lips and smoothed my mustache while shaking my head. “Nope. Not at all. In fact, I was a little heartbroken that you had a bridal shower last night.”

“Because you couldn’t play video games with me?”

“Yes. Gaming. That’s what I wanted to do with you last night.”

“I thought so.” She winked.

We turned toward the minister, who had whistled to get everyone’s attention.

“If I get hitched, I’m eloping in Vegas,” I mumbled under my breath.

Through my peripheral vision, I caught her big grin.

“Sounds like a good idea. Sadly, even if I elope, I’ll have to go to India for a second wedding with my father’s family. And it will be a huge deal with lots of people I don’t know. Also, I couldn’t rob my father of the opportunity to walk me down the aisle. Besides, there’s something special about the symbolic letting go. A father trusting another man to care for his daughter. I might miss that if I eloped.”

“Is Reichart an Indian name?” I whispered as everyone quieted down to listen to the minister.

“No. Since my parents never married, I took my mom’s surname. It’s what’s on my birth certificate. Boring, huh?” She giggled, earning her a scowl from Victoria. I elbowed Everleigh, which made her laugh again, but she held it in as her body silently shook.

Everything was easy with Everleigh. I wore a permanent smile. And she was shaping up to be the most interesting woman I had ever met.

After the minister ran through rehearsal twice, everyone gathered inside for dinner. Old chandeliers hung from the rich wood ceilings. A friend of the family played his acoustic guitar near a brick wall, where there were engagement pictures of the happy couple. As luck would have it, I was seated at a round table next to Everleigh. We tried to be on our best behavior, pretending to listen to whoever was talking about God knows what.

We smiled and nodded.

We ate a few bites of salmon and twice-baked potatoes and drank wine and beer on cue.

But then she slid her foot next to mine, and it had a domino effect. I spread my legs wider so our knees touched. She rested a hand on her leg and so discreetly placed my hand on hers, and we interlaced our fingers. Everleigh blotted her mouth with a cloth napkin and then draped the napkin over our hands. I guided our hands up her leg.

She gulped her wine and then her water. “Excuse me while I use the ladies’ room,” she said, releasing my hand and scooting back in her chair.

No one at the table seemed to hear her. They were too busy laughing, eating, and drinking. I waited a minute before escaping, knowing that no one was paying attention to me.

Would we have sex in the ladies’ room if no one else were in there? Was there a dark corner or janitor’s closet where we could mess around? All the possibilities played in my mind as I eased open the door to the ladies’ room, praying that Everleigh would be the only one inside.

Sure enough, two of the three stalls were empty. When I ducked to look under the third stall door, I saw her metallic silver heels. For a second, I wondered why they were facing the toilet, but then I heard a gag, a cringey retching, followed by a splashing sound. A short cough. Another gag. More vomit splattered in the toilet. As I took a step closer, the sour smell hit me.

“Oh, Everleigh.”

She spat twice before whispering, “Please go away.”

“Open the door.” I pressed my hand to it.

“Please go,” she repeated before sniffling.

I sighed and murmured, “Okay.” Then I opened the door and let it shut without leaving the room.

The stall lock clicked as she opened it and stepped out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, face wet with tears.

She caught my reflection in the mirror before ducking her head and turning on the faucet. “Will, I don’t want you to see me like this.” She splashed her face with water and blindly reached for the paper towels.

I grabbed several for her and placed them in her hand.

She blotted her face and opened her bloodshot eyes. “I don’t feel well.”

“I can see that. I’m sorry. Let’s get a cab to your place.”

“What? No. Absolutely not. Just go. It was nice knowing you.”

“Nice knowing me?” I chuckled despite her discomfort and the few dots of vomit splatter clinging to the hair around her face. “I think knowing me might be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

She cupped her hand under the water and rinsed her mouth out several times before clawing at more paper towels to blot her lips. “How do you figure that?”

“Tomorrow is the best day of Victoria’s life, and she’s about to be down a bridesmaid if I don’t make magic happen in the next twelve hours. And you don’t want to be the one to spoil her day. Enter yours truly to save the day. It’s what I do. I put out fires, save lives, just things like that.” I blew on my fingernails, then rubbed them on my shirt.

My confident smile faded when her crestfallen face turned ashen again. Her cheeks puffed out, and she dove back into the stall.

An hour later, after I informed Tyler of the situation and made him promise not to tell his bride-to-be, we snuck out, grabbed a cab, and made a quick stop at the grocery store on the way to Everleigh’s apartment. By the time she had showered then collapsed into bed, the nausea had eased.

“That’s a lot,” she murmured, inspecting the nightstand filled with things like coconut water, ginger ale, and my homemade oral rehydration solution with sugar, salt, baking soda, and water. Chamomile tea. Activated charcoal tablets. Crackers. Bananas. And peppermint lozenges.

I sat on the edge of her bed. “What do you want to try first?”

“Sleep,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“You need to try—”

“Sleep,” she repeated. “Go home.”

I deflated. “I’m not going home,” I said, toeing off my shoes. “I’m staying in case you need me.”

“What are you doing?” she mumbled without opening her eyes as I slid into bed, gently spooning her. “I can’t have sex.”

I snorted while trying to restrain my laughter. “Shucks. And here I thought I might get in a quickie before you hurl again.”

She made a noise that sounded like a hum or a failed attempt at laughing.

I rested my hand on her hip and kissed her shoulder. “Sleep, Everleigh.”

That was the second night I slept (just slept) with a girl, and ironically, it was the same girl.

The next morning, I had toast and tea ready when she emerged from the bedroom with hair matted to her forehead. Lips pale and shoulders hunched.

“Good morning.” I glanced up from my phone and smiled, hoping she would reciprocate.

She did not.

“Let me pop your toast back in the toaster to warm it up.” I pushed back in my chair.

“It’s fine,” she mumbled, plunking into the chair across from me.

“You didn’t throw up again, so that’s good. Right?” I infused as much positivity into my words as possible.

Everleigh wouldn’t look at me. “I suppose,” she said, sipping the lukewarm tea.

“Tyler texted me earlier to see if you were going to make it to the salon in time to get your hair done with the rest of the bridesmaids. I said—”

Everleigh’s tired eyes lifted to meet my gaze. I tried not to focus on her rat’s-nested hair, but it wasn’t easy.

“Or you could go with what you have now.” I leaned back in my chair and shrugged before bringing the coffee mug to my mouth, hiding my grin. “It’s lovely.”

“I’ve never said these two words to anyone,” she said before taking a bite of the toast and slowly chewing. “Fuck you,” she mumbled.

I barked a laugh. “Attagirl. You’re going to be just fine today.”

“I don’t want to be fine. I want . . . I wanted . . .”

“You wanted what?” I set my coffee on the table and rested my folded arms next to it.

For the first time since I found her vomiting in the ladies’ room, she had color back in her cheeks. Was she blushing?

“I thought we were going to have sex,” she murmured.

I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. “You thought what? Did you just say sex?”

“Gah!” She covered her face. “Just go. This is too embarrassing.”

“You thought we were going to have sex last night?”

Keeping her face covered, she nodded.

“I did too. But there’s always tonight.”

“What?” She dropped her hands to her lap. “No. We can’t do that now that I vomited. You saw it. Heard me. Smelled it. You probably felt like you could taste it.” Her nose wrinkled. “How are we supposed to have sex now?” She glanced out the window on a huff. “Oh my god!” When she saw her reflection, she bolted to the bathroom. “I hate my life.”

I chuckled. “Comb your hair, brush your teeth, get on the bed, and spread your legs. We can get this over with right now.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Everleigh

As I finish dictating notes into my phone, there’s a knock at my office door.

“Come in,” I call, dragging my feet off the desk and sitting up straight as Jamie pokes her head inside.

“Oh.” I smile. “Hi.”

“Steph said you were done for the day. Do you have a minute?”

I nod. “Absolutely. Is this about Will?”

Jamie closes the door. “Uh, no. Why? Is something up with Will?”

“He popped in earlier. No big deal.”

Except, we kissed!

I swallow my excitement and clear my throat so I don’t say those words aloud. “Have a seat.” I nod at the chair.

“Thanks. I wanted to let you know that I’m looking for temporary work, but I don’t want to travel. So if you ever need help, or if any of your nurses have vacations planned, I’d love to fill in.”

“Sure. That would be great. Why have you decided to stay in town? I thought you loved the travel nurse gig.”

“I do, but my circumstances have changed.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“It’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

Jamie curls her hair behind her ears and rolls her eyes. “True. Well, I’m pregnant, but we’re not telling anyone yet.”

I grip the side of my chair and smile.

Jamie focuses on my hands for a second. “You have to keep it a secret, but you don’t have to hold in your reaction.”

“Yes!” I jump out of my chair. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you two.”

She stands, and I hug her.

“Thank you.”

“Does Fitz know? Maren? Am I the first to know?”

Jamie giggles. “Fitz knows. That’s it.”

I release her, trying to control myself.

Me!

She’s telling me before Maren or Will. I think I’ve arrived.

“We should celebrate. Can I take you to dinner?”

“Oh, no,” Jamie stumbles over her words. “That’s unnecessary.” She bats a hand at me and then straightens her cream, puffy-sleeved blouse.

I lace my fingers behind my back. “Fitz probably wants to see you.”

“He’s in Idaho.”

“Then I’m taking you to dinner. That’s what friends do. Right?”

She eyes me before offering a slow nod. “I suppose.”

I slide my laptop into my tote and then loop my arm around hers to head to dinner.

We decide to meet at a farm-to-table eatery in a nineteenth-century building on West Main Street. The server fills our water glasses and gives us a few minutes to look over the menu.

“Why did Will stop by to see you today?” Jamie asks as we study the menus.

“Are you asking me as Will’s friend or mine?” I peek over my menu, and Jamie does the same.

“Does it matter?”

I slowly nod.

She closes her menu and sets it on the table. “If I ask him, what will he tell me?”

“Will’s unpredictable, which is unfortunate.” I refocus on the menu. “But I imagine he’d tell you I hired someone to clean his house, and that particular someone woke him up. So, instead of calling or texting, he made a trip to visit me in person.”

Jamie hums before nodding. “I see. So he was mad?”

“At first.”

“How did you calm him down?”

“I’m a psychiatrist. How do you think I calmed him down?” I narrow my eyes because I’m an exceptional doctor with a slightly inflated ego. But, like all doctors, I’m a terrible patient who deflects and often relies on passive-aggressive behavior. The psychiatrist in me would say it’s my age, the part of emotional intelligence that can’t be rushed like one’s general cognitive ability.

“You drugged him?”

I snort. “If only he were that compliant.”

Jamie giggles. “So what did you do?”

“He would tell you I dismissed his concerns when I offered a better solution.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” I smirk.

“I think Maren is intimidated by you,” Jamie says. “I used to be too. I mean, you’re an actual genius, not like Fitz giving me orgasms by looking at me the right way.”

“Did you get pregnant from a glance across a crowded room?” It’s a giddy feeling to talk with someone close to my age about boys. I missed this part of growing up.

“It was a photo that another smoke jumper took of him carrying his gear to the pickup spot after containing a fire. Rugged and dirty.” She winks before sipping her water.

“I remember meeting a sexy firefighter when I was younger.”

Jamie’s smile falters, and I’m reminded that she’s Will’s friend more than mine.

“Can I put this into perspective?” I ask.

“What’s that?”

“Will and I. I was one month from turning eighteen when we met my second year of medical school. I never lied about my age, but no, I didn’t tell him I was seventeen. And I don’t know what he’s told you, but it wasn’t a single night of intoxication and lust. It was more. There was an emotional connection before we had sex. I got food poisoning the night of the rehearsal dinner, and he took me home, stopping by the store on the way to get every remedy imaginable.” I grin, and so does Jamie.

“Will made it his personal mission to have me ready to walk down the aisle on time without Victoria, the bride, knowing how close I’d come to leaving her short one bridesmaid. He could have walked away. I begged him to. He witnessed me at my worst before he knew if I was good at sex. Really, before either of us knew.” I chuckle.

“It wasn’t”—I shake my head—“nothing. It wasn’t everything either, at least not to him. But it was something.” I inhale a deep breath and slide my fingers under my legs, feeling vulnerable and desperate for someone to see it from my point of view. “I fell first. I fell hard. And when Will found out about my age, he ran too fast for me to catch him. So then I did what any young woman in my shoes would have done.”

“What’s that?”

“I obsessed over him for more than a decade.”

Jamie laughs.

With a shy grin, I rest my crossed arms on the edge of the table, waiting for her to look at me again. “When you came to Missoula and worked for me, I knew you wanted to make friends and just fit in.”

She nods once.

“That’s all I’ve wanted my whole life.”

“Then, as your friend, I have to give you some good advice.” She glances at her phone before sliding it into her tote. “Let Will go. No more obsessing. He’ll crush you because he’s still a boy who can’t understand the fragility of a young woman’s heart falling in love for the first time.”

I don’t react. She doesn’t know I kissed that boy earlier today, and my heart can’t let him go.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Will

It’s a midlife crisis.

That’s the best explanation for why I kissed Everleigh. I’m forty, single, and dealing with my father’s declining health. My job is stressful. I tweaked my back a few days ago.

There are so many reasons for my unusual behavior.

But scared? No. That’s absurd. What could I possibly be scared of?

“What did the poor mailbox do?” Everleigh asks, stepping out of her Subaru a little before eight at night.

I slide the head of the hammer into my jeans’ back pocket. “A snowplow clipped it last winter, and I’m tired of looking at the dent in the side. And the door doesn’t close properly.”

She lifts her brown leather tote onto her shoulder and cocks her head, inspecting the mailbox. “So you thought a second dent would solve the problem?”

I frown. “I had to hammer out that side so the door would close.”

She reaches for the door and gives it a hard tug before it opens. “Stiff.”

“It’s fine.” I head toward the garage. “Where have you been?” I cringe the second the words leave my mouth. It’s none of my business. More than that, I don’t care.

Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

“I had dinner with a friend.”

“You have a friend?” I grin with my back to her while I return the hammer to its hook above my tool bench.

“Jamie.”

I turn. “Jaymes?”

She casually nods.

“Why?”

“You’re awfully curious.”

I shrug, stepping past her. “Just making conversation.”

“Oh, I like conversation. Early this morning, I signed the papers for my land. How was the rest of your afternoon? Did you grab a nap after Alba finished cleaning? Did she do a marvelous job?”

Why did I speak to her?

I remove my boots and step into the house, setting them just inside the door.

“Looks clean to me,” she says, moseying into the kitchen and then depositing her bag on the table, where it doesn’t belong.

“That just proves you’re easy to please,” I say, washing my hands.

Everleigh flips her hair over her shoulder and laughs. “You’ve known that for a long time.”

I won’t take the bait. It’s a sex reference. We’re not talking about sex or kissing or anything like that.

“How’s Jamie? Are you moving out now that you’ve closed on your land?” I ask, grabbing a beer from the fridge, then twisting the top.

“Jamie’s good.” She sits on the sofa, tucking her legs under her while ignoring the moving out question.

“She’s feeling okay?” I ask, leaning against the counter before gulping the beer like a bottled water.

“Yes,” she says slowly. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug. “No reason. What did you two talk about?” My control evaporates. Did she tell Jamie about the kiss?

“Will, I think we should discuss what happened earlier, so it’s not weird.”

I take my time nursing the next sip of beer, and then I rub my lips for a few seconds while I ponder if there will ever be a day when my relationship with Everleigh Reichart is not weird. “Your housekeeper woke me up. Then you kissed me. I’m not sure why. Then my dad called. I ordered him cookies to be delivered. What’s there to discuss?”

“Since you don’t know why I kissed you, I think we should start there.”

“No.” I scoff, shaking my head. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you talk to your patients.”

“You’ve never observed me talking to my patients, so how would you know how I talk to them?”

“You sound clinical when you talk, saying things like we should start there.”

“Fine. I kissed you because you’re sexy. I kissed you for the same reason you kiss women you meet at a bar.”

“I kiss women I meet at a bar because I want to fuck them.” I drink more beer.

“Well, there you go.” She holds her hands out, palms up.

“There I go?”

“I kissed you because I want to have sex with you.”

I choke on the lager. “We’re”—I cough more—“not having sex.”

“I didn’t say we were. I said it’s why I kissed you. Had your dad not called, I think we would have had sex on the sofa in my office or on the desk.”

I can’t stop coughing. It’s no longer the beer; it’s the words that slide to the tip of my tongue, only to be shoved back down my throat every time she speaks. “We would not have,” I squeak, shaking my head.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I have self-control.”

“You had no self-control. How many times did your dad try calling before you answered?”

“Four. And that just proves my point. I could have answered on the first ring, but I had self-control, so I waited until the fourth time he called.”

Her hazel eyes light up.

“I’m kidding.” I toss her a cocky grin and drop my empty bottle into the bin. “You’re so gullible.”

She frowns. “I’m the opposite of gullible. Everything I do requires a healthy amount of skepticism.”

“Except for me,” I say, heading up the stairs. “You’d do me without hesitation.” I feel victorious, even though there is nothing I need upstairs other than an excuse to make a dramatic exit from the living room with the last word in my wake.

When I hear the back door shut, I change into sweats and a T-shirt to make my unnecessary trip upstairs worthwhile, and then I head downstairs to game. Barely ten minutes into it, the door opens, and Everleigh shuffles her bare feet across the wood floor. I make a lightning-fast glance in her direction before refocusing on the game.

She opens a kitchen cabinet. “What are you playing?”

“GTA.”

“Want to play with me?” she asks, opening a bag of popcorn.

“Would you stop saying that? Pervert. I can’t believe people trust you with their mental health.” I get sniped and then flop back onto the sofa, discarding the controller beside me.

“I know. Every day I deal with impostor syndrome.” She sits next to me, tilting the bag of popcorn toward me.

I fish out a handful and throw it into my mouth. “You never told me why Jamie had dinner with you,” I mumble before swallowing.

“Because I’m a charming person, and being in my company is a privilege. Wouldn’t you agree?” She steals my controller and brings up Fortnite.

“I would not. You’re annoying, like the little sister I already have.” I pluck the controller from her hand, and she dives for it while I hold it above my head just out of her reach.

“Why do you have to be such a child?” She jumps for the controller, sending the popcorn bag onto the floor and her tits into my face.

I shove it behind me, so she lowers to her knees on the sofa beside me and stabs her hand behind my back, which puts her face in front of mine.

“Give it to me,” she says, nose inches from mine.

“Are we still talking about the controller?” I make the mistake of staring at her mouth, and now all I want to do is kiss it.

“Dirty old man,” she says with a big grin.

“You have to knock off this ‘old man’ shit,” I say.

God, she smells good. Whatever she uses that makes her smell like flowers, she must have reapplied it before returning minutes ago. She’s baiting me again.

“I’m not having sex with you,” I say.

“I know.”

If she knows, why doesn’t she move? Why don’t I?

“But there’s a lot we can do that’s not sex.” She brushes her nose against mine. “Remember?”

Of course, I remember all the things we did that weren’t sex.

“It’s against house rules,” I whisper, moving my head a fraction so our lips brush like our noses.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” She pecks at my bottom lip.

“Everleigh,” I warn, but not without lifting my chin so she either has to back away or kiss me.

She chooses the latter. And fuck my pathetic lack of control for kissing her for the second time in one day. Her hand disappears from my back and moves to my face, framing it while she opens her mouth to let my tongue sweep inside it.

I grip her waist as she throws her leg over my lap to straddle me. What are we doing? This won’t end well, and that’s our destiny.

I know it.

She should know it.

Still, I kiss her and snake my hand up the back of her shirt to unhook her bra. We’re not having sex, but as long as she’s this close, I might as well check out her new boobs. Only she’s not wearing a bra, and as I make that discovery, an unrecognizable groan vibrates my chest.

Is it just this easy? All I have to do is move my hands under her arms, and I can have her fantastic new tits in my palms?

Don’t do it!

My common sense pleads with the jumbled mess of thoughts swirling around in my head. Can I stop at second base?

I’m about to find out as I palm her designer breasts. She pulls back just enough to take a hard inhale when I pinch her nipples. On a heavy blink, she drags the pad of her thumb across my lower lip before sucking it into her mouth and teasing it with her teeth.

We’re breaking the rules. My rules.

We should stop. I should stop.

“Good night,” she whispers over my lips before crawling off my lap.

My hands attempt to stop her by squeezing her breasts. That makes her grin bloom into something victorious, like this is a game, and she just scored points.

I adjust my erection with one hand while my other rakes through my hair. “Jesus, we have to stop doing this,” I say more to myself than to her.

“Why?” Everleigh asks, righting her shirt. “Are you not a fan of my new breasts?”

“Don’t play stupid,” I say, reaching for the controller.

“Just to be clear.” She folds her hands behind her. “You don’t like it when I shrink you. But you also don’t like it when I play stupid. William, I’m trying my best to find middle ground with you, but I think you might be stuck in a cycle of self-sabotage.” Her lips twist.

I find a new game to focus on until she gives up and leaves me alone.

“If I recall correctly (and full disclosure, I have an excellent memory), you told me to make some fucking mistakes. Get a speeding ticket. Stop worrying about what other people think. Drop my panties for a stranger in the bathroom of a bar. And stop trying to live up to anyone else’s expectations. What if you took your own advice?”

“As you have so kindly pointed out, Everleigh,” I grit through my teeth, “I’m older than you, so while you were popping your zits, I was making all the fucking mistakes. Speaking of recalling things, my excellent memory hasn’t forgotten the time I fucked a seventeen-year-old.”

When she doesn’t respond, I risk a quick glance at her. She swallows. Did I go too far?

“Are you going to cry?” I refocus on the game.

“No. Are you?”

I scoff. “Why would I cry?”

“Because you’re a sensitive man, William Landry. Maren told me you like chick flicks.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“She said you’ve watched Titanic at least a dozen times.”

“I have not watched any movie a dozen times. And Titanic is not a chick flick. It’s about a ship hitting an iceberg and sinking. It’s . . . historical.”

“Jerry Maguire?”

“Football movie,” I mumble, thumbs tapping the controller’s buttons. “This is ridiculous. If two people fuck in a movie, it’s suddenly a chick flick?”

“I don’t know. I was an infant or a mere twinkle in my mother’s eye when those movies were made.”

“Stop calling me old.”

She chuckles. “I’m not.”

“You’re implying it.”

Everleigh saunters toward the back door. “William, you’re the sexiest old man I’ve ever met.”

Her words make my dick twitch despite the “old man” part, and my avatar dies.

“Fuck.” I fling the controller across the room after the door closes behind her.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Everleigh

“You’re up early,” I say to Will the next morning, surprised to see him in the kitchen at six on his day off.

“I’m heading up to Somers,” he mumbles, pouring coffee into a stainless steel thermos.

I button my white blouse’s cuffs and lean against the counter next to him. He inspects me as if I’m too close, and I am.

“Did something happen to your dad?”

“He was having chest pain and labored breathing. They’re running tests. My mom isn’t handling it well. I’ll be back Thursday evening for my Friday shift.” He tightens the lid and then sticks two pieces of bread into the toaster.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. You can unplug your curling iron and not burn my house down or destroy it while I’m gone.”

I gnaw on the corner of my lower lip for a few seconds. “Seems like a tall order, but I’ll do my best.”

Will’s eyes narrow, and he purses his lips to hide his grin. “I’ll have Maren and Ozzy check in on you.”

“Fantastic.” I frown when I tip the coffeepot over my mug and find that it’s empty. “What about Jamie and Calvin? Do you not trust them to babysit me?” I return my mug to the cabinet. Looks like I’ll be stopping for coffee on my way to work.

“Calvin’s pretty busy fighting fires. And Jamie is . . . well, I just don’t want her to have to feel responsible for you.”

“Isn’t Maren fighting fires?”

“Yes, but she’s not . . . just don’t worry about it.” He opens a jar of peanut butter and spreads it on his toast.

“She’s not what?” I swipe my finger along the inside of the jar and suck the peanut butter from it. Does he know about the baby? He must because he’s acting weird.

“What the fuck?” He scrunches his nose. “This is my peanut butter. You can’t stick your finger in it.”

I shrug, sucking the rest of it off my finger. “It’s a condiment. Condiments are shared.”

“Are you out of your mind? Peanut butter is not a condiment.” He inspects the jar as if he can see my germs.

I reach for my phone on the edge of the counter and make a quick search. “Oh, look!” I show him the result on my phone for Is peanut butter a condiment?

“You can’t read,” he grumbles. “It says it ‘can be considered a condiment.’ But I did not purchase it as a condiment, so it is not one in this house.”

“I had a good time last night,” I say because playing with Will is too easy and way too fun. This is probably not the best morning to bait him, but I just want to see his smile. It’s my favorite smile in the world.

“See ya Thursday.” He ignores my comment, wrapping his toast in a paper towel.

“Try not to miss me too much.”

“That won’t be a problem.” He shoves his feet into his black boots and balances the wrapped toast on the lid of his thermos while opening the back door.

“Is this your water bottle?” I hold up the green YETI.

He glances back and sighs. “I’ll come back in for it.”

“I’ll follow you out with it. I have to leave, too, so I have time to stop for coffee since my roomie didn’t leave any for me.” I hike my tote over my shoulder and click my heels to the door.

He stalks toward his Bronco. “There’s more coffee. You just have to make it.”

“I think a latte sounds better.”

He opens his door and sets the thermos and toast inside, and then turns back toward me, taking the water bottle. “Thanks,” he begrudgingly murmurs.

“You’re welcome. For the record, I’ll miss you.”

“Good for you.” He climbs into the seat, but I’m blocking his way to shut the door. “What is it, Everleigh?” He rubs his temples.

“I’m going to make you proud while you’re gone.”

“How so?” he asks with another heavy sigh.

“I’m going to lose my panties for a stranger in the bathroom of a bar, but I’m not going to speed and get a ticket because you ruined that fun for me.”

“Great. Whatever.” He starts his Bronco, and I step backward so he can close his door.

Loving William Landry is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s probably the dumbest thing too. As I walk toward my car, his brakes squeak before he gets two houses away. He jumps out and strides back toward the house with purpose.

“Did you forget something el—”

He cuts me off by grabbing my face and kissing me. My heart explodes—eviscerated. His calloused thumbs brush my cheeks, and his fingers tease the nape of my neck. It’s a hard kiss that ever so slowly softens until our lips are barely touching, until his vetiver scent fills my next breath. It takes everything inside me to keep from crying tears of joy. Dr. Reichart has left the building. It’s just young Everleigh, a hopeless romantic standing on shaky legs, sharing breaths with the man of her dreams.

“Keep your panties on until I get back. Okay?” he says with a lopsided grin an inch from my lips.

“I knew you were going to miss me.”

Wiping my lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand, he turns and struts back to his truck. “That’s not what I said.”

As I fix the hair he loosened from my neatly tied bun, I give his backside the stink eye. As if he knows it, he glances over his shoulder and smirks.

I’m going to miss him exponentially more now.

“She’s a toddler.”

An unfamiliar man’s voice stops me before I open my office door, coffee in hand and Will’s kiss still burning my lips. It’s coming from across the hall. The clinic is expanding, and they’re adding a new psychiatrist—Dr. Swan, an older guy from Boston. Not Will’s age. Even older.

“She’s brilliant, and patients love her,” one of my nurses, Kelsey, says.

My back straightens. I’m the toddler?

“Treating patients requires more than academic knowledge. It’s about experience and well-honed intuition,” he says. “A twenty-eight-year-old doesn’t have the wisdom or the right interpersonal skills to do this job.”

I knock on his door, and Kelsey opens it, her face immediately morphing into a cringe.

“Good morning. Would you mind giving me a moment with the warlock?”

Her blue eyes widen, lips pressed between her teeth to hide her grin, and she quickly nods before skittering down the hallway.

Dr. Fossil glances up from his desk, readers low on his bulbous nose, thin, dark-gray hair combed straight back. “You must be her.” He removes his glasses and sits up, back straight.

“Yes. I go by Dr. Her.” I step in front of his desk and pick up a framed picture. “Grandkids?”

He narrows his eyes, and I smirk. In the photo he’s standing next to a blond woman, who looks close to my age, and two boys probably under five. No doubt his much younger wife and kids.

I return the photo to the desk. “There is one male nurse and a male PA in this clinic. The other thirteen employees are women, including myself. For your well-being, I suggest the two of us deal with your complex array of disorders (superiority complex, chauvinism, entitlement, NPD, or good old fragile masculinity) privately. I know every employee’s name, their significant others, the names and ages of their children, their birthdays, and I buy lunch for everyone on the first Monday of the month. The people who work here and those who receive treatment are Team Her. So please be mindful of that.”

He studies me for a few seconds, jaw clenched. “I figured you’d list your résumé to earn my respect.”

“You know my résumé. I’d venture to guess you’ve lost sleep over it. Perhaps you think of my résumé while masturbating, whiffing your tee shot, or dripping coffee on your tie.” I nod at the spots on his tie.

He flips his tie out and frowns at the dark-colored dots.

“Okay. Good talk, Mitchell. Let me know if you have any more questions. My door is always open.”

I spin on my heel. Kelsey and several other staff members scatter the second I open the door.

When I’m safely in my office, I call Will.

“We’re not going to dissect what happened,” he says without a “Hi” or any sort of greeting.

“Will, I already dissected it. It’s not about that. There’s a new doctor at the clinic, an older guy. Even older than you. And he thinks I’m too young, too inexperienced, and probably too feminine to do my job. It irked me, so I embarrassed him by saying he probably masturbates to my résumé. Of course, I know I should apologize and calmly address any concerns he has about my age and gender. It’s important to have a healthy relationship with colleagues, and really, it’s essential to positive outcomes for patients. But I was on a huge high walking into work this morning because my roommate and I had a discussion about my panties, and then I overheard Dr. Mitchell Swan running his mouth about me, and we hadn’t even met yet. But none of this is your problem. I’m just using it as an excuse to call you.”

“Everleigh?”

“Yeah?”

“Dr. Swan is an asshole.”

I grin. “That’s what my dad would say too.”

“Speaking of dads, I’m afraid my dad is going to die.” Will’s words (his vulnerability) punch the air from my chest.

I clear my throat. “It’s natural and understandable that you would feel—”

“Don’t shrink me.”

On a slow exhale, I sit in my desk chair. “I’m afraid you’re probably right. I’m sorry. Life is really fucking unfair.”

“I don’t want to be there when it happens. Does that make me a terrible son?”

What?

Tears burn my eyes, and I can’t speak. He has no idea what he’s doing to me. “Yes,” I whisper.

“Jesus, Everleigh. Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“You don’t want me to sugarcoat it. You don’t want me to shrink you. Will, not wanting to be there when he dies doesn’t make you a terrible son. But intentionally avoiding it or abandoning your mom if she needs you is terrible. And, no, I would never say that to a patient, but you’re not my patient. You’re . . .”

“The asshole who took your virginity and ran.”

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling while simultaneously grinning and wiping my tears. “I was the asshole who didn’t tell you my age.”

“Can you put that in writing? I might decide to frame it.”

My grin fades. “Please let me just say this. Losing a loved one is a profound experience. The people in our lives shape who we are and give meaning to our existence, especially our parents. If it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t be here. This is your experience. There is no right or wrong, which means regret is unavoidable.”

“Are you charging me for this?”

“No. I called you about Dr. Swan. We’re bartering.” I look at my watch. “But I have to go. I have actual patients.”

“I think you run a glorified daycare with video games.”

“Sounds like jealousy.”

He chuckles. “You might be right. Later.”

“Bye.” I stare at my phone screen for a minute. Then I set it on my desk and flop my head down beside it onto my crossed arms. “I’ve got it bad.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Will

“Hey,” I say, hugging my mom the second I walk into my dad’s hospital room.

Dad rolls his eyes. “Such a waste of time and money. I’m missing work for this.”

Mom releases me and returns to his bedside, resting her hand on his. “You’re retired, dear.” She eyes me. “The tests on his heart came back fine. It might have just been anxiety.”

“What? I can’t hear you,” Dad grumbles.

I feel instant relief, even if Mom seems disappointed. She turns away and quickly wipes her eyes. Why is she crying? He’ll be fine.

“Where did that cute nurse go?” Dad asks.

Mom winces before grabbing her purse and exiting the room. I reach for her, but she pulls away.

“Where’s she going? Bed? She goes to bed so early. What time is it?” Dad asks. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Whatever is causing his mental decline hasn’t gotten better.

“Dad, it’s morning. She’s not going to bed. I think she needs some fresh air is all.” I sit on the chair beside his bed.

“I never cheated on her. I had many opportunities, but I never did.” He narrows his eyes, staring at the whiteboard on the wall below his TV. “Even when I had pennies in my shoes, I didn’t cheat on her. Will you tell her that?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“My daughter sent me cookies. A whole box of chocolate chip cookies.”

“Leah didn’t send them, I did.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I think Leah did.”

I open my mouth to argue, but shut it just as quickly. What’s the point?

He makes a circle with his fingers. “They were little ones. One bite. I ate the whole box.”

“Leah’s the best.” I nod slowly.

“All the contacts in my phone are out of order.” He looks around. “Where’s my phone?”

“I don’t know. Mom probably has it. I’m sure your contacts are still in alphabetical order.”

“Every time I call someone they are the only one I can ever call.”

“Maybe you’re going to recent calls on your phone instead of your contacts.”

He sighs, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to go back to jail.”

“You’ve been at a care facility, not jail.”

His eyes pop open. “I can’t go anywhere on my own! It’s jail!”

“Shh . . . calm down.” I rest my hand on his arm.

Again, he closes his eyes. “Just let me die.”

“I find any excuse not to go see him,” Mom confesses over lunch in the hospital cafeteria. “I’m a terrible wife.”

“He’s not himself. You’re not a terrible wife.” I squeeze ketchup onto my burger.

She stares at her salad.

“Eat,” I say. “You’re looking too thin.”

“I’m exercising.” She rolls her eyes.

“That’s great. But you’re not eating. Eat.”

She frowns, picking up her fork. “I don’t regret you or Leah, but I really should have married a younger man. I feel like I’m getting the short end of the stick with the ‘sickness and health’ part of our vows.”

“He’s agreed to raise your baby even though it’s not his.” I take a bite of my burger and smirk.

“Oh, be quiet.” She reluctantly laughs.

We focus on eating, content with letting the harsh reality of Dad’s situation hang over us like a rain cloud. But there is no umbrella to be had. No shelter in sight. The effects will be felt, and there is nothing we can do.

“It’s cancer,” Mom says.

I slowly set my napkin aside and clear my throat. “Excuse me?”

She lifts her teary-eyed gaze and swallows. “There’s a mass on his liver. We’ve known about it, but your father didn’t want to say anything. So we chose to wait.”

It takes a few seconds after she stops speaking for my brain to replay her words. Cancer?

“What do you mean ‘we’ chose? Dad thinks you’re pregnant. He’s not in his right mind to make choices like fighting for his life or giving up. So what you’re saying is you chose. And you didn’t say one fucking word to your adult children? What is wrong with you?”

“Excuse me?” She narrows her eyes.

I feel five years old again, taking my frustration a step too far. But this isn’t a dispute over another hour of TV before bed. It’s a human life. Eighty years is not an afterthought. There’s no room for making the wrong decision.

She picks at the other half of her salad I know she’s not going to eat. “They think it’s hepatocellular carcinoma. It’s spread to his bones. We can get a second opinion, but—”

“Then we should.”

Mom doesn’t look at me.

“Right?” I ask.

“How’s your roommate?”

I set my empty plate on the tray and wipe my mouth with the wadded napkin. “Don’t change the subject. You can’t drop this on me, then ask about my roommate.”

“William.” She sniffles. “I am barely hanging on. We’ll talk more about this later. Please, just give me something else.”

I rub my hands over my face and sigh. “She’s fine. And we’re not done talking about Dad. So be ready to discuss this later.”

“She?” Mom’s eyes widen, ignoring my comment about Dad.

“Yes. She’s a psychiatrist.”

“You’re living with a female doctor?” For the first time since I’ve arrived, there’s a hint of something in her expression that’s not doom and gloom.

“Jamie used to work for her. Her house is the one that burned down with the bird inside.”

“Oh. Yeah, I remember. Is she pretty?”

“I don’t know. She’s my roommate. It’s not my place to decide that.”

“William, it’s an opinion, not a decision. You’re not blind. Either you think she’s pretty or you don’t.”

“Where do you think we should take Dad for a second opinion?”

“Oh dear. You like her.”

I roll my eyes. “She’s fine. Easy on the eyes. Whatever. Why don’t you want Dad to get a second opinion?”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Mom.” I frown.

She deflates like I’m sucking what little joy she has left in her soul.

“I’m not ready to let him go,” I whisper, threading my fingers through my hair, head bowed, elbows on the table. “You’ll go on and remarry. Leah has a family, a husband who’s a father. But I can’t replace him.”

“William, I don’t want to replace your father. I may never fall in love again. But I don’t want to watch him suffer for . . . what? A few extra months?”

“A few months?” My eyes widen as my heart hits the bottom of my stomach. “Is that how long he has?”

“Three to six months without treatment. A year with it.”

I stay in Somers until Dad is released from the hospital and returned to the skilled care facility two days later. My friends (and Everleigh) text me and try to call, but I’m not ready to talk about anything.

Thursday evening, after I return to Missoula, Everleigh comes in the back door with a bag of groceries. I glance up from my laptop at the kitchen table. I’ve been researching my dad’s cancer.

She eyes me as if I’m supposed to say the first word.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” She sets the sack on the counter and drops her tote to the floor by the door along with her shoes.

I rehearsed this in my head so many times on the drive back to Missoula.

My dad has cancer. It’s spread to his bones. He has three to six months to live. He’s back at the care facility. Hospice could be called soon.

Everleigh washes her hands. “Fitz, Jamie, and Maren are worried about you. I told them everything moves at a snail’s pace in a hospital. Tests. Results. Diagnosis. Treatment plan. I said you probably weren’t responding because there was nothing to share yet.”

I close my computer and scoot back in my chair, hands laced behind my head.

She tosses the towel aside and leans against the counter. Everleigh is beautiful, gifted, kind, and probably a million other things I’ve been too angry and stubborn to see. But our timing is all wrong.

“But I think either something has already happened to your father, or he doesn’t have much time left,” she says with a sad smile.

I clear my throat. “Why do you think that?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Just an educated guess.”

I haven’t cried, and I’m not going to. He’s not dead. Why can’t she be annoying? Why didn’t she leave the kitchen a mess or run into the mailbox? I need to stay angry.

“I start my last shift tomorrow. Then I’m moving to Somers.”

She swallows.

If I’m not crying over my dying father, she can’t get emotional over my leaving.

“You can shrink me all you want. I’ll take Dr. Reichart right now. Just not . . .” I can’t even say her name, so I pinch my lower lip and slowly shake my head.

“I have the next three days off,” she says, standing straight, shoulders back, hands folded in front. “What can I do to help?”

I open my computer again. “It’s cancer,” I say without losing my shit. “He’s not treating it. They don’t want a second opinion. I’m not trying to save his life. I just want to understand it. To prepare for what’s to come. Can you help me understand it?”

She steps behind me, looking at the screen over my shoulder. I smell her floral tones and feel the warmth of her body.

“Of course I can help you understand it,” she says, resting her hand on my back.

In the next breath, her hand disappears, and she sits in the chair opposite me. “What kind of cancer?”

“Liver. It’s spread to his bones.”

She folds her hands on the table. “What do you want to know? What symptoms to expect? The progression? How they’ll treat the pain?”

I reach for my opposite shoulder, massaging the tension from it. This is an awful conversation. And I never thought I’d have it with Everleigh Reichart. “I want to know how I’ll know when he’s close to dying.”

“Do you want it sugarcoated?”

I shake my head.

“Okay. These are common progressions.”

As Everleigh lists complications including fractures, anemia, jaundice, hypercalcemia, heart attack, stroke, spinal cord compression, paralysis, organ failure . . . it triggers a headache. I hold on to some things she says, such as cool, mottled skin, loss of appetite, extreme fatigue, breathing patterns, confusion, potential “rallies,” and I tuck them away in my memory so I’ll know when I see them, it could be close to the end.

“There is observational data on things like the timing of death. End-of-life care professionals have noticed that some patients appear to wait until they are alone to pass away. Others wait until a specific person is there, or an event is over, like a daughter getting married. Of course, there’s no science behind it, but I think it’s true to some extent that in certain circumstances we choose when to let go. I wouldn’t leave anything unsaid.”

I rub my temples and slowly nod. “I never leave without hugging him and saying ‘I love you’ because even before I knew about the cancer, I had a feeling things weren’t going to get better.”

Everleigh stands, but I catch the tears in her eyes before she turns away. “You’re a good man, William Landry.” She opens the fridge door. “Have you had dinner?”

“I had a protein bar.”

“Well, that’s not enough. What do you put on your egg sandwich? My mom said it made her stomach turn inside out.”

“I’m going to bed.” I scoot back in my chair.

“You have a forty-eight-hour shift that starts tomorrow. Don’t you think you should eat?” She sets the eggs on the counter.

“I’ll survive.” I reach past her to grab a bottle of pills from the top cabinet shelf.

She fills a glass with water and offers it to me. “What hurts?”

My gaze slides along her face and its delicate features. “Everything,” I whisper.

“I think it’s just an illusion,” she says in a soft tone.

I wash down two pills with a big gulp of water and then set the glass on the counter. “The pain?”

She shakes her head while wiping water from my mustache with her thumb, warm palm pressed to my cheek. “Life.”

I’m leaving. Whatever I said to her on my way out of town no longer matters. Still, I clasp her wrist, keeping her hand on my face. “We’re an illusion?”

Another slow nod. Her gaze focuses on my mouth for a second before lifting to my eyes.

“Do you really believe that?” For some reason, I’m enamored of this woman’s every thought.

Her touch.

Her gaze.

Her breath so close to mine, it feels like my own.

I guide her thumb into my mouth, teasing the pad of it with my tongue before playfully nibbling it.

Everleigh’s lips part, and my heart pumps faster. Bringing her thumb to her mouth, I slide it past her lips while ducking my head and kissing the corner of her mouth, her thumb, her wrist. An insatiable craving for her takes over, dulling the pain in my head and the ache in my heart.

Our mouths fuse, her hands snaking around my neck as mine claim her backside, fingers curling into her skirt, hiking it up her legs. For eleven years, whenever she’s popped into my head, I’ve felt an unshakable anger because it wasn’t just that she didn’t tell me the truth. It was the sticky, vulnerable feelings I allowed myself to feel for her. The kind that felt like love.

With trembling hands, Everleigh unfastens my jeans. I nearly die when she slides her hand up my shirt instead of down the front of my briefs. Her other hand slips under the waistband at my back, fingers curling into my glutes. My pelvis rocks toward her.

I’m fucking dying, so I grab the back of her legs and lift her onto the counter. The water glass crashes into the sink, but we don’t pause for a second. My impatient fingers unbutton her blouse, and she helps me while our mouths devour each other.

Pulling away, I forge a path down her neck with my lips and tongue. Then I slide her bra straps down her arms and pull the white lace material away from her perky breasts.

I should send her plastic surgeon a thank-you. They were perfectly fine eleven years ago. They’re just more. More fine. More fucking perfect.

“Oh god,” she whispers, “this is happening.” Her fingers thread through my hair, and I swallow the moan of pleasure it elicits. I also grin against her skin as I reach the swell of her breast. It shouldn’t happen. But yeah, it’s happening.

On Monday, I’ll drive to Somers, and this will become a distant memory under the pile of rubble that will be my life when my father dies.

My stupid phone vibrates and chimes on the kitchen table, but I ignore it while sucking Everleigh’s hard nipple into my mouth and curling my fingers into the top of her panties to pull them down her legs.

My phone stops for two seconds and rings again. Fuck history for trying to repeat itself. I’m not answering it this time.

She shifts her hips to one side and then the other, letting me slide her panties past the edge of the counter.

My phone keeps ringing.

I’m getting laid. It could be a long time before I get the chance again, so even if it’s an emergency—

“Just get it,” Everleigh says through a strained breath. Her words crack open the door to the thoughts she planted just moments earlier.

Heart attack. Stroke.

What if my father is dead right now as I prepare to have sex with Everleigh?

“Goddammit,” I grumble, taking a step away from the counter, eyeing Everleigh’s bared breasts, blouse hanging mid-arm, skirt bunched around her waist, and her panties stretched at her upper thighs. I could orgasm from this image alone.

As I reach for my phone to see who was calling, it rings again.

My dad.

“Hey, Dad. Whatcha need? Everything okay?” I blow out a breath, smoothing a hand over my ruffled hair, trying to sound calm because I never want him to feel like he’s bothering me. But not too long ago, he would have felt bad for cockblocking me.

“William?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“I missed breakfast.”

I drop my head, free hand on my hip. “You had breakfast at the hospital before you were transferred to the care facility. Did you have dinner? It’s seven at night.”

“Oh. Night?” His voice is so shaky and unsure. “It’s seven at night?”

“Yes.”

“I just woke up.”

“You probably took a nap after dinner. But it’s not morning. You’ll get breakfast in the morning. Is Mom there?”

“She left me.”

I sit in the chair, my body collapsing with a heavy thunk. No wonder my mom is exhausted. “I’m sure she went home after you fell asleep. She’ll be back in the morning.”

“I don’t”—his voice cracks—“blame her. I’m worthless.”

“Dad.” I close my eyes.

If Everleigh is right and this is all an illusion, then why can’t I blink and poof it’s gone?

“I’m moving to Somers on Monday. I’ll see you then, and every day after that. Okay?”

Click.

I glance to my right, and Everleigh has left.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Everleigh

Eleven years earlier . . .

I never went to homecoming or prom. No school dances for girls who started college at twelve. My mom thought I was too young to know what I was missing. Ridiculous.

When I wasn’t studying biochemistry or marveling at the complexities of the brain and spinal cord in neuroanatomy, I binged all the love stories. Every book. Every movie. The future Dr. Reichart knew love stories provided neurochemical rewards associated with pleasure from oxytocin and dopamine. But Everleigh loved the escapism and exhilarating dream state overflowing with heartachingly beautiful love and the satisfaction of a happily ever after.

“Give it a break,” Victoria teased. “I’m the bride.”

I stepped away from the mirror in the hotel suite her parents reserved for the weekend. Of course she was the bride. But Victoria attended two proms and four homecoming dances. She’d been a bridesmaid in friends’ weddings. This was my everything, all wrapped up in an A-line halter floor-length chiffon dress—blush pink. Pearl bow ankle strap heels. Hair in an elegant braided bun.

I showed my advanced maturity and stuck my tongue out at her before lifting my skirt and stepping aside.

Victoria slid in front of the mirror and smirked at my reflection. “Did you get rid of your v-card yet?” she whispered.

I blushed. It was kind of her to keep it between us as the other bridesmaids and Victoria’s mom fussed by the window over someone’s lost earring.

“Not yet,” I mumbled, fidgeting with my bracelet, anything to keep from looking at her.

“Not yet? What are you doing?”

“I haven’t had time,” I hiss, barely containing my voice to a whisper. “You’ve had the week filled with too many activities.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for my wedding to get in the way of your sex life.”

I pinched her arm.

“Ouch.” She rubbed it, scowling at me for a second before grinning.

“You’re the one who said I needed to have sex.”

“Five minutes, Everleigh. Ten, tops. Just lift your dress and get it done. Is Will having to court you or something? He doesn’t live here. Stop trying to make him your boyfriend. Just have him pop your cherry, say ‘thank you, kind sir,’ and be done with it.”

I cupped my hand over my mouth and snorted.

Victoria grinned, smoothing a stray hair back into place.

“Found the earring,” her mom declared. “Let’s go, ladies. The limo is here.”

All eyes were on me for ten seconds before the next bridesmaid made her entrance. But the only eyes that mattered to me were William Landry’s. It wasn’t my wedding, but it felt like my fairy tale. Will lifted his hand over his heart briefly as if I were taking his breath away.

No man had ever looked as handsome as Will did in his tux, hair neatly parted on the side, face shaven around his mustache, and that irresistible look in his eyes, like we shared a secret.

My cherry nearly spontaneously popped right next to the altar. When I took my place and faced the guests, he winked.

Dead.

I swallowed and focused on anyone but him so I wouldn’t pass out.

The string quartet played “A Thousand Years” as Victoria’s dad walked her down the aisle. I planned my wedding to Will.

Our house in Montana (because I knew I’d find a job wherever he wanted to live).

Two kids spaced three years apart.

A bird named Marie Curie.

And a Yorkshire terrier—Rosalind Franklin.

My romantic heart skipped so many beats during the ceremony because even when I wasn’t looking at Will, I could feel his gaze on me. The butterflies in my tummy multiplied, making my hands feel clammy around the bouquet.

After vows and rings were exchanged, the minister pronounced them husband and wife, they kissed, and the bridesmaids paired up with the groomsmen to follow them into the building.

“Dr. Reichart,” Will said, offering me his arm.

I grinned at the guests. “I’m not a doctor yet,” I whispered, swallowing my giggle through a smile.

“Does that mean you can’t give me a thorough physical after the reception?”

I tightened my grip on his arm, hoping no one heard him. Once inside, we were forced to go our separate ways for the formalities dictated by the wedding planner.

It wasn’t until after the sit-down dinner, toasts, and cutting of the cake that the wedding party was free to mingle. I jumped in my seat, feeling something like a spider on my neck. Will smirked, standing behind me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He ran his fingertips along my skin where it met my dress. “I’m investigating.”

“Investigating?” I tried to control my breathing, but it was impossible with his fingers caressing my skin.

“Looking for zippers, hooks, buttons . . .”

“Whyyy?” I asked slowly.

“I need a game plan so I don’t destroy your dress later when I take it off.”

Gulp.

I knew the answer to the question, but his official confirmation made my insides turn into molten lava. Victoria’s instructions replayed in my head. Five . . . ten minutes, tops. Pop the cherry. Cordial goodbye. The end.

But I didn’t want wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. I wanted yearning, foreplay, and unbridled passion. Making love for hours. Refuel. Repeat.

Could my vagina handle a marathon with no formal training? I didn’t know.

“I think your attire is far more complicated than mine,” I said.

“Stand up.” He helped me scoot back in my chair.

When I stood and faced him, he slid a hand around my waist and walked us backward a few steps until the dim light and a tall planter hid us.

“Map me out,” he said.

I wrinkled my nose. “Huh?”

“If my attire is complicated, then map everything out. My buttons. My zipper.”

With a nervous laugh, I shook my head. “I think I’ll be just fine.”

“Are you too chicken?” He gave me a challenging look, eyes narrowed.

I swallowed and touched his tie, tracing it around his neck. Will’s hooded eyes studied me like we were already naked, and the temperature in the room rose ten degrees. My fingers found every shirt button, including his cuff links.

“Easy peasy,” I said.

“What about my pants?”

My heart drummed until all I could hear was a deafening whoosh pulsing in my ears.

“I’m sure it’s a standard button and zipper.”

“That’s just a guess.”

We had a brief stare-off before I surveyed our surroundings for curious onlookers. Then I touched his belt and the button behind it. My thumb found the tip of his zipper.

“Keep going,” he murmured.

Again, I swallowed, hands shaking as I slid my index finger along his zipper. I felt something else too.

“There you are,” Mel, one of the other bridesmaids, said.

I jumped so fast my heart lodged in my throat and nearly suffocated me.

“Victoria needs to pee, and her personal assistant is MIA. Come on, we have to help her.” She pulled at my arm.

I looked back at Will, and he winked again.

Jesus.

I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Did Mel see me? Did anyone else?

“Where were you?” Victoria asked when we reached the bathroom. “I’m dying here.”

She was also a little intoxicated, wobbling on her feet as we guided her over the toilet. Mel held her dress, and I had the pleasure of pulling down her underwear.

“She was giving one of the groomsmen a hand job,” Mel said.

“What? Oh my god! No I was not!” I glared at Mel, and she smirked.

“Oh come on, Ev, just get it over with already.” Victoria rolled her eyes while peeing for days. It was a miracle she didn’t wet herself.

“Get over what?” Mel leaned forward to look at me.

“Nothing,” I mumbled.

“Not nothing,” Victoria said. “She’s a virgin. And I told her doctors aren’t virgins.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. Drunk Victoria was not a good friend.

“Everleigh, you’re a virgin?” Mel didn’t exactly whisper.

The DJ probably heard it and could have announced it between songs.

“I’m seventeen,” I reminded them.

“You’re not buying alcohol. It’s your body. Spread ’em and go for it,” Victoria said.

By that point, I took everything she said as nothing more than drunken musings.

Mel laughed. “Spoken like a blushing bride.”

“I’m ready for you to wipe me.”

She could have wiped herself, but I played the part of a good friend (one of us had to), and I wiped her.

“I was sixteen the first time,” Mel said, adjusting Victoria’s dress while I washed my hands.

“Fourteen,” Victoria confessed, which earned her judgmental looks from Mel and me. “What?” She shrugged. “I was an early bloomer.”

Mel shook her head and laughed. “Whatever. But seriously, Everleigh, you’re in medical school. Don’t be a virgin. Not cool.”

I wasn’t keeping my virginity because I thought it was cool. Just the opposite. I had been actively trying to lose it all week.

“Let’s go dance, then you can do all the groomsmen if you want,” Victoria giggled.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Why is being with William Landry such an astronomical feat? It was eleven years ago, and it still is now.

If at first you don’t succeed . . .

How many times are we supposed to try, try again? After all, he’s moving to Somers. And it’s breaking my heart again, but I can’t tell him that because his dad is dying. So I do what I do best: I pretend he is my patient, and I wear my doctor’s hat.

Pragmatic.

Detached.

Will arrives home early Sunday morning as I finish cleaning out the fridge. It’s too late. He already knows I don’t keep a tidy house all the time, but I want him to feel good about leaving me here. I want him to trust me.

“Good morning,” I say, returning the last of the food to the top shelf.

He toes off his black boots. “Morning.” The weariness in his voice matches his expression.

I know his firehouse has been busy helping with nearby wildfires, so I wonder how much sleep he’s had since Thursday night. Doesn’t look like much.

“What can I help you do? Pack? Laundry?”

Will untucks his blue T-shirt and then runs his hands through his hair. “Sleep,” he says through an enormous yawn.

“You need something to help you sleep?”

After his yawn, he drops his hands limp at his sides, and he stares at my feet, working his gaze up to my face. It’s almost tangible, eliciting goose bumps along my arms. The release of oxytocin makes my smooth muscles contract, hardening my nipples. Does he know what he’s doing to me? Does his brain, like mine, take mental notes of his physiological response to seeing me?

“I need”—he slowly shakes his head—“something.”

I rub my lips together and swallow. “A shower?”

After a moment, he shakes his head again.

I crack my knuckles, then reach for my pockets, a place to hide my fidgety hands. But my Lululemon Hotty Hot high-rise shorts have zipper pockets, and there’s no way to casually unzip them with one hand.

What do I say? The silence is liquefying me. Before long, I’ll be nothing more than a puddle on the floor that he’ll step over on his way to bed.

“Do you want to go to the bathroom with me?” I cringe as soon as the words pass my lips. That sounds awful, and the tightness of Will’s brow confirms it.

I’m not a genius with Will. I’m just a blubbering, lust-crazed girl with a crush on someone who feels out of my league.

“I know you’re not a stranger, but I’d lose my panties for you.”

A slow grin steals across his face, and my cheeks burn with a heavy mix of desire and embarrassment. I couldn’t channel Dr. Reichart if my life depended on it.

“Is that so?” He takes a step closer to me.

I hold my breath and nod, unblinking gaze locked with his.

“Are you even wearing panties?”

Of course I’m wearing panties. Who wears jogging shorts without them?

Before those thoughts form into spoken words, he leans forward and brushes his lips along my neck while his fingers tease my inner thigh for a second. In the next breath, two of his fingers trace the leg of my cotton underwear as if he needs confirmation. He teases my earlobe with his teeth, and his two fingers hook into my panties’ crotch, pulling them aside.

Am I wet? Embarrassingly so.

A harsh breath catches in my throat when he drives those fingers up inside of me. My nails curl into his biceps as I steady myself when my knees try to buckle.

“My tongue is jealous of my fingers, Dr. Reichart,” he whispers in my ear. “What should we do about that?”

Click.

The back door opens, and I jump away so quickly, I nearly lose my balance while fixing my underwear and then crossing my arms over my chest to hide my nipple/no bra/tight shirt situation.

“You’re moving?” Maren asks, barging into the kitchen, shaking her head like it’s not possible. She drops her purse to the floor and straightens her gray Grizzlies T-shirt over her white leggings.

Thankfully, she’s focused on Will instead of me. What just happened is obvious on my face, like a flashing red light.

Will lifts his wet fingers to his mouth, and my eyes widen as he wipes them over his lips before licking said lips.

Oh my god . . .

“My dad has stage four cancer. He’s not treating it. So, yeah, Mare, I’m moving to Somers to be with him and my mom.”

Tears fill her eyes as she covers her mouth. I can’t stop gawking at Will’s lips. Again he curls them over his teeth, tongue making another swipe across them.

“Jamie said you’re leaving tomorrow?”

He nods. “I tried calling you.”

“I was working.” She sniffles and wipes her tears before they slide down her face.

“I figured. And I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye. It’s a two-hour drive. I’ll be back to visit.”

Maren throws her arms around his neck, and Will hugs her tightly. I feel like I’m intruding on something personal, even though he had his fingers inside me just minutes ago.

“Are you selling the house?” Maren releases him, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“No. I’ll rent it out. It’s paid for. Why not get the passive income? Plus, I have a good amount in savings. No need to liquidate.”

Maren glances past Will to me. “You should rent the whole house.”

I shake my head. “I’m buying an Airstream and living on my land while my barndominium is being built.”

“That’s so Grey’s Anatomy of you,” she says.

I wrinkle my nose.

“You’ve never watched Grey’s Anatomy?” Maren’s eyes bug out.

“Nope. I have trouble with medical dramas. I spend too much time critiquing them.” When I shift my attention to Will, he studies me with an unreadable expression.

My gaze drops to his hand. He should probably wash it. When I return my focus to his face, he smirks as if he’s reading my mind, and he makes a point to lick his lips again.

I swallow.

“I guess I can understand that,” Maren says. “I wouldn’t watch a wildfire drama.”

“Well, I’m fucking exhausted. So, let’s not make this too emotional. I’ll be back to visit before too long because I’ll have to do some stuff around here to get it ready to rent.” Will gives Maren one more hug and kisses the top of her head. “Tell Ozzy goodbye and give Sweet Pea a big hug from me.”

“I will,” Maren says. “Give my best to your parents. And if you need anything, please let me know. You don’t have to go through this alone.” She releases him. “If you need help with your dad or just someone to keep you company or help your mom, I’m your person. I can take some personal time off too.”

Will shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. But thanks.”

“I’m available too,” I say.

They look at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language.

“Probably not the best idea,” Maren says. “Given your pasts.”

I look to Will for . . . something. I’m not sure what. Support? A confession?

He keeps his gaze pointed to the floor as if the grout lines are giving him a hidden message. His silence speaks volumes.

“You’re probably right.” I give Maren a tight smile, and if Will would have the balls to look at me, I’d give him a special expression too. “I have errands to run. Good to see you, Maren.”

“You too, Everleigh.” I can’t tell if Maren’s smile is genuine or not. I think so, but Will has me a little off-kilter after our encounter.

“Sweet dreams, William,” I say in a voice so sweet I nearly choke on the words.

He gives me a quick glance and a slight nod as if what happened before Maren arrived is nothing more than an afterthought.

No more smirking.

No more lip-licking.

Men are machines with buttons to turn on and off their emotions and desires. Women are waves. Our feelings build over time and crash onto the shore, catching everyone around us off guard and pulling them into our depths until they’re drowning.

I look into a three-year-old Airstream in Hamilton and write the owner a check to hold it for me. Then I grab groceries on the way home. After I put everything away and game for two hours, Will comes down the stairs in jeans, messy hair, no shirt.

My avatar dies.

I quickly shut off the TV and stand. “Can I help you pack?”

He stops a few feet from the sofa and studies me before shaking his head.

“I bought an Airstream from a couple in Hamilton, and I’m already looking into trading in my car for a truck. So I can be out of here soon.” I shrug. “In case you rent this place to someone or a couple who don’t want any roommates.”

Will narrows his eyes for a second before returning a slow nod.

I try not to stare at his bare chest, but it’s not easy.

We should be able to pick up where we left off, but it never seems to work that way. Every time we have an “almost” moment, something erases it, and I feel like we’re always starting over.

Should I ask him what I tasted like on his lips?

“No rush,” he says, running a hand through his hair while continuing to the kitchen.

“I was serious when I said I could come to Somers for a day or longer if you need someone to . . .”

“To what?” he asks, standing in front of the open fridge for a few seconds before retrieving a package of turkey and a bottle of mayo.

“If you need a friend to talk to, I’m an excellent listener. Some people wait months for the chance to tell me their secrets and problems.”

“I can’t afford you.” He sets two slices of bread onto a plate.

“We could barter.”

“You’ve mentioned bartering before. I’m not sure what you’ll get from me, if you’re giving me free therapy.”

“Well, you said you’d be back here to visit. And they’re pouring the concrete for my barndominium next week, so before you know it, it will be constructed and ready for me to work on the inside. I could use help. And if you rent out your house and need a place to stay for a few days, you can stay with me.”

He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “In your Airstream?”

I press my lips together and nod, hands folded behind my back.

“You realize that I have lots of friends in Missoula who will let me stay in a spare bedroom.”

“You realize you had your fingers inside of me this morning.”

I have never seen Will blush—until now.

“The universe has decided we are a one-and-done,” I say.

Will checks his watch. “I have a few minutes now.”

“No way.” I laugh. “Your dad will call. Someone will barge into the house. It will start on fire. Something will happen. And my . . .” I think the word heart, but he doesn’t need to hear that a day before moving to Somers. “My body can’t handle any more teasing.”

“I understand,” he says with a sad smile, glancing at the floor for a few seconds before looking at me again. “Let me take you to dinner.”

It’s like he’s trying to sweep me off my feet without a broom. We are a self-contained fire destined to burn out. “You need to pack some things,” I say.

“We’ll do it when we get back.”

We?

“Fine. But it’s my treat.”

He barks a laugh. “I won’t argue with you, Dr. Reichart.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Will

Just as I step outside, Everleigh closes the shed door. She’s wearing a sleeveless black one-piece shorts thingy that shows most of her gorgeous legs, and the V-neckline plunges so low it makes my dick twitch.

Sleek gold belt.

Gold necklace.

Hair silky straight.

Black heels that could bring me to my knees.

Why does God hate me?

I clear my throat. “I’m underdressed.”

Her white teeth peek through her red lips as she grins. “William, you always look sinful in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt.”

“Sinful, huh?” I slide my hands into my pockets while she hops on her toes from one stepping stone to the next to keep from stepping in the grass with her heels.

Good Lord, those fucking legs. She’s a magnificent creature, and she doesn’t even know it.

“It’s torture,” she says, looping her arm around mine.

The last time I walked arm in arm with her like this was at the wedding. But that night, I knew where it was headed. Tonight, things are different. We’re different. And life is just as complicated as it was back then. For a guy who’s never had a serious relationship, this thing between us feels more than casual. Maybe taxing is the right word.

I stop at the front of my Bronco. “I can’t open the door for you.”

She releases my arm and narrows her eyes. “Oh? Is it broken?”

No, but I am.

“Opening the door would feel like a date.”

“Gotcha. A date comes with expectations.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“Like a good night kiss?”

“Like a good night fuck.”

She giggles, heels clicking on the driveway as she heads to the passenger side. “I don’t have amnesia, William. I know you’re more chivalrous than that. But I accept your need to keep me at arm’s length. It’s for the best.”

As we head downtown, Everleigh suggests the Stables, her favorite wine bar and restaurant. I don’t argue since she’s paying. When we’re seated, do I order the fifty-five-dollar prime New York strip? Yes, I do.

“To your father,” she says, holding up her water glass.

I’m not sure I’ve ever toasted a dying person before now, but I keep listening.

“May he find peace in your presence, love in your embrace, surrender to faith in his last days, and see hope in the light when he closes his eyes for the last time.”

Jesus . . .

I swallow hard and grip my bottle of beer, giving her glass a gentle tap. “To my father,” I murmur with my fucking heart in my throat.

I know he’s dying. She knows he’s dying. I’m not as well-equipped as Everleigh to organize my emotions like inscriptions on the patterned pavers at Stanford Memorial Church.

“Will you look for your own place or stay with your mom?” She sets her glass on the cocktail napkin.

“I’ll stay with her for now. If I get a job and my dad passes, I’ll look for a place of my own. Maybe.” I sigh, drumming my fingers on my legs. “I don’t know. I’m just taking it a day at a time.”

“Where’s your sister?”

“Boise.”

Everleigh rests her napkin on her lap as the server delivers our salads. “Thank you,” she says, and then looks at me when we’re alone again. “I understand I’m not your emergency contact, best friend, or chosen confidant, but I will drive to Somers if you need help navigating anything with either of your parents. Call me if you get overwhelmed with medical jargon. I can dumb it down for you.” She smirks.

I chuckle. “Thanks. I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

“Hey, Will.”

I turn to the side as Casey, one of my engine crew, stops at our table.

“Hey, Casey.” I set my fork down and nod toward Everleigh to make an introduction. But before I get the words out, he speaks up.

“Everleigh,” he says. Not Dr. Reichart. Everleigh.

The woman behind him, his date, I presume, pings her gaze between the two of them.

“Hi, Casey. How are you?” Everleigh asks with a relaxed smile while retrieving her fork from the rolled cloth napkin.

“I’m good.”

His date and I make brief eye contact. “How do you two know each other?” I ask.

Casey glances back at his date, and Everleigh patiently waits for him to answer the question.

“Uh.” Casey grabs his date’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Everleigh and I went out a few times.”

What the fuck?

I narrow my eyes at her, but she’s all Dr. Reichart right now, hands folded in her lap. Soft expression.

“But that was a year or so back. Anyway . . . Will, are you still looking for renters? My current lease is coming up, and I’d be interested in moving into your house.”

“Everleigh lives there,” I say.

“I stay in the shed.” She laughs. “And I’ll be moving in the next month or so.”

“Great. Well, let me know, Will,” he says. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“You too,” Everleigh says.

I watch Casey and his date exit the restaurant before returning my attention to Everleigh. “You dated one of my crew?”

She shrugs, stabbing her fork into the lettuce. “Yeah. He’s nice. We had a good time together. But he wasn’t looking for more than that, so it didn’t last long because it had nowhere to go.”

Did it go to the bedroom?

I hate that I even care, but I do. Why would her mom imply she hasn’t had sex since she had it with me?

“That’s great that he wants to rent your place. It’s one less thing you have to cross off your list. And you know him, so that’s a bonus.”

“And you know him too.” I take a bite of my salad and study her.

“True,” she says with little reaction.

I have so many questions that are none of my business. How did they meet? Where did they go on their dates? What did they talk about? Did they have sex? Was it good?

“Ask me,” Everleigh says as if she’s reading my mind. Wouldn’t that just be my luck? A shrink who can hear my thoughts.

“Ask you what?”

“About Casey.”

“I know Casey. What would I need to ask you?”

“You want to know if we had sex.”

I chuckle and shake my head before taking a bite of salad.

“No?” She cocks her head. “You’re not curious?”

“It’s irrelevant. I’m moving tomorrow.”

“It’s not inherently irrelevant. But it can be a distraction.”

“You’re shrinking me,” I say before drinking my beer.

“Saying something intelligent doesn’t mean I’m shrinking you. Besides, you used to like my intelligence. You found it sexy.”

“I don’t care if you fucked him,” I say in a tone that negates the actual words.

“How many kids does your sister have?” She changes the subject so quickly it makes my head spin.

“Two.”

“Have you imagined having kids of your own?”

“Not recently.”

“Because you’re an old man now?” She likes to poke me in ways I feel certain she would never poke her patients. At least, I hope she doesn’t call her patients old.

“Fun fact: My father was two years older than I am now when he started a family.”

Her eyes widen. “Good for him. How old is your mother?”

I look around the restaurant. “Younger.”

“Younger is not an age. It’s a comparative.”

“I’m aware. How old are your parents?”

“My mom is fifty-five, and my father is, um . . .” She lays her napkin on her lap as our server delivers our food.

“Anything else I can get you?” he asks.

I look at Everleigh, and she shakes her head. “We’re good. Thank you.”

As we eat, I feel her gaze on me, but I don’t look at her, because I’m at a loss for words. Actually, that’s not true. I have lots of words, but they’re irrational.

“Okay.” I grip my knife a little harder than necessary while cutting my steak. “Let’s barter. I’ll give you back your deposit even though you’re planning on breaking your rental agreement. In return, you listen to me. But that’s it. I don’t want you to reply. Take it in like a sponge and hold it until it evaporates.”

When I look at her, she slows her chewing and blots her mouth with the napkin. Then she nods once.

I inhale and hold it for a few seconds before exhaling everything that’s eating at me. “I’m angry that my dad is dying, but he’s eighty-two, so why am I angry? He’s had a good life. I’m pissed that I’m leaving the job I love, but that makes no sense because I’ve been telling myself for years that I need to make a big change in my life if I expect a different outcome. I’ve been stagnant for too long. My friends seem to have the perfect life, and yeah, I’m forty, and it feels like I’ve missed out on having that kind of life. And I don’t want to be jealous, but I am. And I’m still pissed that you lied to me eleven years ago, and I swear I’ll take this anger to my grave.

“The idea that you haven’t had sex with anyone since you had it with me is ridiculous and kind of disturbing. Yet, I’m fucking irritated that you may have had sex with Casey, or any other guy for that matter. And, yes, I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me how fucked up that is. I’m well aware. But what’s just as ridiculous is I don’t want my friends to know that amid hating you, I’ve started craving you. I think about you for an unhealthy number of hours each day. But I’m not going to have sex with you because I’m moving tomorrow. And that’s the real problem because my moving to Somers tomorrow wouldn’t stop me from having sex with anyone else. So now, I’m really screwed because I’m sure that means I have some unresolved feelings or other sort of bullshit going on that I don’t have time for because my dad is dying and I’m not prepared to deal with that reality.”

I deflate, unsure whether I feel better or worse. Vulnerable, that’s how I feel.

Everleigh peers at me with a hint of tension along her forehead. Then she drops her chin, focused on her lap for a few seconds. She’s multifaceted, like a diamond. Layered and deep. Sophisticated and beautiful. Intelligent and calculated. But also, she’s young and impulsive with her emotions for me, and I feel honored to be the recipient of her vulnerability even if I’m the worst person in the world she could give herself to in that way.

I hang on her every breath even when I pretend that she’s the bane of my existence.

She sips her water before picking up her fork and knife to resume eating her chicken.

That’s it? That’s all the reaction I get after ripping open my chest to give her everything?

“I wonder if Casey’s girlfriend lives with him. It would be fun to have another girl around the house even if it’s just for a month or so until I move into my Airstream. Maybe she’s a gamer too.” She looks up at me, swallowing before rubbing her lips together as if she’s contemplating video games more than my disastrous life.

I bow my head in defeat and finish my steak without saying another word. After we decline dessert, the server returns to take our payment.

“I’ve got it,” I say, tapping my card on the machine before Everleigh gets hers dug out of her purse.

After tucking the card back into my wallet, I stare at her.

She smiles. “Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” I push back in my chair and stand.

Silence steals the stage on the ride home. What’s left to say?

Everleigh doesn’t wait for me when we pull into the driveway. She kicks off her heels inside the back door and heads straight up to the bathroom. I collapse onto the sofa and inspect the room. I’m leaving tomorrow, but I have no fucking clue what to take or what to pack away and store in the garage to make room for whoever rents the house.

The one squeaky stair lets me know Everleigh is coming down them, and I turn. Her hair is pulled back, face washed.

She steps in front of the sofa, hands at her sides, somewhere between Dr. Reichart and Everleigh. “I’m here for you. So are your friends. You’re not alone. And it’s okay not to be okay. Take whatever you need and leave the rest to us.” She glances around the room.

“I’m an asshole,” I whisper, leaning my elbows on my knees and threading my fingers through my hair.

“No,” she says softly.

When I lift my head, her eyes fill with tears, but she swallows and blinks while looking at the ceiling for a beat to regain her composure.

“I want to touch you,” I whisper.

She nods quickly, drawing in a shaky breath.

“But I can’t.”

She continues to nod, folding her hands in front of her. “I know,” she says with a quivering voice despite attempting to be brave and detach herself from me. “Safe travels.” Her chin tips up, and it breaks my fucking heart to see her on the verge of crumbling.

“Thanks.”

“Bye.”

I return a slow nod, dropping my gaze to the floor before she breaks me. “I’m sorry,” I say as she approaches the back door. “Eleven years ago, I should not have left you the way I did, because . . . it did mean something. It was the best week of my life. You’re the best week of my life.”

Click.

She closes the door behind her.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Eleven years earlier . . .

“I’m a terrible dancer,” I said as we slow danced to Lady Antebellum’s “Just a Kiss.”

“We’re swaying. It’s barely dancing. You’re a fine swayer.” She lied because I was handsome, or so I suspected.

My hands lowered a few inches until they were palming her perfect ass as I buried my face in her neck. “Can we go now?” My words carried an embarrassing desperation. It was the best and most torturous week of my life. The sex gods were punishing me for all the one-night stands. All the times I didn’t call someone back despite promising to.

The “lost” phone numbers.

Forgetting someone’s name the morning after and having to call her “you.”

The tears.

The nasty texts.

I was a player with no regrets.

Until . . . Everleigh Reichart.

She was the girl I never knew I needed. Smart and sexy. Fun and addictive. Everything she said mesmerized me. Everything she did kept me coming back for more. I lost sleep thinking about her. And when she grinned while biting her lower lip, cheeks turning red, I nearly fell to my knees. I wasn’t a beggar, but I would have rolled onto my back like a dog, pleading for her to rub my belly or tell me I was such a “good boy.”

I was pussy-whipped minus the pussy, in other words, a miracle.

“Should we say goodbye?” she asked.

“Nah.” I kissed her bare shoulder. “They’re too drunk to remember.”

She laughed, and I wanted to see what other sounds I could pull from her that night. Taking her hand, I led her to the exit, and we grabbed a cab to her apartment.

Did I care the cabdriver was watching us in the rearview mirror as I kissed her with one of my hands behind her head and the other snaking up her dress? Hell no.

Did I care he could hear her gasp when my fingers slid into her panties? Nope.

Did he know she was seventeen? That question popped into my head more than once over the following weeks and months.

Fucking hindsight . . .

Everything we did was so very wrong.

When we arrived at our destination, I paid the driver and led her toward the building.

“My legs won’t work,” she said.

I laughed, taking that as a compliment as she handed me the card to open the door. A couple joined us on the elevator, so we behaved as she stood in front of me, leaning most of her weight against me.

“Will!” she squealed when I scooped her up as soon as we stepped off the elevator.

The second we closed her apartment door, I set her on her feet and kissed her while pulling at my tie and then unbuttoning my shirt.

No video games.

No food poisoning.

No parties.

This was happening.

She unfastened my pants just as I unzipped her dress. Since we’d already established the quickest way out of our clothes, it didn’t take long. My head swam from the beer and the insane amount of lust that had reached a boiling point. But never did I think the young woman sliding her hand down the front of my briefs (the second-year med student) was seventeen. I dismissed her nerves as nothing more than a long week of anticipation finally coming to fruition.

Everleigh didn’t slow things down or stop me when I lowered to my knees in the entry. Nope. She smacked one hand against the wall to steady herself as her other hand claimed a fistful of my hair.

I replayed every single moment of that night, of the entire week, and not once did I think, “Oh, yeah. That should have told me she was seventeen.”

However, I had the Oh shit, is she a virgin? moment after I put on a condom, then kissed her as I pushed inside of her.

“Go slow,” she whispered in a shaky voice.

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you a—”

She reached for my lips and kissed me as her hips lifted off the bed, forcing me inside of her another inch.

That was it. A tiny moment of doubt. But then she moaned and clawed at my back, kissing me. There were lots of “Oh, gods” and “yeses.” She never told me to slow down or stop.

I dissected that night a million times, looking for something that I had missed.

I wasn’t a spend-the-night kind of guy, but with Everleigh, I no longer knew what kind of guy I was supposed to be.

“Don’t go,” she mumbled, face down on the pillow after I slid out of bed to dispose of the condom.

I grinned. “I won’t.”

When I returned and crawled back into bed, she climbed on top of me, limp like a weighted blanket. I had no objection to sleeping with her breasts pressed to my chest and her legs positioned just so. My dick was inches from finding its new favorite spot.

A few hours later, she stirred, and I reached for another condom on the nightstand.

“Tell me you’ll visit me,” she said, as we moved together.

“I’ll visit you,” I said, not recognizing my voice before I kissed her. God . . . I loved kissing her. Everleigh seemed perfectly suited for me in every way. And I wasn’t that guy because I was a player by nature, or so I thought. I blamed the sex. She couldn’t ask me serious questions while I was inside of her, while my mouth reached for her breast, while her legs wrapped around my waist.

The next morning, I woke to an empty bed. I should go. My thoughts didn’t provoke action because I heard the shower turn off. The door was cracked, and I felt fairly certain she would wrap herself in a towel and return to bed. I lifted my head to see if there was another condom on the nightstand. That’s when her phone chimed from the bathroom.

“Morning, Mom,” she said.

“Hey, sweets. How was the wedding?” She had her mom on speaker. It wasn’t loud, but I could hear if I held still.

“Fun. No hiccups. Victoria looked stunning. Tyler was handsome. The flowers. The food. It was all great.”

“Did you dance with any handsome groomsmen?”

I grinned, rolling onto my side, head propped up on my hand.

“I may have,” Everleigh said.

“Well, I can’t wait to hear all about it. Now, let’s get to the important stuff. What are we going to do to celebrate your birthday next month?”

“I have classes. So probably not much.”

“No way. I’ve already booked my flight. I refuse to miss my baby’s eighteenth birthday.”

What. The. Fuck!

I didn’t even think before jumping out of bed at a five-alarm fire speed, gathering my clothes strewn from the entry to the bedroom, not caring if I had everything. Pants, shirt, and shoes were sufficient. The cops would gather the rest before they came to arrest me and throw me in jail for statutory rape.

“Will?” Everleigh poked her head around the corner as I shoved my feet into my shiny rental shoes, sans socks.

My white dress shirt barely covered both shoulders, and my pants were zipped but not buttoned.

“You’re seventeen? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’ll be eighteen next month,” she said as if that made a difference.

Your Honor, she was almost eighteen. What’s thirty days? Me? Oh, yes. I’m twenty-nine. Do I know math? Yes. I’m aware that’s twelve years older.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” My voice boomed, and she flinched. “How are you in medical school?”

“Well, I’m uh . . . smart.”

I grabbed the door handle and shot her a scowl. “Smart? You’re not smart, Everleigh. You’re a fucking idiot. A conniving little liar who’s trying to get me arrested.”

“Will . . .” Tears welled in her eyes.

“No.” I shook my head and flew out the door, slamming it closed behind me.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Everleigh

It’s been three months since Will left. He occasionally texts me, but only in response to my texts asking about him and his parents. Sometimes he replies with a thumbs-up emoji, like when I moved out and sent him a photo of my Airstream with my barndominium under construction in the background. I officially have it enclosed and heated.

“Do you have plans for this weekend?” I ask Jamie as we leave the clinic for the day. She has the cutest little baby bump she rests her hand on, but it’s not visible unless she’s in a fitted shirt.

“Will drove down this morning, so we’re doing a Friendsgiving Saturday since Maren and Ozzy have plans for Thanksgiving next week. And Will wants to be home, of course, with his parents. He’ll go home Sunday. His sister and her family have been in Somers this week. They did Thanksgiving early.”

My heart plummets into my stomach. Will’s in town, but he didn’t mention it?

“Is this his first time back since he moved?” I ask as we walk toward our cars parked beside each other.

“No. I think it’s like . . . maybe the third.”

It’s happening all over again. William Landry is stabbing a knife into my chest and twisting it side to side.

“He stayed with Maren and Ozzy last time because Lola desperately wanted him to, but he had to drink Benadryl like water to keep his cat allergies from killing him.” She laughs.

I muster a smile, but it’s far from real. He’s keeping me at arm’s length. I get it. The analytical part of my brain knows why, but my heart doesn’t care what my brain says. It just fucking hurts.

“How’s his dad? The last time I texted him, he said his dad was just getting weaker and more confused.”

“You text him?” Jamie asks, stopping at her car door and giving me a raised eyebrow.

I bite my tongue to keep from blurting out the truth, but it’s hard. I swear I can taste blood. “Sometimes.” I smile. “I know you said to let him go. And clearly I have. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

However, I’m not a friend, because I’m not invited to Friendsgiving.

Jamie narrows her eyes and slowly nods. “Well, I haven’t seen him today. He arrived after I left for work. We’re hanging out tonight, so I’ll get a chance to catch up. But last week I talked to him. His dad’s been in hospice care for the past month.”

I return a tiny nod and open my mouth to say more but rethink that decision. Everything about Will comes with an asterisk because his dad is dying.

I love him, but his dad is dying.

The chemistry between us never died, but his dad is dying.

I want to scream at him for not coming to see me on his two other trips back to Missoula, but his dad is dying.

“Tell him ‘hi,’” I say. “Sounds like you’re all going to have a fun time.”

“Thanks.” She eyes me, scraping her teeth over her bottom lip. “I’d invite you over tonight, but I’m sure you have—”

“I’d love to come. What time?”

“Um . . .” She pinches the bridge of her nose. I’m sure she’s in panic mode because everyone will be upset that she invited me. Especially Will because he’s an asshole—but his dad is dying. “Seven?”

“Perfect.” I grin. “What can I bring?”

“Oh, nothing. We’ll uh—”

I flick my wrist at her. “I’ll figure it out. Thanks for the invite. See ya soon.”

Jamie is a baker. I’ve heard that Ozzy is a grill king. So I pick up pints of ice cream from Sweet Peaks, including Campfire S’mores and Griz Tracks, which I’ve heard are Lola’s favorites. Is it too cold for ice cream? I hope not.

Why am I so nervous to see Will? It’s been three months. We’ve texted. No big deal. But as I step out of my car parked along the street and adjust my black sweater over my faded jeans, my hands shake. I haven’t felt this unnerved, even speaking in front of auditoriums full of my colleagues.

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself, clenching the bag of ice cream as I make my way to the front door.

“Hey,” Jamie says while opening the door with the festive fall wreath. “Come in. Everyone is out back by the grill. There are hanging heaters, so it’s not too chilly.”

“I brought ice cream. Lola’s favorite.” I smile.

“Oh. That was nice of you, but Lola’s not here. She’s spending the night with a friend.” Jamie takes the bag from me and puts it in the freezer. “Come on.” She nods toward the deck door.

My heart might explode. William Landry is the most dangerous drug.

“Look who made it,” Jamie says.

“Hi,” everyone chimes at the same time.

“How have you been?” Maren asks, standing from a rocker to give me a hug.

I nearly cry because I just want to be one of the friends.

The chair next to her has a sweatshirt draped over the back. It’s probably Ozzy’s.

There are two outdoor love seats separated by a fire table. Will’s on one, and Jamie sits on the other, tucking her legs underneath her fuzzy gray sweater.

Do I sit next to her? Will Fitz mind? Before I can make this monumentally challenging decision, Jamie nods toward Will. “Scooch to make room for Everleigh. Surely, you two can get along for one night.” She winks at me.

Why? Were they talking about me before I arrived? Or is she silently teasing me because she knows I’m head over heels for this man?

Will moves to one side and gives me a head-to-toe inspection as I squeeze past Maren’s legs to sit next to him.

You are a doctor. A brilliant psychiatrist. Act like it!

I smile at Will. “Good to see you. I heard your sister is with your parents this weekend. Did you get to meet your new niece before you left?”

He’s just a man. I treat lots of men. My hands clench at my sides, then I move them to my lap and gently fold them, and that calms me.

Will pauses before answering, staring at my chest and then my lips. Now I hate him. (Not really, but in theory.) He can’t treat me like a nobody for three months and then look at me like we’ll end up in bed later tonight.

He wets his lips and nods. “Yeah. She’s pretty special.”

Must be nice to be special in your eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Eloise. Ellie.”

“Speaking of babies,” Maren says. “I heard you and Will knew about Jamie’s pregnancy before I did.” She narrows her eyes at Jamie.

I glance over at Will because I knew he knew.

“It was a litmus test,” Jamie says with a laugh. Will slides his gaze to her. “Not really. I didn’t know that Fitz blabbermouthed to Will. I had to tell Everleigh because I needed to explain why I was looking for work in Missoula. Fitz said they’d probably tell each other. And I said only if you two were sleeping together.”

I stiffen, moving only my eyes in Will’s direction. He pauses his beer at his lips and grins at Jamie. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You all suck. I should have known first,” Maren says.

“So, Everleigh,” Ozzy interrupts as if he knows that a change in subject will calm Maren, “how’s construction on your barndo going?”

“Really good. I’m framing walls.”

“Do you need help?” Ozzy asks.

“Help is great,” I say, looking at Will, and he playfully narrows his eyes at me. “But I know everyone is busy. And I’m fine in my Airstream. So it will get finished when it gets finished. I don’t mind the process.”

“I’m not too busy.” Ozzy shrugs. “Maybe I can bring Lola and she can learn a few things.”

“You’re a good man, Ozzy,” I say. “Maren is lucky to have you. Good men are hard to come by.”

Fitz clears his throat.

“You’re one of the good ones, too, Fitz. I didn’t forget about you.” I smirk at Jamie.

“Will’s a man too,” Fitz says with his back to us as he turns the burgers. “I don’t know if he’s a good man, but he would be all over that kind of work if he still lived around here.”

“I’d be all over a lot of things if I still lived here,” Will says before finishing the last swig of his beer. “Because I am good. A good man who is good at things.”

Heat crawls up my neck. What does he mean by that?

He stands. “Can I get anyone anything else to drink while I’m inside?”

“Everleigh, what can we get you?” Jamie asks.

“Uh . . .” I look around at what everyone else is drinking.

“There are lots of options in the fridge,” she says. “Go take a look.”

“Thanks.” I follow Will into the kitchen.

He tosses his empty bottle into the recycling bin. I want to say something. But what? Everything comes with that asterisk. And everything I want to say would sound like I’m making things about me.

And maybe I am.

After taking a cherry-lime sparkling water from the fridge, I close the door and face Will. He draws a long breath and leans his backside against the counter, hands on the edge.

“It’s good to see you,” he says.

I swallow my response. It’s a long one, with bullet points and lots of exclamation marks. A few words in all caps.

“There seems to be a lot of good going around tonight.” I stare at him, but he gives nothing away. “It’s good to see you too,” I say because I mean it.

I’m okay with silence. When I’m with patients, these pauses allow space for deeper self-reflection and time to process emotions. Nothing is rushed. But the silence between us in this kitchen feels like a lie, like there’s nothing to say. Yet, there’s so much to say.

“Working?” I ask.

“Volunteer with the fire department.”

“Gaming?”

He grins. “More than I should be. It’s an escape.”

“We could play together.”

Will wets his lips. “I do love playing with you.”

I tuck my chin, heat bleeding into my cheeks. “Are you sure about that?” The second I mumble the words, I feel regret for ignoring the asterisk.

“What does that mean?”

“I bet your dad loves having you with him. And your mom must be so grateful for the daily support. You are a good man, Will.”

“You’re dodging my question.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“No.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “I’m keeping my emotions and ego in check. You’re in survival mode. Expecting anything from you isn’t fair.”

He squints. “What might you expect from me?”

“Nothing.”

He shakes his head. “If I weren’t in survival mode, what would you expect?”

“I’d expect you to come see me during your visits to Missoula.”

His shoulders relax. It’s not the reaction I expected. “Well, if I weren’t in survival mode, I’d still be living in Missoula.”

“True. Then you’d see your friends more often, and you’d see me just the same as you do now since I’m not living in the shed.” And it’s out. I said the quiet part out loud. I’m good at giving advice, but terrible at doing the right thing.

“You’re upset.”

I shake my head. Lies . . . I’m full of lies.

“I dumped my heart out to you the night before I left, and you said nothing,” he says.

My jaw unhinges. “You told me not to say anything.”

“I didn’t want you shrinking me. But for God’s sake, you could have made some acknowledgment. Instead, you voiced your curiosity about Casey’s girlfriend living with him.”

I’m flabbergasted. No, that’s not a strong enough word. I’m astounded. Thunderstruck. For three months, he’s been harboring his disappointment in my lack of response to the very thing he told me not to respond to?

“Is that why you’ve ignored me?” I almost choke on the words as disbelief jumbles my thoughts.

“No. Yes.” He shakes his head, brow knitted. “No. It’s not that simple.”

“Let’s eat,” Jamie calls into the kitchen.

Will pushes off the counter. As he passes me, I grab his wrist. He stops, and I close my eyes. You’re killing me, William Landry. I’m the dumbest genius in the world for loving you.

Every word stays locked in my heart, and I release him, thinking of Jamie’s advice. Let Will go. No more obsessing. He’ll crush you because he’s still a boy who can’t understand the fragility of a young woman’s heart falling in love for the first time.

“You were my first, but not my last,” I say. “I slept with Casey when he and I dated. And a handful of other men since you. So don’t feel like I will die without you. I’m hopeful. Not hopeless.”

“Hope,” he whispers before rejoining everyone on the deck.

I take a few deep breaths and follow. Why did I want to be included tonight? Will I ever learn?

Chapter Thirty

Will

“Jamie wants me to talk to you,” Fitz says the next morning when I step into the kitchen I helped renovate last spring. Jamie wanted “calming blue” cabinets with metallic hardware and a gray granite with white veins.

“Oh?” I run a hand through my wet hair. “Why doesn’t she talk to me herself?”

He hands me a coffee mug and opens the drawer, displaying a vast selection of K-Cups. “Because she thinks you’ll be honest with me.”

“About?” I pick a random one and pop it into the Keurig.

“Everleigh.”

“What about her?” I lean against the counter and cross my arms as Fitz sips his coffee.

“Jamie seems to think you and Everleigh were sharing a lot of long glances last night. She wants me to ask if you’ve slept with her.”

“I took her virginity. I thought that was well established.”

“Listen. I don’t give a damn who you screw as long as it’s not my wife. So just cut the crap. Is there something going on?”

“No.”

“Great. Good talk. We hiking today? It’s supposed to get into the upper forties.”

I deflate. “There was a kiss. Well, more than one.”

Fitz drops his head back, face pointed at the ceiling, eyes closed.

“And if this is a full confession, I’ve checked out her new tits, and there was a finger—”

“Nope. I’m not your priest. Forget I asked. If Jamie wants details, she can ask you herself. Now, I promised I’d grab a few groceries for dinner tomorrow, then we can hike. Maren and Ozzy are going too.” He pulls a bagel from the bag and spreads cream cheese on it.

“Here’s the thing . . .”

“Will, we don’t have to do this. I honestly don’t care. For all I know, you were screwing her nonstop until the day you left.” Fitz takes a bite of his bagel and chews it slowly, eyeing me before shrugging. “And that’s cool, man,” he mumbles. “This time, you’re both consenting adults.”

I scratch my forehead with my middle finger, and he snickers.

“Have you seen her place?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“She spent a pretty penny on it. For someone who drives a used Subaru, she spared nothing in buying those ten acres. I’d be happy living on that land in her Airstream.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles over a bite of bagel. “But it’s just across the road from the Delanys’ ranch. In case you’re wondering.”

“I’m not.” I sip my coffee.

“Well, I’ll be ready by one. So if you have any errands to run or people you’d like to visit, that’s the timeline.”

“You’re an asshole. I didn’t need to know where she’s living.”

Fitz smirks before taking the rest of his bagel upstairs.

By eight, I pull onto the long drive across from the Delanys’ and park next to the Airstream.

Everleigh’s barndominium is dark blue with black trim and huge windows. I knock on her Airstream door, but there’s no answer, so I head toward the barn, slowly opening the unlocked front door. Stacks of wood studs, plates, and headers fill the center of the space. Everleigh is in the far corner, next to a miter saw, marking a board with a pencil and then sliding it behind her ear. She’s dressed the part, in faded jeans, brown work boots, a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a bandanna holding back her hair. Who would have thought this version of a woman would turn me on the most?

“Coffee?” I hold up the latte I grabbed on the way here.

She looks at me and slides her safety glasses onto her head.

Really. This is so weird. I can’t reconcile the vision of her in a doctor’s coat and dressed to frame the inside of a barndominium.

Her smile reaches her ears as she scuffs her boots along the concrete floor toward me.

“You’re a pleasant surprise.” She takes the drink from me. “Thank you.”

“It feels like an overdue visit,” I say, surveying the cathedral ceilings and partially framed walls.

“What’s that look?” she asks, bringing the cup to her lips.

“You build shit.” I grin slowly, shaking my head.

“I know.” With a flirty smirk, she lifts her shoulders. “What can I say? I’m the perfect woman for you, but you never got the memo.”

Oh, I got the memo.

“Heated floors?” I bend down and feel them.

“Of course.”

“Nice.”

“Want to see the plans?” she asks, turning toward the pile of wood with papers and food wrappers atop it. She brings up the plans on her tablet and shows me.

“You’re doing all of this yourself?”

“No. Maren and Ozzy have helped me. Lola too.”

I glance up from the tablet. “They didn’t mention that.”

“Because you insist they think of me as an enemy. So they don’t feel comfortable telling you the truth.”

I frown.

“Stop.” She chuckles, setting the tablet aside and sipping her coffee. “You moved to Somers. The world wouldn’t end if you told them the truth.”

I walk around, inspecting her work. It’s good. Really good. “And what is the truth?”

“Our love story has been beautiful and tragic. And we might not end up together, but not because we don’t belong together.”

“Love story feels a little exaggerated.” I open and close a window before facing her. If my circumstances were different, I might agree with her. Fuck it. I do agree with her. It was love. It is love. And it always will be. Maybe I love her too much to tell her how I feel because that’s all it can be right now. Words. Nothing else.

“You’re right,” she says. “My love story has been beautiful and tragic. Maybe your love story has yet to be told. If that’s the case, I envy the lucky woman who gets to be your heroine.”

I survey the space again, anything to avoid prolonged eye contact. “We’re all hiking today,” I say.

“I know. I was there last night when everyone was talking about it.”

“Would you like to come with us?” I risk a glance at her.

She lifts her eyebrows without saying a word.

“Clearly, Maren and Ozzy like you. Jamie works with you, and Fitz doesn’t matter.”

She grins. “Poor Fitz.”

“No. If you’re going to be friends with us, the first rule is you can’t feel sorry for Fitz.”

Everleigh curls her lips between her teeth and nods.

“Is that a yes to going?”

She wrinkles her nose and looks around. “I’m not sure because I really need to keep working.”

“I’m here until Sunday. What if I help you tomorrow before Friendsgiving dinner?” I don’t recognize the voice or the words so effortlessly falling from my lips. It’s as if I want her to go hiking with us.

“Careful, Will.” She grabs a broom and sweeps up sawdust around the saw. “If you spend too much time with me, you might miss me when you’re gone.”

“Stop beating this dead horse.” I squat and hold the dustpan.

“You used to be more of a romantic.”

“I used to be a lot of things.”

“What happened?”

I stand and dump the sawdust into the trash bin next to her saw. “My dad got sick. And it’s made me jaded and disillusioned. My mom’s watching him slowly die, and it’s an awful end to their life together. I think ’til death do us part is cruel. Sometimes, I want to tell my mom to get a train ticket and head as far east as it will take her. Find a new life. A new man. And close the book. This story is over. It’s not a happily ever after, so why finish?”

“This is the romantic part.” Everleigh bites the finger of her glove and tugs it off.

Why do I find that so sexy?

“Wanting to be with someone until one of you takes your last breath is the ultimate love. Anything less isn’t love. It’s lust. Infatuation. Maybe companionship. But love is when you can’t buy that train ticket because a part of your heart is bound to theirs until one of you takes your last breath. And then, in that moment of unimaginable grief, freedom is born. I imagine it’s like learning to walk again. A little unsteady at first. Scary. Lonely. Then one day, you realize Celine Dion was right.”

I narrow my eyes.

She grins. “Your heart will go on.”

I don’t want to grin, but dammit, this woman isn’t just smart, she’s witty. “Are you giving me crap about Titanic again?”

“I would never.”

“Do you make Celine Dion references with your patients?”

She tucks her gloves into her back pocket. “Of course not. Most of my patients are children. They don’t know who Celine Dion is. But I knew an old man like you would get it.”

My smile falls short of believable, and I see it reflected in her eyes and downturned lips. I’m so happy to see her, but it doesn’t change what’s waiting for me in Somers.

“I’ve read a lot of books,” she says, hands folded in front.

I nod. She’s probably read more in the past month than I have in my whole life.

“A lot of theories about life. Its purpose. Where we come from. Where we’re going. But I think we know nothing. I think the deeper you go down the rabbit hole of science, the closer you’ll get to the conclusion that we’ve not even skimmed the surface of understanding life. I think we’re just here to love.”

“Love?”

Everleigh nods.

“That’s it. You think it’s that simple?”

She laughs. “You haven’t been listening. There is nothing simple about love. If it were, I would be out of a job; police wouldn’t be needed. There would be no crime. No poverty. No war. But love is complicated. So”—she shrugs—“here we are.”

“Well”—I turn away from her and pinch the bridge of my nose—“my father can’t love his way out of this. I will never get his voice out of my head, the way it breaks when he calls me in a confused state. His last shred of lucidity tells him something awful is happening. He says, ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. It’s awful.’”

I blink past the burning in my eyes. Dammit. I don’t want to cry in front of her. “So”—I look at the ceiling—“what am I supposed to say to that?”

“What do you say?” Everleigh asks in a soft voice.

Again I laugh, but it’s more of a grunt. Gritting my teeth, I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I say, ‘Yeah’”—my voice cracks like his—‘“it is awful. And there is nothing you can do about it. And it’s not okay, but it’s life.’” I wipe the heels of my hands along the corners of my eyes. “When he’s dead, it will be okay. But he’s not dead. He’s . . .”

“Dying,” she says.

I nod several times. Nope. I’m not crying in front of her. Life sucks too much to let her see me like this. “I gotta go.” I head toward the door. “We’ll leave around one, if you want to go hiking.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Everleigh

“Oh, hey, Everleigh,” Jamie says, opening the door. Her expression doesn’t convey expectancy. “What’s up?”

“Will invited me hiking. Is that okay?”

Jamie glances over her shoulder at the crew gathered in the living room. Maren and Ozzy. Fitz. And Will, who looks almost as surprised to see me as Jamie does.

“Uh”—he shakes his head as if his thoughts need to be rattled to life—“yeah. I stopped by her property this morning to check out the barn. And I mentioned the hike and offered to let her tag along.”

I’m not sure he can handle his dad’s impending death and his friends thinking he has feelings for me. So I help him out.

“I sort of invited myself. He didn’t have much of a choice.” I shrug, stepping onto the burnt orange entry rug so Jamie can close the door.

Will studies me through slightly squinted eyes, back against the linen gray wall beside the white stone-framed fireplace. A fall garland that matches the door’s wreath lines the mantel.

I can’t stop myself from imagining what our place would look like during the holidays. Would we decorate it like Jamie has done, or would we spend too much time gaming to care about decorations?

“I’m proud of you, Will.” Maren pats his back. “You’ve made amends with your past, and things don’t have to be so awkward. I’m glad you invited Everleigh.”

Jamie eyes me with distrust.

“Those are cute socks,” I say, nodding to her pink-and-purple wool socks.

“Oh, thanks,” she says, falling for the distraction. “Fitz got them for me this morning.”

“Fitz is a good man.”

“He really is.” She holds out her hand as if he’ll let her pull him from the sofa.

Instead, he hooks his arm around her waist and hugs her. My heart somersaults when he kisses her tiny baby bump.

I want that. A man who adores me and buys me cute wool socks. Instead, I’ve fallen for a tortured firefighter who keeps me at arm’s length.

“Everleigh!” Lola calls, barreling into the living room. “Thanks for the ice cream. You’re the coolest.”

“I’m glad you got it. I think your dad was eyeing it pretty hard.” I smile at Ozzy.

“I was making sure Maren didn’t eat it all.” Ozzy laughs for two seconds before Maren elbows him. I love their playful relationship, and the way Ozzy looks at Maren and Lola like he’s the luckiest guy in the world.

Lola parks her hands on her hips and cocks her head. “Are you Will’s girlfriend now?”

“Lola, no! Jeez, stop.” Maren laughs, pulling Lola in for a forced hug. “She’s just a friend.”

Will winks at Lola. “Sweet pea, Everleigh is too smart for me. Just like you’re too smart for all the boys who will want to date you.”

She rolls her eyes. “My dad said I can’t date until I’m thirty.”

Everyone laughs.

“Your dad is smart.” Will playfully tugs on her braided pigtails. I love the way he adores her.

“We only need to take two cars,” Fitz says. “Will, you can ride with us, and Everleigh can ride with them, unless you want to ride with Everleigh?”

Will and Fitz exchange a look, but I can’t decipher it. Have they talked about me? Lola takes my hand like we’re best friends, and I give it a squeeze.

“I’m riding with Lola,” I say, making the decision.

On the way to the trail, Lola talks nonstop, and Maren glances back at me, mouthing, I’m sorry.

I return a tiny headshake and wink. This is what I do best. I could listen to her all day.

When we arrive at the parking lot near the trailhead, I pull on my hat and gloves, and Will hands me my backpack, but he doesn’t just hand it to me, he holds it for me to lace my arms through it.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“Yep,” he says, already ten steps in front of me before I get my sternum strap clicked.

“The pregnant lady sets the pace,” Jamie says. “Got it?”

“If you get tired, Fitz can carry you out,” Maren says. “He’s used to a good packout.”

“It’s my day off, but whatever.” Fitz smirks at Jamie. She sticks her tongue out at him, and he grabs her face with his gloved hands and kisses her hard.

“Down boy, she’s already knocked up,” Will teases, taking the lead despite that Jamie said she would set the pace.

“William, you just need the right woman to make you rethink your life,” Jamie says.

“If I do a good job rethinking my life, I might conclude that I don’t need a woman.”

“What about your parents’ neighbor? Didn’t you say she has a daughter who’s in her early thirties? Single? An attorney in Bozeman?” Maren asks as I stay behind the pack with Lola, who likes to stop every few feet to inspect a rock or the pattern of leaves matted to the ground along with residual snow.

“He already tapped that. Called her the wrong name the following morning when she and her mom were on the deck having coffee.” Fitz laughs.

“Young ears, Calvin,” Maren scolds him.

Fitz’s shoulders lift to his ears as Jamie punches his arm. “Sorry,” he says.

“Are you guys talking about sex?” Lola asks. “I know all about it. Watching it is my grandpa’s favorite pastime.” She snorts and covers her mouth while shooting Ozzy a look.

“Lola! Jeez . . .” Ozzy presses his palm to his forehead. “It wasn’t funny then, and it’s not funny now.”

I look around as everyone laughs. It is funny, but I feel like there’s a story.

Maren lowers her voice and leans close to my ear, our shoulders bumping as we navigate the uneven terrain. “Lola caught her grandpa watching porn, and Ozzy did a terrible job of explaining it.”

I grin, but my smile doesn’t last long because I don’t enjoy thinking about Will having sex with other women. Jamie tugs on Will’s arm, pulling him back so she can take the lead. Fitz follows her, the protective husband. As we continue along the trail, Will slows just enough to let everyone pass him, except me. It’s subtle. No one looks back with any sort of suspicion.

“I’m not too smart for you,” I say, keeping my voice just above a whisper, shooting him a sideways glance.

He smirks, chin tucked. “You’re too everything for me. Be honest, did you already hike this morning?”

“Five miles.”

“Just five?”

“Well, I think I saw a bear fifty yards into a clearing, and it reminded me I need a hiking partner. Most bear attacks happen to lone hikers. And it should be hibernating, which means it was probably looking for one last snack. On my headstone, my parents will engrave: Everleigh Reichart—beloved daughter, solitary hiker.”

Will’s body bounces with silent chuckles.

“Do you think I need a gun? I see you and Fitz carry one.”

“Do you know how to use one?”

“No. But how hard could it be?” I hop up several stone steps.

“See, I think those should be the words carved on your headstone. How hard could it be?”

I giggle. “Perhaps. But I won’t have a gravestone unless I die after my father and before my mother. My father will insist on cremation. It’s important to quickly release the soul from the body by fire for the journey of reincarnation. But I suppose How hard could it be and solitary hiker could be in my obit. What about you? What will your postmortem celebration entail?”

Will laughs without hiding it. Maren and Ozzy glance back at us, but Will ignores them.

“I suppose it depends on how I die.”

“If you die in the line of duty, you’ll get full honors as a local hero. You’ll have a bell service and maybe a ‘Placing of the Glove’ service. Honor guard. Flag on your casket. The whole shebang.”

“Why do you sound so excited?” He laughs, and so do Ozzy and Maren.

“It’s a privilege for people to remember and honor you so fondly for your life and service.”

“Yes, but that means I have to die in the line of duty, which means I’ll die young.” He adjusts his gray beanie.

“You’re already forty. Young is relative.”

“Ouch,” Maren says with a laugh. “Careful, Everleigh. Most of us are not in our twenties.”

We reach a more challenging part of the trail that requires climbing a few boulders. Fitz makes Jamie go first, and he’s ready to catch her if anything happens. Lola flies up the rocks, and Ozzy nods for Maren to go first as well.

“It’s fine. No one needs to catch me,” I say when Will goes up the rocks before me.

He turns at the top of one boulder and holds out his hand. “If you need my old, brittle hand, it’s yours,” he says, wearing an ornery grin.

“Keep your hand. I’m a solitary hiker, anyway.” I climb up the rocks.

At the top, everyone stops for water. It’s a cool, crisp day with full sun illuminating the tranquil view of the valley. Hiking this time of year is a serene experience. Lola rips open a snack bar. I reach for my water and realize my bottle is empty from this morning. In my excitement to be invited on this hike, I forgot to refill.

“Aren’t you thirsty?” Will asks.

I shake my head, and he reaches for my bottle. When I grab for it, he holds it just out of my reach and shakes it.

“You don’t have water?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I forgot to refill. It’s cold. I’m fine and plenty hydrated.”

“Here we go,” Fitz announces as Jamie continues up the trail.

Will hands me his water bottle as they leave us behind.

I take a sip and hand it back to him. “So your parents’ neighbor has a daughter who’s an attorney. Sounds like a good catch.”

“Don’t do this.” He caps his water bottle and continues up the trail.

“Do what?”

“Show your jealous side.”

“My jealous side? What is my jealous side? Is it like you dragging me outside of a bar before I make it to the ladies’ room with a hot football player?”

“That was for your protection,” he says.

“I doubt that, but whatever helps you sleep at night. I was just making small talk about a woman who has enjoyed your dick inside of her even though you don’t remember her name.”

“Her name is Karen.” He lengthens his stride until I have to jog to catch up to him.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Why is that?” he asks.

“Because Karen has become a pejorative term.”

“Pejorative?”

“Disparaging. Belittling.”

“Then it should be easy for you not to be jealous of a Karen.”

“Why would I be jealous?”

He glances over his shoulder, slowing his steps for a second.

“I’ve had your dick in me too,” I mumble. “It’s overrated.”

He lifts an eyebrow, and I smirk.

“We’ll see about that,” he says.

Wait. What? We will?

Before I can follow up with a few pertinent questions, he joins the others and remains at the head of the pack for the rest of the hike.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Will

I arrive at Everleigh’s early the next morning ready to help her because I said I would. It’s nothing more than a kept promise.

Yeah right.

“Good morning,” I say as she walks toward the trash can with a dustpan full of sawdust.

She doesn’t acknowledge me, so I touch her shoulder. When she whips around, sawdust flies in my face.

“Gah!” It coats my eyeballs like slivers of glass.

“Oh, shit. Will, you scared me.”

God, this hurts like a motherfucker. I may never see again. “Call 9-1-1,” I mumble.

“What? No. I’m a doctor.”

“I can’t see! My eyes are filled with sawdust! I don’t need therapy.”

“William, I’m soooo sorry. I had my AirPods in. You snuck up behind me. Now, move your hands,” she says, pulling at my wrists.

“Stop.” I push her away with one hand. “Call an ambulance.”

“Just let me see.” She persists, pulling my hands away from my face as I lower to the ground before I lose my balance, eyes watering like a hemorrhaging artery. “I’m truly so sorry. I didn’t mean to do this. Let me grab the eyewash kit over here in my first aid bag.”

Her touch disappears, and I reach for my phone, feeling my pockets. When I find it, I still can’t see anything.

“Call 9-1-1,” I say into my phone and wait.

“Will, stop,” Everleigh calls from somewhere in the room.

“Call Jamie,” I say into my phone when I don’t hear it making a 9-1-1 call.

“William, I’m coming. Just a sec,” Everleigh warns.

“Fuck!” I pinch the bridge of my nose with one hand as the sawdust scratches the hell out of my cornea. With my other hand, I try to press the side buttons on my phone for an SOS.

“Stop,” Everleigh says as she squats next to me again. “We’re not calling 9-1-1 or anyone else. I’ve got this. Now, lean forward. You can’t be in this position when I rinse out your eyes.”

As I lean forward, I hear the snap of gloves. “Try to hold still.”

I jump when the saline hits my eye.

“Hold still.”

I growl, clenching my fists.

She rinses both eyes with a syringe. Her whispered sorrys mix with my grumbled fucks. I need new eyeballs. Mine will never be the same. Even when she’s done, they feel scratched like someone tortured them with sandpaper.

“Your vision might be a little blurry. Let me help you to my camper, and you can lie down until it’s better. I was up early, so I could use a little nap too.”

I stand, swinging my elbow to keep her from touching me. “Stop! I don’t need your help. I’m going back to Fitz’s.” Dammit! My vision sucks. “Where’s my phone?” I slide my hands into my pockets.

“It’s right here. I have it,” she says.

“Give it to me.”

“I’m not giving it to you until we talk.” Her blurred figure leads the way to the door.

“I’m not in the mood to talk, Everleigh.”

“It was an accident.”

“Well, this accident fucking hurts.”

“Will, I’m serious. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you or hear you, and you startled me.” She stops and turns before opening the door. “Please don’t hold this against me. It was an accident.”

“It’s . . . fine. Whatever. I’ll be okay, eventually.” I squint, heading toward my truck.

She jumps in front of me, quickly walking backward while I continue toward my Bronco, squinting against the sun. “Stop. Please.”

Oof!

“What the fuck, Everleigh?” I say, almost losing my balance when she throws herself at me, arms around my neck and legs dangling off the ground.

“I’m sorry. Don’t go. It’s not safe for you to drive.”

Dr. Reichart is dead. This woman hanging from my neck is not a genius, not a highly respected professional, and definitely not a psychiatrist. She’s a desperate child.

“If you get off me,” I say calmly, “I’ll lie down until I can see to drive. Would that make you happy?”

She releases her grip on me an inch at a time until her boots hit the dirt. With a soft sigh, she takes my hand and guides me to her camper. “Watch the steps,” she says.

We turn right and pass her kitchen to get to the bed. I collapse onto my back, gently covering my eyes with my palms.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she messes with my boots.

“I don’t want your boots getting dirt on my bedding.” She pulls off my boots. “This Airstream is the Pottery Barn Special Edition, and I want to keep it in good shape for when I sell it.”

“Funny. You weren’t concerned with my house.”

“That’s not true. I didn’t wear my boots in your bed.”

I peek open an eye as she sets my boots aside and unties hers. “You weren’t in my bed. Were you?” Nothing would surprise me at this point.

“Don’t worry about it.” She crawls into bed next to me.

“That’s not an answer.” I drop my arms to my side, claiming more space.

“Do you remember our first night together?” she asks.

“No,” I lie.

Everleigh rolls onto her side and teases her fingers along my forearm. “We gamed half the night. Then we slept on the sofa together. You pulled me on top of you.” She sighs, sliding her hand along mine, interlacing our fingers.

I don’t pull away, nor do I curl my fingers around hers. It’s nonconsensual hand-holding.

“If you tell your friends about the sawdust, it will seem like I did it on purpose, and they’ll be forced to take sides again, and they’ll take your side. So what can I do to prevent that from happening?”

“It’s not your fault. Anyway, why do you care what they think?”

“Because I like them.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

She doesn’t respond right away. Releasing my hand, she rolls onto her back. “Fine. I’ll tell them the truth. It’s the right thing to do. You need them, and they need you. I’m not in your little circle. Whatever. I’ll find my own friends . . . or not. Perhaps friends are overrated. There are significant benefits to being alone. It improves emotional regulation, enhances creativity, encourages self-reflection, cultivates independence—”

“Christ . . .” I laugh. “You’re playing the world’s tiniest violin, and the irony isn’t just that you’re a shrink; it’s that you actually play the violin.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together and pretend to play.

Everleigh giggles so hard she has to hug her belly.

“I used to think your hidden talents were sexy as hell. That feels like a lifetime ago,” I say. “Just like my dad was hiking ten-plus miles a day. No one believed he was seventy.” I stare at the ceiling, blinking my watery eyes. “I wanted to be like him. And now, I’m afraid I’ll be eighty and losing my mind and my body to some awful disease, and everyone who loved me will not remember the great things I did. They’ll remember I had an adult tantrum over the missing lid to my portable urinal, and how I thought someone filled it with gasoline and my roommate was drinking it.”

“Ew . . .” She laughs. “Well, it’s unlikely that anyone will remember urinal lids. Humans get selective memory when someone dies. It’s an unspoken rule that we don’t speak negatively about the dead. We focus on the good memories. You’ll see.”

“I’ll be dead. I won’t see anything.”

She elbows me. “I mean when your dad passes on. But let’s get back to things you found sexy about me.”

“Good idea. As I recall, you were humble. I didn’t know you were a genius. You were just a cool chick who played video games and giggled at all of my jokes.”

“So I’m no longer that cool chick? Or I’m not just that chick. I’m more, a doctor who doesn’t hide my intelligence. And I’m confident—”

“Whoa. Stop right there. Just minutes ago, you were hanging from my neck, begging for forgiveness.”

“Compassion isn’t a sign of weakness or lack of confidence.”

I grin, secretly loving how well she talks her way out of any situation. “What are you doing?” I ask as she shuts off my phone.

“I’m removing any roadblocks.” She slides it onto the nightstand.

“Roadblocks?”

Folding her hands on her stomach, she sighs. “Yes. If you want to kiss me without interruptions.”

I roll my head toward her, but she stares at the ceiling. “I’m not kissing you.”

“I didn’t say you have to. It’s just an option.”

“What if my dad needs me?”

“Your sister is with him.”

“What if he dies?”

She rolls her head toward me and frowns. “A few seconds won’t change anything.”

“Still not kissing you.”

“An option, Will. It’s just an option.”

“My vision is less blurry. I can drive now.”

“Fine,” she says with a huff as she jackknifes to a sitting position. Then she stands and stretches her arms above her head before twisting from side to side.

“Here’s the thing. If I kiss you, I’m going to fuck you. There’s no middle ground. If I fuck you, I’m still going to live in Somers. And if I live in Somers, your fragile heart will break. If your fragile heart breaks, Jamie will be pissed at me. And if Jamie’s pissed at me—”

“I get it, William.” She crosses her arms over her chest and rolls her eyes. It’s very unprofessional of her. “I’ve read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. I understand escalating consequences. If Jamie is pissed at you, then Fitz will have to take sides, and he’ll take her side. And I understand you need to call it fucking because it clearly delineates the difference between sex for a physical release and sex for an emotional connection.”

“You’re shrinking me.”

“You’re making excuses for your erectile dysfunction. It’s fine. I have to get back to work anyway.”

“Take off your clothes.”

She plants her fists on her hips, eyes narrowed. “You take off my clothes.”

“I want you to do it.”

“I wanted you to save my house.”

“I wanted you to tell me your age eleven years ago.”

“Whatever. I’m not that easy.” She tucks her feet into her boots and turns to exit the trailer. “Hope your eyes feel better.”

The door clicks behind her.

I sit up and run my hands through my hair while chuckling. I want to fuck her and love her, hate her and forget about her, yet remember her until the day I die. None of it makes sense.

Shoving my feet into my boots, I press my fingers to the corners of my eyes. They’re still sore, but no longer blurry. Just as I stand, the door snaps open.

Everleigh stomps her boots into the trailer and kicks them off with another exasperated huff. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be a psychiatrist.” She unbuttons her flannel shirt. “My common sense has been obliterated by a fireman. When I’m with you, my IQ drops below a hundred.” Her words hold an angry edge as she shrugs off her shirt. “It’s fucking embarrassing,” she enunciates.

My gaze drops to her fingers as she unzips her jeans. With no sort of sexy fanfare, she peels them down her legs and kicks them off.

One sock.

Another sock.

I barely get my boots toed back off before she wedges herself between my legs, grabs my face, and then kisses me.

It’s . . . magic.

She hasn’t been on my mind for eleven years, but she’s been the invisible obstacle to every failed relationship. Other women have felt good, but this one feels right. Dare I say, perfect?

My hands slide up the back of her legs and over her ass, gripping it hard until her breath hitches, muscles tightening beneath my touch.

I grin.

“Asshole,” she mumbles over my lips. “You’d better have a condom.”

I think I like this foulmouthed version of Everleigh Reichart. She yanks my hair like a punishment as I kiss along her neck to the swell of her breasts while my hands focus on unhooking her bra. She releases it from her arms and tosses it aside before lifting my shirt up my torso. When it’s over my head, we kiss again.

A little harder.

A little longer.

She’s right, this is stupid, even for my IQ, which I imagine is already below a hundred on my best day. I guide her legs to straddle my lap, then I palm her perky breasts, breaking the kiss to suck her nipple into my mouth. It’s hard and warm. A dark-pink pebble of perfection. The only thing more perfect might be the way she’s grinding her pelvis against my erection.

“Why do you turn me into a stupid girl every single time?” she murmurs.

I flip her onto her back, her dark hair fanning out in all directions. She traps her bottom lip between her teeth as I slide her panties down her legs. Sirens blare in my head, warning me to stop as I tug at my belt buckle and kick off my jeans and briefs after retrieving a condom from my wallet.

“Why do you bring me to my knees every single time?”

Her hands thread through my hair as I kiss my way up her inner thigh. “You’re going to break my heart again,” she whispers.

I pause, lifting my gaze to hers. Is it a question? I already told her as much.

“Break it,” she murmurs, eyes closing, fingers tightening around my hair while guiding me between her legs. Her body bows when my tongue teases her clit as I slide two fingers inside her. It’s like I’ve spent eleven years trying to satisfy a craving with all the wrong women. I reach up and palm her breast, and her hand covers mine, as if she’s afraid I’ll stop touching her.

A stuttered “Oh . . .” falls from her lips, and her knees collapse against my head.

That was quick.

I chuckle while sliding my fingers out of her and kissing my way up her body.

“Are you,” she says breathlessly, “laughing at me?”

“You’re a hair trigger, Dr. Reichart.” I tease her nipple for a few seconds before kissing my way to her neck, grabbing the back of her knee, and spreading her wider to accommodate my body.

“I’m efficient,” she says, giving me a vulnerable smile.

Her breath hitches when the head of my cock pushes into her.

“God, Will.” Her head lolls to the side, and I suck her earlobe. “That’s good. So . . . good.”

I pull out and drive back into her all the way, setting a slow, hard pace. My lips claim hers. I love her hungry lips and the rest of her body.

Her mind.

Her dry humor.

Her innocence.

Her unexpectedness.

I just hate how we ended eleven years earlier.

“Slow down,” she whispers, teasing my nape.

I pause, lifting my head to look her in the eye. Am I hurting her?

“I don’t want it to end,” she says, tears filling her eyes.

“Everything ends.” I kiss her.

She pushes my chest, and I roll onto my back. Her leg slides over me, and she straddles my pelvis, my cock in her hand as she guides it between her legs and slowly sinks onto it, eyes closing for a few seconds. Who am I kidding? I don’t want this to end either.

I grip her hips and take a mental picture because I have never seen anything so sexy in my life as the woman she’s become. A tiny voice in my head taunts me, wondering if some other man helped her get here.

She gathers her hair and pulls it over one shoulder, opening her eyes while riding me slowly. Her lips curl into a flirty grin. She brings my hand to her mouth and sucks my fingers.

I’m going to come really fucking soon. There’s no way around it, especially with her sucking my fingers. She guides said fingers to her clit.

“Get there,” I warn.

“Just wait, old man,” she whispers, leaning forward to brush her lips over mine while grinning.

“Shut up.” I lift my head to kiss her hard while my hips piston off the bed, and I think we’re shaking the whole damn trailer.

I hug her to me, gripping her ass and rolling us over one last time so I can thrust into her as deep as possible. Her breaths come faster and faster until she stills, not breathing at all for a few seconds while her body shudders, mouth open, eyes screwed.

“Fuuuck . . .” I pant. “Fuck you,” I whisper after my release, “for having this effect on me.”

She grunts a laugh, body limp beneath mine.

I’m not trying to break her heart or torture myself. Those are just unfortunate side effects of our chemistry. I’m leaving, and she’s staying. That’s just life. Am I supposed to regret this? After months of anguish over my father’s illness and my mother’s emotional decline, is it fair to feel guilty for taking a few minutes for myself? A brief escape?

“Don’t.” She wraps her legs around my waist again, ankles crossed at my back. “I know what’s true.” She presses her palms to my face, thumbs caressing my lips. “So just don’t move yet. Lie to me with your lips on mine and our bodies entwined. Just . . .” She closes her eyes. “Lie to me for a little longer.”

I playfully nip at her thumb, then I kiss her like she kissed me. We roll to our sides without untangling our bodies. I caress her neck and breasts. Her hips and ass. And after several minutes, I’m ready to do it again. Not too shabby for an old guy.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“And there it is,” I say as she stands, flashing me her naked backside.

She smirks over her shoulder. “Meet Wilbur.”

Her pig tattoo is located just below the dimple on the right side of her lower back. How did I miss it the day she dropped her towel before getting into the shower?

“Why there?”

“In case it was a regrettable decision, I wanted it someplace that I wouldn’t see it every day.”

No one is like this woman, and that makes me deliriously happy. But I’m not ready for her to know my true feelings because my life is messy enough.

“Listen, I don’t regret this, but—” I stop short, not wanting to sound cliché.

She peers up at me while we dress on opposite sides of the bed. “But you don’t want to tell your friends we had sex two and a half times.”

I zip my jeans, eyes narrowed. “Two and a half?”

“I had three orgasms; you had two.”

I shake my head with a restrained grin. “Whatever. Even if we were actively dating, which we are not, I wouldn’t tell them we had sex this morning. It’s none of their business.”

“I agree. Also, I’m well trained at keeping secrets.” She pulls on her wool socks.

“Are you, though?” I mirror her, tugging on my socks.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean years ago, when Jamie came to Missoula and started working at your office, it took all of two seconds before you blabbered about my taking your virginity.”

“Was that a secret? You didn’t stay long enough to mention that. You seem to tell Fitz a lot. He knew about Karen. Am I better than she was? Will you remember my name?”

I step into the galley. “Depends. Is my dick overrated?”

“That’s a good question. The last time I rated it, it was in a younger category. Now it’s in the over-forty group, where the ratings and competition aren’t as stiff.”

She’s such a ballbuster. I narrow my eyes as she stands toe-to-toe with me. I have a million comebacks. Instead, I grab her chin and kiss her until she is breathless.

“I love how you kiss me,” she whispers when I release her.

“I know you do.” I smirk.

“Is this it? Will I see you again before you go back to Somers tomorrow?”

“This is it. And I need that to be okay with you. I don’t have the emotional capacity for anything more than my dad right now.” Do I sound like an asshole? Absolutely. Is it intentional? No.

She scrapes her teeth along her bottom lip and nods.

“And if you tell Jamie, I’ll never hear the end of it. Okay?”

Everleigh wrinkles her nose. “She’s going to see it all over my face.”

“I didn’t come on your face. There’s nothing to see.”

Her cheeks turn pink, and I feed off her embarrassment. I feel privileged to experience her vulnerability.

“If you start to lose your composure, just fold your hands in front of you and do your doctor thing.”

Her nose wrinkles. “My doctor thing?”

I open the door. “Yes. You fold your hands in front of you when you’re being serious and professional. And you fold them behind you when you’re up to no good, acting like a bratty twentysomething who’s hell-bent on making my life miserable.” I head toward my Bronco, knowing she’ll be on my ass in no time.

Click. The Airstream door opens, and I grin.

“William?” She waits for me to turn. Then she folds her hands in front of her, taking calculated steps toward me. “That’s a terrible and completely inaccurate observation.”

“It’s not.” I turn and open my door. “And if you don’t keep your shit together around them, the next time I see you, I’m going to tie you up and spank you.”

I swear she gasps before I face her as she steps into my space hidden by the open door. But she quickly clamps her jaw shut and swallows. If only I could toss her into the back seat and take her with me. Confess to my friends that I let the wrong girl go for the right reasons, eleven years ago. But now she feels like the right girl, but everything else in my life is going really fucking wrong.

She still looks at me like I’m the brilliant one, like every word that falls from my lips is the most interesting thing she’s ever heard.

“It’s only a two-hour drive,” she mumbles with her chin tucked as she slides her icy hands up the front of my long-sleeved T-shirt, teasing my abs. “I have the week off. I could visit you.”

“You took the week off to work on your barndo.”

She shrugs and lifts her gaze to mine. “I’m in no hurry.”

I stare at her without knowing what to say because the offer is tempting. There’s nothing I’d love more than knowing I could crawl into bed with her after a long day with my dad. But I can’t complicate my life. Not now.

“You can say no, and I won’t act like a bratty twentysomething.”

My composure slips, and I grin. “I’m an asshole.”

She slides her hands around my back, nails teasing my skin as she rests her cheek against my chest. “I’ll stay here and keep my hands folded in front of me. You have Karen to keep you warm on cold nights.”

I grin while pressing my lips to the top of her head, and I almost chuckle thinking of that tiny violin. “Karen lives in Bozeman. The chances of her being at her mom’s house are pretty slim.”

“Well, there are others. You told me as much.”

I cradle her face, making her look up at me. “I lied. Did you really think I was getting laid while my father was in the hospital?”

She frowns. “Well, if we’re being honest, then I must tell you I had no intention of dropping my panties for Kade, the running back for the Grizzlies.”

I lift my eyebrows as if this is a shocking revelation. “Really?”

Everleigh shakes her head. “I’m not a whore like you, Will. I try, but I just can’t.”

I bark a laugh, and she grins. She’s so damn beautiful. It hurts to let her go as I climb into the truck.

“Can I tell you something without you feeling the need to tell me what to do?” she asks, tugging on her sleeves to cover her hands.

“That’s your specialty, not mine.” I fasten my seat belt.

Her gaze sweeps along the mountainous horizon, eyes narrowed in concentration or maybe contemplation.

“I’m kidding. Yes, you can tell me.”

The smile she tries on her face doesn’t seem to fit. “Johns Hopkins contacted me. They’re offering me a position and so much grant money for research that I nearly gagged.”

“Well, you should take—”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I already know what you’ll say. But this is my decision. I get to decide what I want to factor into making it.” Glancing down for a beat, she laughs, but it’s void of actual humor. “I know you won’t ask me to stay. But leaving isn’t easy, and it’s not just about you. I’m loyal to my patients. And I just purchased land and the barndo. I have friends here. Missoula feels like home.”

“I don’t know how you ever ended up here. You should have been at a place like Hopkins from the time you graduated.”

Her head whips up, lips parted. “Will.” She exhales as if something has knocked the wind out of her. “I came here for you.”

When she doesn’t follow up with a “Just kidding,” I slowly shake my head and chuckle. “That’s . . . no. That makes no sense. You’ve been here for what? Four or five years? No. You didn’t come here for me. If you did, it sure has taken you a long time to mention it, which makes you look like a stalker.”

“Mention it?” Everleigh runs her fingers through her hair. “You saw me at a fundraiser the summer I moved here. The second you laid eyes on me, you made a beeline for the parking lot. I was crushed and a little angry that you wouldn’t even give me a second glance. I thought you were holding a grudge over a white lie, not struggling with the emotional trauma, from the fear of going to jail. Don’t pretend that you didn’t talk to Tyler about me after their wedding. Victoria told me you had a lot of questions. And I would have answered those had you returned my calls. Tyler told you I was advanced. Has it really taken you this long to figure out that I’ve probably had better offers than Missoula, Montana?”

“Taking a job in Missoula just to be near me was stupid. You know that, right? There was no advanced thinking that went into that decision. So you basically started your career with an insane decision.”

“I’m fully aware,” she says with a sharp nod.

“Well.” I laugh, starting my Bronco. “I have to believe you regret that decision.”

Everleigh’s gaze dips along with her head. “I don’t know yet. But I’m not a stalker. I’m just the young woman who fell in love with you in less than a week. And I chose to be close to you over fancy titles at the most prestigious medical institutes because I’m smart enough to know that love is the most fulfilling emotion. And even if we don’t work out, I won’t regret anything. I would only regret not knowing. Not trying.”

I lift her chin with my finger as her words jumble my thoughts and suffocate my already heavy heart. “Everleigh, dive deep, and just keep swimming. Be grateful for being so smart and talented. Change the world before it changes you. All too soon, everything you thought mattered will feel insignificant. Trust me.”

She hooks her finger around mine, pulling it from her chin. Her lips lift into a knowing grin as she shakes her head. “You’re not listening to me, William Landry. I don’t need to dive deep or change the world.” She releases my finger and steps backward. “And you will never feel insignificant.”

This woman . . .

Everleigh doesn’t pretend to hide her emotions. Her heart leads. Common sense and self-preservation get dragged behind, kicking and screaming. There’s a word for that, but I’m not sure if it’s passion or delusion.

The line between the two is thin.

“Everleigh?”

She eyes me without speaking.

“Are you spending Thanksgiving with either of your parents?”

She furrows her brow for a second before shaking her head.

“Come to Somers for a few days. Then take the job at Hopkins.”

I don’t know what reaction I expect, but she gives me nothing. When I close my door, she slides her hands into her jeans’ front pockets and heads toward the barn.

I’m jobless.

Living with my mom.

Waiting for my dad to pass.

And catching feelings for the woman who made my life a living hell for years.

I could use a shrink.

Friendsgiving is bittersweet. These are my friends, but Everleigh should be here. I’m not proud of myself for anything I’ve done in recent months. Still, I do my best to enjoy the last evening of my break, but checking my phone every few minutes for a text from my mom or sister makes it hard to relax. Thinking about Everleigh doesn’t help either.

“Are you sleeping with Everleigh?” Jamie asks in the middle of a conversation about doulas and midwives.

We’re gathered around Jamie and Fitz’s reclaimed wood table, complete with candles and pumpkin decor.

I draw my head back, giving her a cringey grin. “No.”

“Oh my gosh, I wanted to ask the same thing,” Maren says, passing potatoes to Ozzy. Thankfully, Lola is spending the night at a friend’s house again, much to Ozzy and Maren’s displeasure. But they can’t tell her no.

“Perhaps it’s none of our business,” Ozzy says to Maren.

She shoots him a wrinkle-nosed expression, something between a scowl and a grin.

“You all seem to like her,” I say. “So I’m taking one for the team and letting bygones be bygones. I’ve got too much other shit going on to deal with grudges.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I feel sorry for her, but at least you’re not actively hating her anymore,” Jamie says. “She still has the biggest crush on you, and it was heartbreaking seeing you act so cruelly toward her.” She pushes back in her chair. “I have to check on the pies, and I forgot the yams.”

“I’ll help you,” Maren says, following Jamie into the kitchen.

When they’re around the corner, Fitz points his fork at me. “Did you fuck her this weekend?”

I narrow my eyes at him for a second before looking at Ozzy. His unblinking gaze pings between Fitz and me. “Don’t get me involved.” Ozzy quickly shakes his head.

Fitz knows too much. There’s no fooling him.

“Semantics. Right?” Fitz says. “Jamie asked if you slept with Everleigh, and you have not closed your eyes and fallen asleep with her. Did you have sex with her this weekend?”

I chuckle and shake my head as if it’s a ridiculous question.

“It’s fine, Will. You can hate her and screw her. No one would blame you for needing a quick release. There is a lot of shit going on in your life.”

Instead of acknowledging Fitz, my attention returns to Ozzy for a few seconds. He holds up his hands and shakes his head. “Nope. Still not getting involved.”

I sigh when Ozzy refuses to offer any help.

“You and Jamie weren’t exactly best buddies at one point,” I remind Fitz.

He nods slowly. “True.”

“Sometimes the easiest way to deal with a problem is to . . .” I shrug.

“Stick your dick in it?” Fitz asks.

Ozzy coughs to hide his laugh.

“Well”—I shake my beer bottle, searching for even a few drops of alcohol, but it’s dry—“I don’t solve every problem with my dick. It’s not like I put out fires with it.”

Fitz cracks a smile. “Good to know, buddy.”

I like Maren and Jamie. Hell, I love them like sisters. But women feel the need to dissect everything until it’s ruined. Men skim the surface and move on. Fitz knows I had sex with Everleigh, and I didn’t have to say the words. And he won’t bring it up again. Diplomacy has its place, but so does bluntness.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“How was your vacation?” Mom asks the second I step into the house.

I drop my bag by the door and remove my boots. “Vacation feels like an exaggeration.”

She keeps her chin tipped, focusing on washing dishes. “A getaway. An escape. Whatever.”

“Are you upset I left?” I drape my jacket over the back of the gray cloth sofa and join her in the kitchen. Then I kiss the top of her head and nudge her aside to take over washing the dishes.

She frowns with a long sigh while drying her hands. The bags under her eyes are puffier, the lines at the corners of her eyes deeper. “I’m sorry. It’s just been a long weekend. I should have been enjoying time with my grandkids, but even when I stayed here to watch them, I felt guilty for not being with your father.”

“Leah and Andy were with him. Give yourself a break, and not just from being with him. You need to emotionally give yourself a break from the guilt. None of this is your fault. It’s life. It sucks. All we can do is our best. And some days that feels better than other days. I felt plenty of moments of guilt on my vacation, but I don’t regret going. I wish you’d give yourself a few days away from here.” I set the skillet on the drying pad.

Mom sits opposite me at the counter. “I’m sorry.” She rubs her temples. “I’m glad you got away. And I hope you enjoyed yourself despite the guilt. But he’s my husband. It’s not your job to take care of him. It’s mine. And I can’t leave until . . .” She blots the corners of her teary eyes.

Until he’s dead.

“Death is awful,” I say.

She eyes me and sniffles.

I drain the sink. “I know that’s an odd statement. It’s like the sky is blue. But when someone else’s dad or husband dies in his eighties, we give our condolences with a footnote. Sorry for your loss, but they had a good, long life. Or They’re out of pain. They’re in a better place. But it doesn’t matter how long their life was. It doesn’t even matter if they were in pain. Death is not about the deceased. It’s about the living. We’re not in a better place. We’re here without them. And being without them hurts. So while they’re out of pain, we feel it tenfold. It’s never the right time or the right place to say a last goodbye. Death is just fucking awful. Period. And that’s just the actual death part. This . . . this process that we’re going through with Dad, watching him lose his mind and his dignity, is something worse than awful. There’s no word for it. And it’s happening all too quickly yet not quickly enough. You know? Does that make sense?” I rest my hands on the edge of the counter and drop my head between my shoulders.

“Yeah,” Mom whispers. “It makes perfect sense.”

“So what are we going to do?” I lift my head.

She shrugs. “We’re going to be with him, even when we feel helpless. We’ll swallow the pain and the guilt, then hide the bitter taste behind a smile. And one day, he’ll take his last breath, and I know”—she wipes a few tears that escape before she can blink them away—“it will feel like he’s taking my last breath too.”

I press the buzzer and wait for one of the nursing home staff to open the secure door. When they do, a cringey waft of the world’s worst odor smacks me in the face. It’s a putrid mix of bodily fluids, overcooked broccoli, antiseptic, and probably good old body decomposition.

I’ve changed my mind. I hope I die on the job, even if it means I die young.

“Oh my god,” Mom whispers, grabbing my arm and nodding to our right.

Dad’s in a wheelchair, parked in front of a TV, but it’s not turned on. He has three bright-red spots on his forehead. Fresh surface wounds.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask, crouching beside him as Mom blinks away her tears and inspects his uncovered wounds. “Did you get in a fight?” I joke even though it’s not funny.

He narrows his eyes.

“Did you fall?” Mom gets to the point, pulling up a chair from one of the dining room tables.

A few residents remain in the room, picking at their food. One lady looks like she’s not breathing. Her plate’s untouched. And she’s asleep (I think) in her wheelchair with a floral blanket over her legs and skin so white it’s hard to imagine she has blood running through her veins.

“Why is your head bleeding?” Mom asks when Dad doesn’t answer.

He lifts his shaky hand to touch it, but I stop him. “Don’t mess with it.” I look around.

A lady in blue scrubs eyes me and steps away from her computer. She manufactures a smile on her way to us. “Your dad caused quite a commotion today,” she says.

“Oh?” I say, looking at his head.

“He wandered into the wrong room and fell. His catheter bag was on one side of the door, and he was on the other. I’m not sure how that even happened.” She holds out her hands as if they hold the world’s biggest mystery.

This place is understaffed. The employees are overworked, underpaid, and probably mentally and emotionally drained.

Still, this is my father, and I hate that something happened on their watch, and no one knows the details.

“Why does he have a catheter?” I ask.

“Because he’s lost so much weight, the diapers don’t fit him well enough to contain the waste. And it’s hard to transfer him from the bed to the toilet.”

“You mean he can’t walk?” I narrow my eyes.

“Correct,” she says.

“Then how did he wander into another room?”

Her courteous smile vanishes. “I’m not sure. I was helping another resident.”

I rub the back of my neck and inhale slowly.

“We’ve kept him out here to keep a close eye on him. It’s concussion protocol.”

My dad is terminally ill. We’re essentially counting the days until he dies. And they’re worried about a concussion?

“Thanks.” I muster a smile. “Can we take him to his room now?”

She looks at her watch. “Yeah. I’ll check on him after you leave.”

Mom unlocks his wheelchair brakes, then I push him toward his room. A lady sitting on the seat of her walker in the hallway reaches her hand toward Dad as we pass.

“Wish I could kiss your boo-boos,” she says.

Dad slowly reaches out his hand to touch hers. It’s a soft caress. Mom stiffens next to me with a look of horror on her face. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. She knows that, but I’m sure it still stings.

I pick up the pace to detach their hands.

“Are those your kids?” she calls.

“I’m his wife,” Mom says through gritted teeth, turning as though she’s going to pick a fight with a woman who can’t stand unassisted.

“He’s not himself,” I mumble, grabbing her arm to pull her toward his room.

His roommate smiles at me, pulling off his headphones. “Did you have a nice trip?” he asks while sitting up in his bed.

I’m not sure why Vincent is in here. He seems mentally sound. Sure, he uses a walker, but he walks faster than the nurses. I heard one of them call him Speedy.

“It was a nice trip. Thanks for asking,” I say, helping my dad into his bed.

Mom closes the curtain between the two beds. It’s not a sound barrier, but she must like the illusion of privacy. I nod for her to sit in Dad’s lift chair, but she crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, standing by the door.

“What’s my name?” I ask Dad.

“William.”

I nod, removing his glasses. “Who’s that?” I point at Mom.

He squints. “Steffi.”

Again, I nod. “Is she your wife?”

“Yes,” he says as if it’s a ridiculous question.

I don’t know if his answer makes what happened in the hallway better or worse. From the scowl on my mom’s face, I’d say worse.

“Do you remember falling?” I straighten his covers over his legs.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly.

“They found you in another room. You’re not supposed to walk unassisted. You need to press this button to call for help.”

“I was going to see Jenny.”

Fuck. When I glance at Mom, she’s standing with her back to us, hands balled at her sides for a few seconds before she opens the door.

“Wait,” I say to her.

Her shoulders lift in a deep inhale. I know this is a lot. Maybe too much.

“Here.” I fish my Bronco key out of my pocket and wedge myself between her and the door since she refuses to look in my dad’s direction. There’s a tissue box next to me on the counter by the sink. I grab one and use it to wipe her tears. “He’s unwell,” I whisper. “Go home. You need a break from all of this. I’ll get a ride.”

She stares at her feet and sniffles while returning a tiny nod. I kiss the top of her head before stepping aside so she can leave. Before I sit in the chair, Dad drifts off to sleep.

I don’t want my dad to die, but I hate this. I hate it for him. Hate it for my mom. I fucking hate all of it.

After watching my dad sleep for two hours, I kiss him on the forehead next to his strawberry abrasions and whisper, “I love you.” Then I grab a ride home, pondering what I can say to my mom to make her feel less crushed over my dad’s interaction with another woman right in front of her.

But when the car approaches their place, my planned speech evaporates because there’s a shiny red Ford F-150 parked in the driveway. Everleigh’s new truck that she uses to pull her Airstream. I barely get “thanks” out of my mouth before flying from the car to the front door.

The good news? When my mom looks at me from her favorite blue-and-white striped swivel chair, I no longer detect anger over my father. Just the opposite. It’s like she just discovered the fountain of youth and hasn’t had a chance to tell anyone.

Next to her on the sofa, Everleigh smiles at me. She has her legs tucked beneath her, hands cupping a hot drink.

“Why didn’t you tell me you invited your friend for the week?” Mom asks with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Well”—I shift my gaze to Everleigh, who hides her grin behind her mug before taking a sip—“I didn’t have a chance to mention it. I thought I had time. After all, I just got here today. And I thought my friend would come later this week, like in a few days. In fact, I hadn’t even given her the address.” I step behind the kitchen island to wash my hands.

Everleigh sets her mug on the end table. “I know you like surprises, so I thought I’d come today.”

“I don’t like surprises,” I say.

“Well, I’m so glad you’re here. William, I was just telling Everleigh how I met your father. She didn’t know we’re twenty years apart in age.”

I toss the towel aside, eyeing Everleigh the whole time. And she doesn’t shy away from my narrow-eyed gaze.

“The Landry men like their women young,” Everleigh says.

Mom’s eyes widen. “Oh! Are you and Will—”

“I don’t think that’s an accurate statement,” I say, sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, propping my ankle on my opposing knee. “Everleigh is a psychiatrist. She’s fascinated by human behavior.”

“I met William eleven years ago at Tyler and Victoria’s wedding. Do you know them?” she asks my mom.

This is too much. What was I thinking when I invited her? Perhaps I was thinking I’d have a few days to prepare my mom for her arrival.

“Yes, of course. Thatcher and I were visiting my mom in Florida, so we missed the wedding. Did you go to medical school with Victoria?”

Everleigh nods. “I did.”

“And now you’re working in Missoula with Jamie. What a small world.”

It’s not that small. Clearly Everleigh has left out the part where she moved to Missoula to stalk me for years.

I glance at my watch. “It’s past three. Are you already checked into your hotel?” I ask Everleigh.

“Hotel?” Mom laughs. “Darling, I already have her settled into the guest room across from yours.”

Everleigh rolls her lips together and gives me an innocent one-shouldered shrug.

“I should get started on dinner. Do you eat red meat, Everleigh?” Mom stands and makes her way to the kitchen.

“I do. How can I help you?”

“I don’t need help. But thanks for asking. Will, you should turn on the porch heaters and show her the view of the lake.”

I hum, but not in agreement. It’s more of a hmm . . . what the hell is happening?

“I’ll grab a sweater,” Everleigh says, taking her mug to the kitchen before padding her bare feet toward the guest room across from mine.

As Mom surveys dinner options in the fridge, I follow Everleigh.

“You invited me,” she says, pulling a sweater from her suitcase on the end of the bed as I quietly close the bedroom door behind me.

“I did. I just didn’t anticipate you counting to ten after I left and then jumping into your truck to follow me.”

“I counted to fifty. How long did you want me to count?” She turns, threading her arms through her red sweater and pulling it on over her white T-shirt. I love how those faded jeans hang low on her hips, giving me a peek of her navel when she lifts her arms.

“At least a hundred,” I say.

“Because you’re old and you need a longer head start.” She slips on black fuzzy socks.

“If you’re going to bust my balls, at least fondle them first.” I step in front of her as she snorts. Then I duck and nuzzle my face into her neck.

God, I want to get lost in her.

“Twenty years, William.” She threads her fingers through my hair, and it makes me shiver. “Your parents are twenty years apart, and you never mentioned it?”

I kiss her neck and slide my hands down her back to grab her ass. “My mom was legal when my dad stuck his dick in her.”

Everleigh giggles. “Don’t say it like that.”

I grin before teasing her earlobe with my teeth.

She grips my hair and pulls her head back just enough to brush her lips against mine. “You should have seen the look on your mom’s face when I said I was your friend, and you invited me to spend the week with you.”

“About that . . .” I stand straight and take a step back before I do something stupid like take off her clothes. “Where did you get this address? Jamie? Maren?”

“Your parents own this property. It’s public record. It’s called the internet, William.”

“You could have texted me.”

“You would have told me to wait a few days. Which, by the way, you didn’t tell me to wait a few days. You told me to come stay for a few days.”

I shake my head, rubbing my hands over my face. “I can’t believe you get paid to help people’s mental health.”

“Most therapists and psychiatrists get therapy. It’s considered self-care. And if I had one, I’d tell them about you. But I don’t, so my flaws go unchecked.” She shrugs with her palms up. “If you want me to go home, I will. But I know you want me to stay until we have sex, then you’ll send me home because you’ll have a dip in testosterone from the oxytocin release during sex, and that will cause a desire to withdraw. That’s why I’m not having sex with you until I’m ready to leave.”

I can’t imagine why she’s still single.

“Then why are you here so early? I only invited you for sex.”

“I thought I could give your mom free therapy. And maybe I can meet your father.”

“My father won’t remember you. His memory is shit.”

Everleigh grins. “Don’t be so sure. I’m pretty unforgettable. And maybe you should leave the psych evaluation to me. Now, show me this fantastic lake view. Then let’s help your mom finish dinner.” She brushes past me toward the door.

I grab her wrist, and we stand idle, backs to each other. No words. Just a pause. My fingers tease her palm. Then I release her, take a breath, and follow her to the main room.

“What were you two doing in there for so long?” Mom asks, chopping a red onion.

“Just talking. No sex until I’m ready to go home,” Everleigh says without the slightest falter in her step as she heads to the covered deck.

I stop and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Well.” Mom clears her throat. “I like her. A lot.”

I drop my hand to my side with a sigh. “Don’t get too attached. She’s moving to Baltimore.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Everleigh

“Can I ask how old you are? You look too young to be a doctor,” Steffi says as we eat bison burgers and roasted veggies at the table on the deck with the heaters going full blast.

“That’s a great question,” Will says before I can swallow and answer for myself. “Everleigh is almost thirty. She’s a genius. Skipped a bunch of grades.”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

Will eyes me with a tiny scowl as he chews his food. I’m the one who should be scowling. He didn’t text me happy birthday two weeks after he left in August.

“Oh, so you were eighteen when you and Will met? That’s young.” She winks at Will.

I study him, enjoying the misery on his face as he so desperately wants to tell Steffi that I was seventeen and didn’t disclose my age. But then he’d have to include the part where he freaked out over a possible statutory rape charge (because that’s where he gets the real sympathy), which would disclose the fact that we had sex. And he’s not ready to go the distance with that conversation.

“Will said you’re moving to Baltimore. What’s in Baltimore?”

Am I moving? I look at Will, but he keeps his focus on his food.

“I was offered a position at Johns Hopkins. I haven’t taken it yet. But I need to decide soon. Will’s an amazing friend. He just wants to see me live up to my true potential, so that’s why he’s so certain I’ll take the job.” I nudge his leg with my foot, and he relinquishes a quick glance.

“Johns Hopkins sounds like a big deal. Why wouldn’t you take the job?” Steffi asks.

“My mom lives in New York. She’s an artist. I love her to death, but I also love the three-thousand-mile buffer between us.”

Steffi laughs. My comment even draws a soft chuckle from Will.

“I also love Montana. And I have friends here. And as I mentioned earlier, I’m in the process of building a barndominium with a stunning mountain view. I don’t think Baltimore can compare.”

“You could keep your place in Missoula as a vacation home,” Steffi says. “I assume you probably make enough money to own more than one property.”

I take a drink of water, then shake my head. “Psychiatrists don’t make that kind of money.”

“But people who have VR-related patents can afford it,” Will says.

“What’s that?” Steffi asks.

“He’s talking about virtual reality. I’ve designed therapeutic programs for kids. But I don’t spend my patent money. It’s all being reinvested.”

Steffi sighs. “My son has found a genius.”

Will coughs and shakes his head. “N-no. I’ve not found anything. I know a genius. Found implies more. Like . . .”

“Finders keepers?” I ask, cocking my head to make him as uncomfortable as possible. I find with Will, I do the exact opposite of what my training tells me to do. I don’t want to be his doctor. I want to be the woman he can’t live without. Unfortunately, he’s made it clear that he can live just fine without me.

So why am I still in Montana acting like a lovestruck heroine instead of a brilliant doctor doing groundbreaking research in Maryland?

“Older men are overrated,” Steffi says, saving her son from answering me. “They get cancer. Wear diapers. And flirt with the first piece of saggy ass that waddles past them with a fancy walker.”

“Jesus, Mom.” Will wrinkles his nose.

It’s really hard to keep from laughing, but I’m skilled at controlling my reactions to everyone except William Landry.

Steffi sips her wine. I think she’s had one too many glasses.

“Your feelings matter,” I say. “And you’re lucky to have a family who gives you a safe space to express those feelings without judgment.”

Steffi relaxes and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “Will you marry my son?”

“Mom! I’m serious. Enough. No more wine. Maybe you should go to bed early. I’ll take care of the dinner mess.”

I bite back my grin and wink at her.

“You’re right. I’m exhausted.” She stands. “Do you drink coffee, Everleigh?”

I nod.

“Then I’ll see you back here in the morning for coffee. Good night.”

“Good night,” I say.

Will stands, giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Love you,” he says.

We gather the dishes and take them into the kitchen. He sets out containers for the leftover food while I load the dishwasher.

“I regret inviting you here,” he says.

I giggle. “I know you do.”

“We’re a dead end.” He deposits the leftovers into the glass containers and snaps the lids onto them.

“We are,” I say.

“So why are you here?”

I run water in the sink and squirt dish soap into it. “You invited me.” He scoffs. “And I told you I’m here for your mom. A free place to stay. Excellent bison burgers. And I think I’ll add coffee with your delightful mother in the morning to the list of reasons. At this point, you’re just an afterthought.”

“I’m hurt.” He takes the spatula from me and dries it.

“Liar,” I say.

Thunk!

I drop the pan into the empty side of the sink when he swats my ass with the spatula. With a gasp, jaw on the floor, I stare at him through wide eyes while rubbing my ass. That stung.

“What the hell?”

He wipes the spatula again, as if he’s polishing it. Then, he slides it into the blue utensil crock next to the stove.

“That’s going to leave a mark.” I continue rubbing my butt.

“I hope so.”

“You jerk.” I turn on the faucet and click the spray nozzle, pointing it at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He grabs my wrist, turning his head to the side as the water sprays in his face and chest. “You’re making a mess.” He shuts off the water.

“You started it.” I grab a handful of suds and wipe them on his face.

“Stop.” He grabs my other wrist, restraining both hands between us.

“Don’t!” I giggle, closing my eyes and wrinkling my nose when he rubs his soapy face against mine.

His lips pass mine once.

I wriggle in his hold.

They pass me twice.

I stop wriggling. Will stills with his cheek pressed to mine. Then he slowly turns his head again, brushing his lips across mine for a third time, but this time he stops, and we kiss. He releases his hold on my wrists and slides his fingers along my neck like he always does until his fingertips brush my nape.

His lips leave mine, ghosting along my cheek to my ear. “Tell me you’re leaving tomorrow,” he whispers. “Then I can tear off your clothes now.”

My eyes drift shut because his touch intoxicates me. “If only,” I murmur.

“We should finish the dishes,” he mumbles between kisses while he works his way down my neck.

“Uh-huh,” I say, sliding my hands up the back of his shirt, curling my fingers into the thick muscles along his back.

“But it’s only Sunday. And I won’t want you here after we have sex.” He palms the back of my legs and lifts me off the floor.

“It’s only Sunday,” I echo, not really registering what he’s saying or what it means as he carries me to the bedroom.

Our mouths collide the second he closes the door. My shirt hits the floor first, followed by his. Then he cradles my face, kissing me again because mere seconds feel too long without his lips on mine. My back meets the wall next to the door. We’re so close to the bed, yet too far at the same time. His calloused palm skates down my neck to my chest, pulling my breast from my bra. Squeezing it until I feel it everywhere.

“Shh,” he whispers in my ear, and I realize I’m moaning.

I quickly nod half a dozen times. I’ll be quiet. If he wants me on my knees, hands tied behind my back, scarf around my mouth, I’ll do it and sort through my unhealthy obsession with him later.

It doesn’t feel like eleven years since I fell for him. It barely feels like eleven minutes. He’s all-consuming, and I can’t get enough. If this fireman wants to eat me for all three meals a day, I’ll be the sacrificial lamb to keep him satiated.

We perform a clumsy dance of discarding the rest of our clothes on the way to the bed. He guides me to straddle his lap and lies back as we kiss. When he fills me, I close my eyes and still for a minute. My crippled heart aches with every beat. I’m so in love with William Landry, but I don’t know if his heart feels anything, even when he’s inside me.

He wants a release, a chance to let go. I want a connection, a chance to hold on.

Will hugs me and sits up, our bodies intertwined. His face ghosts along my neck the way my fingers feather down his back.

It’s different. More intimate.

“I love you . . . I’m sorry,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

Someone should take my medical license. How can someone with my level of infatuation possibly help anyone else?

Will pauses, punching me with regret. Tears burn my eyes as I rest my chin on his shoulder. When he says nothing, I turn my head and press my lips to his neck.

He cups the back of my head in his palm and kisses the shell of my ear. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

I blink, releasing tears that are too big to contain. I thought I was okay with unrequited love—until now. Beautiful has never felt so ugly. On the heels of my declaration of love, this feels like a participation ribbon.

So I close my eyes and move with him, tucking every feeling into the nooks and crannies of my memory. Someday, I might need these beautiful memories to get me through the loneliness if IHOP goes out of business.

Minutes later, we lie on our sides, his front spooned to my back.

This is not about me. I repeat it over and over in my head until I fall asleep.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Will

This amazing woman and brilliant doctor will end up in therapy because of me—because she fell for the guy who broke her kite and then her heart.

I’m not used to being the villain. I’m the hero—to everyone except Everleigh Reichart.

Blinking my eyes open at the crack of dawn, I slide my hand along the mattress before turning my head to the empty space beside me. She’s never next to me when I wake up. On my way to the bathroom, I hear chatter. She’s on the deck with my mom.

After taking a piss, I pull on a shirt and jeans, then pour a cup of coffee. Before turning the corner to the deck door, I stop and listen—eavesdrop like Lola. The storm door is cracked, so it’s not my fault I can hear them.

“I think Will is going to struggle with Thatcher’s death more than his sister. Maybe even more than me. He has always looked up to his father. They spent many summers lost in the woods, living out of a tent, fishing, identifying every plant species imaginable. And so many nights under the stars. Thatcher loved astronomy. Also, his father was a firefighter, so you can imagine how excited and proud he was when Will decided to follow in Granddad Landry’s footsteps.”

“He never told me that,” Everleigh says. “If death were easy, I might not have a job.”

Mom laughs. “Touché.”

“Steffi, I think you and your children will heal together. Death has a way of giving perspective to life. When I die, I hope my kids will take time to see the beauty in life. The fragility of love. The ephemeral nature of this thing we call time.”

My mom hums softly. “I like how the world looks through your eyes. You’re far too wise to be twenty-nine.”

“Oh, I’m not wise. I’m just the product of overconsuming the writings of famous philosophers and thinkers: Socrates, Kant, Aristotle, Confucius, Buddha, Hippocrates. I’ve had a lot of food for thought for a twenty-nine-year-old.”

“Well, you’re comforting. I’m sure you’re an excellent doctor.”

“Thank you,” she says to my mom with a softer tone, as if she doesn’t feel completely deserving of the compliment.

I lean my shoulder against the wall and sip my coffee. If I step around the corner, their conversation will end.

“What do you love most about my son?” Mom asks.

I cover my mouth to hide my cough as I choke on my coffee.

“You assume I love him?” Everleigh says.

“Dear, it’s not an assumption.”

Maybe I should step around the corner before this goes completely off the rails.

“I love how he’s always made me feel like a woman. Not a doctor. Not a genius. It’s like he sees the real me. The version most everyone else misses. We met at a bar. Everything about our week together in California felt normal. His humor matches mine. We love gaming and hiking. He’s caring even when he tries to act unaffected by me. His friends adore him. And he’s handsome. The kind of handsome that makes me blush every time he looks at me.”

“Oh dear,” my mom says with a little tsk. “That’s a lot. I think it’s too much. These Landry men are heartbreakers. Go to Hopkins. Cure cancer or something like that. Fall in love with a sexy man who’s at least five years younger than you.” Mom’s chair creaks, and I know she’s standing, so I step around the corner.

“Morning,” I say, giving my mom a one-arm hug with my coffee in my other hand.

“Good morning, my handsome boy. I’m going to take a shower. Keep our guest entertained. In fact, you two do something fun today. I’ll deal with your father.”

I sit in her chair on the opposite side of the fire table from Everleigh. “I’m not sure you dealt with Dad that well yesterday. I think you need me there.”

“Nonsense,” Mom says before closing the door behind her.

Everleigh drums her nails on the side of her coffee mug. “Good morning.”

I control my grin, keeping things casual and cool. “Morning. How did you sleep?”

She yawns. I’m not sure if it’s planned or just perfect timing. “It was a restless night with an hour or two of sleep between . . . interruptions.”

My grin wins the battle. I was the interruption. It was a lot harder to sleep with Everleigh naked beside me than I remembered. I think just her body heat gave me an erection. And once I had said erection, I selfishly used her to remedy it.

“When you sleep on your back, you snore,” she says.

“I’m surprised in medical school they didn’t teach you a quick remedy for that.”

“Oh? And what would that be, Dr. Landry?”

“If you slowly insert a man’s penis into your mouth, he’ll stop snoring. I think it has a one-hundred-percent success rate.” I shrug. “At least, that’s the most recent data from double-blind sleep studies.”

She channels Dr. Reichart, giving me no reaction, and her self-control gets me almost as aroused as her naked body inches from mine. I know after eavesdropping on her conversation with my mother and not properly acknowledging her confession of love last night, I should proceed with caution. But I can’t help myself.

“I really should be with my dad today,” I say.

She nods several times. “Absolutely.”

“But last night was fun.”

Her eyes widen. “Wow. Is that the best you’ve got? How many times have you said that to a woman?”

“Plenty. But I usually follow it up with something like But I’m not looking for anything complicated right now. So see ya around.” I sip my coffee and then hold it cupped in my hands between my legs.

She pushes out of her chair and steps around the table to straddle my lap, taking my coffee and setting it on the side table. “Does that mean you’re looking for something complicated with me?” She kisses the corner of my mouth, thumbs stroking my cheeks just below my eyes. It’s the most soothing feeling in the world.

“It means . . .” I whisper, kissing the inside of her wrist.

“What?”

I hold her arms, keeping her hands on my face. “No matter what happens, take that job at Hopkins. No matter how many nights we have like last night. No matter what I say to you. No matter what your heart tells you. If my dad dies. If I shatter into a million pieces in the process of grieving him. Even if in my weakest moment, I beg you to stay.” I turn my head and kiss the inside of her other wrist. “Promise me you’ll go.”

Tears shine in her eyes. I’m not trying to be cruel. Just the opposite. It’s because I care about her I want her to let me go. I’m the worst dream. She can do better.

“I shouldn’t have told you about Hopkins.”

On a slow sigh, I pull her hands from my face. “There are probably a lot of things you shouldn’t have done, with regard to me. Don’t let passing up this job be another one. I want more for you.”

Everleigh frowns. “What if your idea of more is my idea of less?”

“Then one of us is messed up. And it’s not me.”

She grabs my arm, sliding up my sleeve to look at the tattoo of Brandon’s date of death. “People die, but grief is eternal. A mentor of mine once said if you want to live, you have to learn how to survive. But I see the inverse. If you want to survive, you have to learn how to live.”

“Sounds like expensive advice.” I bury my face in her neck, kissing just below her ear.

She giggles, leaning her head to the side. “I’m an extremely valuable friend.”

Hearing her use the word friend should be a relief, but it’s not. I know she’s trying to put on a brave face. Dr. Reichart would tell her to run away from this firefighter without looking back. Run toward someone she can love without feeling guilty for it. An I love you without a delayed I’m sorry. I hope Dr. Reichart (not Everleigh) makes the decision about Hopkins.

“I’m going for a walk.” She kisses the side of my head. “Go be with your father.”

I lift my head. “Are you not coming to meet him?”

“Do you want me to meet him? I got the vibe yesterday that you weren’t too sure.”

That’s a great question. I wanted her to come to Somers because I selfishly wanted more time with her. But I haven’t given the specifics much thought.

“I’m here for you and your mom.” She traces my bottom lip with her thumb. Her delicate touch is indescribable. My heart physically aches when she does it. “I’m here until you send me on my way.” She smirks. “I can see him later, if or when the time feels right.”

Feels right.

She feels right, but literally everything else in my life feels wrong.

“Everleigh,” I say, grabbing her waist as she crawls off my lap. “I . . .” The words catch in my throat. If only I had said them before now, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But I didn’t, so they’ll hit differently now, and she’ll think I want her to stay for me. So I slowly shake my head. “Never mind.”

She slides her hand along my neck, thumb caressing along my pulse. “I know you do,” she whispers.

“Mrs. Landry?” A nurse stops us on our way to Dad’s room.

“Yes?” Mom turns as I rest my hand on her back.

The nurse frowns, adjusting her blond ponytail. A tangible feeling of doom radiates from her and makes the hair on my arms stand up. “We were just getting ready to call you. Thatcher appears to have had a stroke this morning, but he hasn’t been examined yet. The doctor should be in within the hour.”

I pull Mom into me, tucking her under my arms as she holds a shaky hand to her mouth. “Thanks for the update,” I say before guiding her to Dad’s room.

The second I open the door, Mom freezes, choking on a gasp. The right side of his face is droopy, and drool is running down his chin.

“Hey, Dad.” I guide my mom to sit in his chair.

He makes a noise, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. I sit on the edge of his bed and gently squeeze his right hand, but he doesn’t squeeze mine back like he’s done in the past.

He’s so thin and frail. I can’t believe how quickly he’s declining. It’s a gut-wrenching feeling of helplessness.

“We should have him transported to the hospital,” Mom whispers.

I glance at her. “You and Dad chose end-of-life care. Are we really going to prolong this?”

She presses a wadded tissue to her nose and sniffles. “I just hate watching him suffer.”

I do, too, but she needs me to be strong, and I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I need to channel my inner Dr. Reichart. “They’re giving him medication for the pain. We don’t know that he’s suffering,” I say as if I believe what I’m saying.

I don’t.

Maybe he’s not in physical pain. However, isn’t mental distress a form of suffering? I can’t imagine trying to talk when my mouth and brain feel disconnected.

Dad tries to say something again, and I hate that I don’t know what he’s saying. What if he’s trying to tell me that something is causing him pain?

“His lips are dry.” Mom stands. “Maybe he’s thirsty.”

I look for his water beside his bed, but it’s gone. There’s a cup with a little water and a bag of oral sponge swabs.

“Where’s his water?” she asks.

I grab one of the swabs and wet it before wiping it along his lips and teeth. “Maybe he can’t swallow well if he’s had a stroke.”

She scoots in front of me, and I set the swab aside and give her room to sit on the edge of his bed at the end of the guardrail. When he doesn’t squeeze her hand, she reaches for his left hand. He reciprocates with that one.

“How is he supposed to drink or eat if he chokes?” she whispers.

“Let’s just wait for the doctor,” I say, but I know the answer.

He’s not going to eat. And he’ll get tiny amounts of fluid from those sponges.

And eventually, he’ll . . .

My heart crawls into my throat, slowly suffocating me.

This is happening. My father is actively dying, and no one will save him because he chose this when he was in his right mind, even if nothing about this feels right.

It’s my job to save people and things, but this is like wildland firefighters voluntarily letting certain forests burn because it’s part of life. Death and destruction are part of life. There’s a greater force at play, and surrendering to it feels like failure.

I give my parents space, standing near the door just to be here if they need me.

Eventually, the doctor knocks on the door and then examines him. Her lips move, and I know she’s talking to my mom, even if it’s hard to hear past the deep, angry beating of my heart. My mom responds with a tight jaw, a shaky nod, and a new round of tears. That’s because the doctor tells her it won’t be long. She’s not telling us anything we didn’t already know.

“We’ll give him medication p.r.n. to keep him comfortable,” the doctor says. She’s a believable doctor with wrinkles around her eyes and mouth and gray in her dark hair. Unlike Everleigh. “If you have any questions or need anything, let me or one of the staff know. We are here for you and whatever you and your family need.”

“How long?” Mom whispers, frantically wiping her tears as her tissue disintegrates in her hand.

“It’s hard to say for sure,” the doctor says. “Maybe a day or two.”

Mom buckles at the waist on a sob. I catch her, pulling her into me while giving the doctor a sad smile and an easy nod.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Everleigh

“Hey, Mom,” I answer my phone on speaker after getting out of the shower.

“Hi, babe. I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Oh.” I remove the towel from my head and finger comb my hair. “Sorry. I’ve been busy with my barndo and distracted by other things. I should have called.”

“Well, I won’t keep you long. I know it’s your lunch time and you have lots of patients who need you more than I do.”

“Mom.” I laugh. “What’s up with the guilt trip today? You know I’m here for you. And I’m not working today. Since there’s a new doctor at the clinic, I took the week off to get things done.”

“Then I don’t want to keep you from—”

“Mom. I’m serious, stop this. I have time to talk. I’m bummed we’re not getting to spend Thanksgiving together, but I hope you get your top-secret commission project finished.”

“Ugh, I’m so uninspired,” she sighs.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine. If you’re busy cutting wood and stuff, I can call you later.”

“I have time for you. I’m actually not in Missoula. I’m in Somers visiting Will and his mom. They went to see his dad, so I headed to the nearest trail with steep hills. I just got out of the shower.”

“Everleigh, you’re visiting Will and his dying father?”

I swallow and smile as if she can see me. “I’m visiting Will and his mother. They are visiting his father.”

“Everleigh, are you”—she clears her throat—“okay with this?”

“I’m fine.” I pull on my underwear and jeans.

“I’m just worried about you. It’s been a while since we’ve discussed—”

“I’m not seventeen anymore with a crush on a firefighter who doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”

“I think I forgot to mention I got offered a job at Johns Hopkins,” I say, desperate to change the subject.

I’m fine. She’ll see.

“What? That’s amazing! When?”

“Well, I have to decide soon.” I slide on a pink cashmere sweater.

“Decision? You make it sound like there’s a decision. It’s Johns Hopkins.”

“Yes. It’s a great offer with everything I could want, but I bought land, and I have an established practice in Missoula. I have patients who travel long distances just to see me. It’s not an easy decision to abandon them.”

“You’re not abandoning them. It’s not like someone won’t take over their care.”

“But it won’t be me.” I carry my phone into the bedroom and sit on the end of the bed to pull on my gray wool socks.

“Well,” she says with a deflated tone, “that’s true. There’s only one Dr. Everleigh Reichart.”

I grin.

“Still, please tell me you’re taking the job. Baltimore is a two-and-a-half-hour train ride from New York City.”

“I’m aware.” I plop back onto the bed, setting the phone beside me and then grabbing Will’s pillow to bury my face in it, in his familiar woodsy scent. The cotton is crisp like new sheets, a contrast to the soft cream sherpa comforter with a pine tree print.

“Let me guess, that’s one of the reasons you’re on the fence about taking the job?”

I chuckle, removing the pillow from my face. “It’s not the main reason, but it’s a reason.”

“Ugh! Everleigh, you know I’m a busy person. It’s not like I would take the train up there every weekend to see you.”

“No?”

“No. I’d just move there.”

“Stop.” I giggle, and so does she.

“I’m serious, sweetheart. Don’t pass up this opportunity because you’re worried I’ll suffocate you. And don’t pass it up for Will or any other guy. You deserve to be chased. Pursued. Respected. Coveted. And Will is a very nice man. Handsome to the extreme. But if he doesn’t want to chase you, then he’s not the one.”

“What if he wants to chase me, but he doesn’t want to leave his mom after his dad dies?”

“Yes, you want the man who loves his mother, but who loves you just a little bit more.”

“Spoken like someone who has never been married.”

“I’m observant. That’s what gives me wisdom and the clarity to see other people’s mistakes. I’m not blinded by love.”

“I’m not blinded by love, either.”

“So you’re going to take the job?”

“Yes,” I say for the first time, and my heart immediately dies in my chest.

I’m taking the job.

The doctor I’ve become doesn’t care about the stupid, lovesick girl beneath the white coat and well-practiced facade. I think of Austin, Emma, Bethany, Caleb, and the hundreds of other children I’ve helped. It would be stupid to choose a man who doesn’t love me the way I love him. And I’m not stupid. Well, starting today, I’m not stupid.

“Yes? Yesss!” Mom celebrates for both of us.

I smile through my tears.

I’m taking the job and leaving William Landry, hoping he’ll chase me. For the first time in my adult life, I’m thinking only about my career and the people whom I can help. Voltaire, Uncle Ben, and Will are right: With great power comes great responsibility.

“Okay. When? Do you need help moving? I can come help you pack your stuff and drive a moving truck as soon as I finish this commission piece. Whatever you need.”

Endless tears slide down the sides of my face as I stare at the ceiling. I took the job in Missoula because of William Landry. I bought ten acres overlooking the mountains. The barndominium was supposed to be a project Will and I worked on together. The Airstream. The trip here. It’s all for him.

The love I’ve had for this man feels like its own death as I prepare to leave everything behind.

“They’re paying all of my moving expenses. Besides, since my house burned down, I don’t own much. I’ll hire out the rest of the work on the barndominium and either rent it or sell it. I’ll sell my Airstream. I’ll just . . .” I pinch the bridge of my nose and bite my quivering lower lip for a second. “I’ll let it all go.” I’ll let him go.

“Can we talk about Will’s dad for a second?” she asks.

I sit up and wipe my face. “There’s nothing to talk about. He’s dying. I’m moving to Baltimore.”

“Everleigh—”

“I’ll call you when I get back home at the end of the week or on Thanksgiving.”

“Everleigh—”

“Love you.” I end the call. With a heavy exhale, I stand, tip up my chin, and return to the bathroom to dry my hair and pick up the pieces of my carefully sorted emotions. As the hum of the dryer drowns out my inner psychiatrist, I put those pieces back where they belong: locked behind a vault.

Then, despite my amateur culinary skills, I find ingredients for minestrone soup and a recipe online. While it simmers, I listen to an audiobook under a heater on the porch, waiting for Will or his mom to return.

But they don’t.

I resist texting him, and instead eat a bowl of the soup before putting the rest of the pot in the fridge. After a few minutes curled up on the sofa, staring at the barren fireplace, I decide to start a fire from the stack of wood and kindling next to the hearth. The warmth and flickering flames soothe my nerves.

A little after eight, the front door opens. I pull out my AirPods and gauge Will’s expression before saying anything or even offering a smile.

He removes his boots, shoulders curled inward, and he has no expression of joy to offer. Just a shell of a man in faded denim jeans, a worn black-and-gray flannel shirt, and wayward hair that looks like it’s taken the brunt of his frustration.

“Hi,” I say, slowly standing and folding the red fleece throw blanket as the fire crackles behind me.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

When he glances up, I offer a sad smile. “What do you need?”

“A miracle,” he whispers as if the weight of the world is crushing his chest.

I can’t give him that, so I meet him halfway as he shrugs off his jacket. He melts when I snake my arms around his torso, cheek against his chest. We stand idle in our embrace for a long minute or two. I won’t let go. He can do it when he’s ready.

After a few more breaths, his hold on me relaxes, and he steps back, brushing his knuckles over my cheek.

“I made minestrone soup, and it’s not awful. That’s a miracle.”

“You’re the miracle.” Will’s lips replace his knuckles, and he kisses my cheek. “But I need you to leave because I don’t want you to see this.”

I hold my breath as he releases me, brushing past me toward the bedroom. All of my emotions hit at once. Even though I’ve decided to go to Baltimore, I’m not quite ready. My heart feels like it’s being shoved off a cliff instead of voluntarily jumping when it’s ready.

What doesn’t he want me to see?

I use the poker to break up and spread out the remaining embers in the fireplace, and cover them with ash. Then I pad my way along the hardwood floor to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway. Sitting on the end of the bed, Will has his head bowed, resting in his hands.

“I will feel infinitely weaker,” he murmurs.

My heart turns to dust, incinerated by his vulnerability. Does he have any idea how many times I’ve tried to get my patients to give me even a fraction of what he just did? Vulnerability is a gift. It’s the purest form of trust.

I open my mouth to tell him something I have never told anyone because, for the first time in a long time, I feel safe, like I can trust him with the thing that makes me feel “infinitely weak.” But the words don’t find air. They get tangled in my heartstrings, tugging and tearing at the scars. My grief won’t take away his. It might make him feel responsible for consoling me, and that’s just cruel.

Again, I try to speak, but nothing comes out. I cannot utter a single helpful word because my heart is too invested in this man. I don’t feel like a doctor or an expert.

No mental muscle memory.

No professional reflex.

Not a trace of helpful advice.

“Is your mom with him?” I ask, but I know the answer.

Will lifts his head from his hands, eyes closed, and he nods once. “He had a stro—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard, jaw clenched.

“A stroke?”

“Yeah,” Will whispers, dropping his chin and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Um.” He clears his throat and opens his bloodshot eyes. “She told me to come home because she knows I don’t want to witness his last breath.” Again, he swallows hard. “Neither does she, but she won’t leave him. But I don’t think he’s dying tonight,” he says like he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true. “I’ll sleep and then get up early to relieve her.”

I nod several times, hands folded in front of me. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

Will’s gaze lands on me. It’s filled with pain and conflict.

“This is a very personal time for your family, and I want to respect your wishes,” I say.

His shoulders sag a little more.

I step in front of him, pressing a hand to his cheek. He leans into my touch, and it feels like the weight of his anguish is suffocating my heart; the heaviness is almost unbearable.

“Are you going to Hopkins?” he murmurs.

I don’t want to leave until after his dad passes, until I know he’s going to be okay. But I can’t say that.

“Yes,” I reply without adding all the conditions I want to attach to my decision.

I’ll go if you’ll visit me.

If you’ll invite me back here to see you.

If it doesn’t mean you’re moving on without me.

“Do something amazing. Cure mental illness. Autism. Alzheimer’s. Win a Nobel Prize.”

I grin, tracing his cheekbone with the pad of my thumb. “And I thought my mom had high expectations.”

Will attempts a smile, but it doesn’t fit his face. The grief won’t accommodate it. “I bet your father has even higher ones. Have you told him you’re taking the job?”

I blink back my emotions. “Not yet. But I will,” I whisper with my heart lodged so tightly in my throat it feels like I could turn blue.

“He’s going to be proud of you.” Will’s calloused hand encircles my wrist, and he kisses my palm. “Moms are hardwired to be proud of their kids no matter what, but dads seem to insist on receipts before they puff out their chests and call you a chip off the old block.”

I laugh and quickly pull my hand away from him to wipe my tears before they escape. “I think you might be right.”

Will drops his gaze. “The doctor gave my dad a day, maybe two.”

“I’m sorry.” I wedge myself between his knees and pull his head to my chest, stroking his hair. “Is there anything I can do for you or your mom before I leave in the morning?”

Will pulls away. “Don’t . . .” He shakes his head. “Fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing. I want you to leave, and I want you to stay. I want my dad out of pain, but I don’t want him to fucking die. I’m just, I don’t know.” He swipes the heel of his hand along the corner of his eye.

It’s okay for him to cry in front of me, but I won’t say that. Instead, I squeeze his hand and whisper, “Rest. I’m here for now if you need me. And if you don’t, that’s okay.”

He draws in a shaky breath and whispers “Thank you” on his exhale. Then he scoots back in bed and reaches out his hand. I crawl into bed beside him, and he pulls me to him like a security blanket. Chest to chest. Arms and legs intertwined.

William Landry might break me, but not in the way I ever imagined.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Will

I can’t sleep. This is hell. Mom told me to go home, so I did. For a few seconds, it felt like an out, a breath of relief. But now it feels like I’ve abandoned both her and my dad. So I untangle myself from Everleigh and then touch my phone’s screen. It illuminates: 3:14 a.m.

Tossing an arm over my forehead, I stare at the dark outline of the ceiling fan. Why did I ask her to come? Why did I tell her to leave? Who invites someone to visit amid the death of a parent? She’s probably seen and heard everything, but why can’t I let her see me?

Before the guilt kills me, I slide out of bed and get dressed. Then I press my lips to Everleigh’s forehead as she sleeps. By the time I make it to the facility, the quick cup of coffee from home has kicked in. Mom’s butt is on the edge of the chair, and she’s leaning forward, resting her head on her bent arm and her other hand on his.

Dad’s mouth is open, and his breaths are shallow with a slight rattle.

“Hey, Mom,” I whisper in her ear, lifting her body before she wakes with a stiff back.

Her groggy eyes open, and she lets me help her stand. I hug her, eyeing my dad over her shoulder. He’s so thin and frail. Unrecognizable in many ways. It’s hard to believe he carried me on his shoulders up and down steep trails when I was a young boy. Now he can’t stand on his own or carry his body weight.

“I prayed for him to take his last breath,” she whispers before silently shaking with sobs.

I don’t hold back my tears. How fucking awful is this? Wishing for the man you love to die. When did months turn into days? What happened to weeks? We should still have weeks with him. Now we’re counting breaths.

I stare at his blurry image through my tears.

“Well,” I sniffle, sitting in the chair and pulling her onto my lap, “he’s always been a stubborn man. He’s holding on because you want him to go.”

She laughs through her tears. “I know.”

“You need sleep,” I say.

“I need to be here.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I know she wouldn’t be able to sleep even if I sent her home.

Over the next four hours, we wait, taking turns standing to stretch and walking the hall or using the restroom. Mom texts Leah, but she’s not rushing back. She said her goodbyes and made peace with knowing she might not see him again.

Maybe I should say mine and head back to Missoula. The second that thought pops into my head, I feel a pang of regret. No. I feel like a terrible, weak human being, and an even worse son. Leah has a baby and another child. I have nothing but grief waiting for me to drown it in as much alcohol as possible.

“William.”

I glance at the door. It’s my parents’ pastor. He smiles at Vincent on the other side of the curtain before stepping toward me, so I stand and shake his proffered hand.

“I hope it’s okay that I’m stopping by.”

I nod. “Of course. My mom went for coffee. I actually wouldn’t mind taking a walk.”

“Please.” He nods toward my dad while unbuttoning his black wool coat. “I’d be happy to sit with him. If you and your mom would like me to pray with you, I can do that too.”

I’m not sure what I would pray for because I’m not much of a prayer guy, even though I like the idea of something greater and more powerful than humans. That the end is not really the end, just a “for now,” is comforting.

“I’ll check with her. Thanks.”

“Of course,” he says, sitting in my dad’s chair.

I find my mom outside, sipping her coffee while staring at the pond behind the courtyard. “Pastor Gibbs is here.”

She turns toward me. “Sorry. I should get back. He’ll think I’m ignoring my husband.”

I shake my head. “He thinks you’re taking a breather. Dad’s respirations haven’t dropped in the last hour. I guess that means he’s still got time.” I shrug.

She hands me her coffee, and I take a sip.

“I can’t believe I prayed for him to die.”

“Mom.” I frown. “I don’t think mercy is a bad thing.”

She presses her hand to her stomach and grimaces.

“Hungry?”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Come on. Let’s grab some food. I know you skipped dinner last night and breakfast this morning.”

“We can’t leave.”

I fish my keys from my pocket. “We can. We’ll be back in an hour. Let’s run home. Everleigh made soup last night.”

Mom scrapes her teeth along her bottom lip. “But Pastor Gibbs—”

“He’ll sit with Dad. And if he has to leave, we’ll be back in no time.”

On a reluctant sigh, she nods and follows me to the parking lot. She says nothing on the way home, and neither do I. What’s there to say? This level of pain has no words. My gaze sweeps along the street as we pull into the drive. Everleigh’s truck is gone.

“This is hard,” Mom whispers when we step into the house. She wipes a few tears. “I’ve known that he wouldn’t return, but it just feels so real.”

I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her back to my chest as I kiss the top of her head. She covers my hands with hers and squeezes hard.

We proceed to the kitchen after removing our shoes.

“She left you a note,” Mom says, nodding to the folded piece of notebook paper on the kitchen island.

I open the note as Mom retrieves the stockpot from the fridge.

Dear Will,

I don’t know if you’ll find this while your father is still alive. If not, I’m so sorry for your loss. Give your mom a hug from me and my deepest condolences. As much as I want to be the arms you long for, I’m honoring your request. Your friends will be here for you. They are good people. Let them love you.

This morning I emailed Hopkins and accepted the position. Although I’m leaving Montana, I’m always a phone call away. And if you find a day when you need me, I’ll be on the first flight back to you. But if that day never comes, I hope it means you’ve found comfort in your family. Maybe you’ll find yourself lost in the woods. Perhaps the best place to work through your grief is the place where you made the most memories together. Yosemite? Glacier? Zion? Have you been to Switzerland? Have you seen the Himalayas? You should.

If you’re ever in Baltimore . . .

Love,

Everleigh

“I’m not even hungry,” Mom says, lighting the burner.

I turn away from her for a few seconds to compose myself. Fuck, this hurts. Did I make a mistake?

I set the note aside, surprised how her words managed to infiltrate that aching organ in my chest despite the grief I’m feeling for my father. “He’d want you to eat, to take care of yourself,” I say.

She turns, eyeing the letter on the counter. “What about you? Are you taking care of yourself, or are you letting the right one go for the wrong reasons?”

“The right one?” I narrow my eyes before filling a glass with water.

“Everleigh. The girl has William Landry–size stars in her eyes. She’s beautiful. Smart. Talented.” Mom tries to smile because she wants my happiness more than her own, but her enthusiasm falls flat. Everything falls flat in the face of grief. It’s easier to hide an emotion than fake it.

“I’m aware.” I drink the water.

“He’s going to leave us behind.”

I set the glass aside and nod once.

“You have a long life ahead of you. I think you should live it,” Mom says.

I shrug. “All I see is death.”

She stirs the soup. “That breaks my heart.”

“What do you see?” I ask, retrieving two bowls from the cabinet. “Because it can’t be good. Everleigh is a lot younger than I am. Do you think it’s a good idea to set her up for this kind of heartbreak? If I find someone closer to my age, there’s at least a better chance of dying closer together.”

She glances sideways. “You think that’s the goal? To be with someone who might die close to you? And here I thought it was about love.”

“Don’t judge me. You’ve thought and said the same thing, not too long ago.”

She nods slowly. “I know,” she whispers.

“You know what I thought when I walked into Dad’s room early this morning and saw you folded over his bed? I thought love sucks.”

Mom stares into the stockpot, slowly stirring, and she shrugs. “Maybe it does. But if I had it to do over, knowing this outcome, I wouldn’t change a thing. Except I might spend more nights in his arms, and less time arguing with him over things that don’t matter.”

I hold a bowl as she ladles soup into it.

“But if you don’t love her,” she says, “don’t give her false hope. She could pass up a guy who loves her in ways you don’t, and that’s tragic.”

I set both bowls on the island and pluck two spoons from the drawer. “For the record, I’ve never held on to her.”

“You’re having sex with her. Women don’t do casual the way men do. Our hearts always trump our minds.”

I blow at the steam swirling from the spoon. “She knows where we stand. She’s going to Baltimore.”

I wait for my mom to respond, to make a case for Everleigh, but she doesn’t.

“I’m just not hungry.” She sets her spoon in the bowl and slides it away before dropping her head into her hands. “We should go back, but I’m scared that if he takes his last breath in front of me, that’s all I’ll remember. Yet I’m just as scared that he’ll die alone.” She lifts her head, eyes filling with tears. “We can’t let him die alone.”

I grimace, catching her first tear with my thumb. Then I nod. “Let me grab my phone charger, and then we’ll go.”

We’ll watch him die.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Everleigh

There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t be here. I left a note for Will and made peace with my decision to leave.

“Can you tell me what room Thatcher Landry is in?” I ask the nurse at the desk while surveying the crowded dining room. Other than the clinking of dishes and the moan of a woman in a wheelchair a few feet to my right, it’s oddly quiet. Minimal chatter. No laughter. It’s a reality check.

“Room thirteen,” the nurse says with a weary smile. Everyone in this place looks exhausted. Maybe the day shift hasn’t arrived yet.

As I walk down the hall of soiled gray and tan carpet, breathing in the stench of death, I pull back my shoulders and tip up my chin. I’m a doctor visiting a patient. That’s it. There’s no need to make this about me.

I poke my head into the room through the partially closed door. There’s an empty bed on one side of the curtain and a man beside Thatcher’s bed on the other.

“Hi,” I say, trying not to startle him.

The middle-aged man with black-framed glasses and thinning brown-and-gray hair turns in the chair and glances back. He smiles while standing. “Hi.” He offers his hand. “Steven Gibbs. I’m Thatcher’s pastor.”

My gaze drifts to Thatcher’s open mouth and partially closed eyes. He’s gaunt and frail. “Everleigh,” I say, shaking the pastor’s hand. “Will’s friend.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I thought Will and his mom would be back by now. I have somewhere I need to be in twenty minutes. So . . .”

I nod. “Of course. I’ll sit with him.”

“Thank you.” He steps aside and threads his arms into his overcoat.

I tightly fold my hands in front of me, smile perfectly in place as I wait for him to step toward the door.

“It was nice to meet you, Everleigh.”

I swallow hard and mumble, “You too.”

This is a mistake. I don’t know why I’m here. I’ve never seen this man before now. He’s not my patient, and I’m not his family. Yet, as he vibrates with a haunting death rattle, I ease into the chair and reach for his hand. It’s cold and mottled. Guilt slams into my chest, shattering the barriers around my heart. This feels inhumane. There’s no dignity in this kind of death. Animals are treated better than humans at the end of their lives.

Will should be here.

Someone should have been with you.

I close my eyes, trying to shake the haunting voice in my head. This is Thatcher Landry. Will’s dad.

Will should be holding his father’s hand.

Who held your hand? Nobody.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my thoughts to stay on Thatcher.

Love begets pain. It’s unavoidable.

I avoided it. And now I feel it. And it’s too much.

Thatcher stops breathing, so I squeeze his hand and wait. This is so wrong. Where are Will and his mom? I can’t do this. I just . . . can’t.

After twenty seconds, Thatcher takes another breath. His bony chest rises beneath his Yellowstone T-shirt, pauses, then deflates.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

The man before me blurs behind my tears.

“Someone should have been there,” I say. The words feel raw escaping the back of my throat. But I’m not talking to Thatcher Landry.

I did it, Daddy. I’m a doctor. Mom whistled and cheered so loudly that embarrassment filled my cheeks. All the other parents showed restraint. Not Mom. She was too proud. Maybe she was making up for your not being there.

Again, I squeeze the cold hand in mine, desperately wanting him (only not him) to forgive everyone who should have loved him. He would have loved me. I just know it. With my other hand, I wipe the tears from my cheek. A restrained sob chokes my next breath, and crushing emotions leak through the cracks of my existence.

You would tell me to shrug it off. Not waste time on regret. But I can’t let go until I acknowledge how tightly I’ve been holding on. If I let go, the loss is real. The hollowness in my chest is real. Your death is real.

My life with him passes before my eyes.

How tiny my hand felt in his.

The way he tried to restrain his smile every time I giggled.

The first time he let me fly my own kite.

The pride in his eyes when he knew I was smarter than him and everyone else.

The picture in my head is so clear, it feels real . . . but it wasn’t.

None of it was real.

“I’ve had so many thoughts.” I wipe more tears, my words barely a whisper. “But you are by far the greatest thing I’ve ever imagined.” I release his hand and cover my face, body racking with sobs as everything I built over a lifetime comes crashing down. The weight of the rubble crushes my identity.

“So sorry to disturb you. I’m going to give him a bed bath, if that’s okay?” The nurse’s aide interrupts my thoughts. “Do you want to step out of the room?”

I quickly wipe my face while she’s still behind me, and I stare at Thatcher. Will should be here.

“No. I’ll stay,” I murmur.

The young woman waits until I gather enough of my senses to slide the chair away from the bed. She eyes me.

“I’m a doctor,” I say. A doctor with red, swollen eyes.

Her expression softens, and she nods. His breaths are numbered, and that number is small. But she cleans him, gives him a little dignity, even in death. There are not enough wings for all the angels who care for the dying.

She eyes me as I slowly stand and bend down to kiss his forehead. “Whatever comes next, I’m sure it’s amazing. Godspeed.”

As slowly and gently as possible, she rolls him onto his side. Saliva and mucus run down the side of his face. I watch his chest, and after a few seconds, I slide my fingers to his neck. The aide glances at me while removing his diaper.

“Keep going,” I say, despite detecting no pulse.

She continues, and I feel nothing against the pads of my fingers, but inside, I feel everything I’ve refused to feel since I learned the truth.

“When you’re done, call the nurse. Then call his family,” I whisper before I press my hand to my neck as if I can push my heart out of my throat and back down into my chest.

Chapter Forty

Will

As I open my mom’s door in the nursing home parking lot, her phone rings.

“Hello?” she says, taking my hand as she steps down. Tears fill her eyes. “We’re in the parking lot,” she says in a strangled voice.

Crash!

Her phone falls to the ground, and I pull her into my arms. It’s time for me to be strong for her. But it’s hard to keep my knees from buckling as my chest shatters and pieces of my heart scatter into oblivion. No amount of time or foreshadowing prepares one for this kind of loss. I’m so fucking scared to go inside, so I just cling to her as much as she’s clinging to me.

We weren’t there. She doesn’t even have to say the words.

He died alone, or he died with a pastor he saw at Easter and Christmas. What was I thinking? Why was I such a coward? This fucking hurts. I knew when we left, that he might die before we returned. And I think I wanted that to happen because I’m weak.

Time slips away, and at some point, she releases me. I feign strength, picking up her phone with the shattered screen before tucking her under my arm as we take steps as heavy as our hearts toward the entrance.

People talk to us, but I hear nothing.

Mom nods, wiping her nose with a wad of tissue.

But I can’t cry. The pain has paralyzed me, and I cling to denial even though death is the only undeniable thing in everyone’s life.

When we step into the room, Dad’s roommate looks up from his word search, and he offers a raspy “Sorry for your loss.”

The hospice nurse echoes his sentiments.

“Were you with him when he died?” Mom asks, sitting on the edge of his bed and resting her hand on his. “Or was . . .” Her voice breaks. “Was he a-alone?”

“I was told a young woman was with him, but she left right after he died.”

Mom wipes her tears. “A young woman?” She looks at me, and I tear my gaze away from my father’s body.

It’s at peace. He’s at peace.

“Natalie,” the nurse calls past us to the lady in blue scrubs. “Did you catch the young woman’s name who was with Mr. Landry?”

Natalie steps into the room. “Sorry. No. She had dark hair. And she said she was a doctor.”

Mom narrows her eyes.

Everleigh.

I clear my throat. “She uh . . . she was here when he died?”

Natalie nods, eyes wide. “She was holding his hand. Then she kissed his head, and whispered to him.” Her brow tightens.

“What did she say?” I ask.

“Um . . .” Natalie eyes the hospice nurse as if she needs permission to tell me. “She said, ‘Whatever comes next, I’m sure it’s amazing. Godspeed.’”

A sob rips from my mom’s chest. I hunch beside her, wrapping one arm around her shaking body. My other hand rests on top of my dad’s leg.

“H-he’s gone,” she says.

“I know,” I whisper in her ear before kissing her cheek. “I know.”

By evening, my sister and her family arrive. As she and my mom comfort each other in the living room, I hole up in the bedroom. My first call is to Everleigh. She doesn’t answer, so I text her.

Will: Please call me

She doesn’t reply, so I call Maren.

“Hey, Will,” she says cautiously because she knows why I might be calling. My delayed response says it all.

“Oh, Will.” She chokes. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears burn my eyes. I didn’t think it would be this hard to say the words aloud. I nod, choking on the fucking awful emotions. Maybe I should have jumped onto a video chat so at least she could see me nodding.

Yes, my father died.

Thank you for being my friend.

“As soon as Ozzy and Lola get home, we’ll book a hotel and head that way.”

“No . . .” I try to clear my throat, but it’s hard. “No rush. The funeral won’t be until next week. After Thanksgiving.”

There’s a silent pause. Maybe she’s trying to figure out how to fix this. I wanted to fix things when her brother died. But death isn’t a state of brokenness. There are no pieces. It’s not a tornado where everything is scattered but still exists. Death is fire. Ashes and smoke. Nothing to pick up, repair, or put back together.

“But if you need me, I’m there. Okay?”

Again, I nod as if she can see me. Then I manage a clipped “’Kay.”

“Love you, Will. Give your mom a hug from me, and we’ll see you soon.”

I clear my throat. “Uh, have you by any chance seen Everleigh?”

“Everleigh? Not recently. Why?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. “No reason.”

“I’ll call and tell her about your dad so you don’t have to.”

I’m an asshole.

“The timing is shit,” I mumble.

“Oh. Well, I don’t have to tell her at all. And if she’s hurt by it—”

“I love her,” I say, but it feels as crushing as saying my father died.

I love her, but the timing is wrong. The place. The age difference. Career paths. It’s all wrong. Despite every level of wrongness, Everleigh feels like mine.

When I was seven, I gave my Grandma Landry a pine cone I had tucked away on a hike with my father. She painted it gold and sprinkled it with glitter. I secretly wanted to ask for it back because it was so cool, but my sister asked first. And before I could say anything, Grandma gave my sister the painted pine cone.

It was mine. Sure, I gifted it to our grandma, but if she was going to give it away to anyone, it should have been me.

When some other guy takes Everleigh’s heart, I will have no one but myself to blame. I’ve never held on to her. They will see how she shines like gold and sparkles like glitter.

Maren doesn’t respond as I sink further into this endlessly dark hole. The silence drags on while I think of an explanation. Do I need to explain why I love Everleigh Reichart? Does it matter?

“We know. Everyone saw it before you,” she says. “I’ll see if I can find her.”

“No.” I flop back onto the bed. “Let her go. We all just need to . . . let her go. After she moved into the shed, I wanted to kill her, you, and everyone else. Then things just sort of happened, as they always seem to do with her. And I should have said something to you sooner, but I was embarrassed about losing my shit with you. I played the fucking victim, and I just thought that was the hill I’d die on. But then . . .”

“Jesus,” she whispers. “It’s like Fitz and Jamie all over again. What is wrong with you and Fitz? Why must you first hate the person you’re meant to love?”

“She’s not the person I’m meant to love. Bad things happen because life can be unfortunate, luck is random, and humans are fallible. Everleigh is taking a job at Johns Hopkins. That’s meant to be.”

“Okay,” Maren says slowly. “Then why are you looking for her?”

“Because she was with my—” My eyes burn as the words congest in my throat.

“She was with your?” Maren asks.

“She was with my father when he died,” I whisper.

“Oh . . . That’s surprising. You weren’t there?”

“No.”

“Then why was she?”

I shake my head and sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Had she met your father?”

“No.”

“That’s crazy.”

“She won’t answer her phone or reply to my text. So if you see her, just tell her I need to talk to her.”

“Of course. And I’ll check her place. Maybe she’s working on her barndo.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, but I don’t think she’s working on a place she’s not going to live in.

Chapter Forty-One

I’m peopled out.

Visitation. Family. Dinner. Breakfast. Funeral. Luncheon. More family. Dare I say I envy my dad?

“You’re entirely too sober,” Fitz says, handing me a beer as I stare at the flurries over the lake from the deck.

I find a half grin and take the bottle as Jamie, Maren, and Ozzy crowd onto the porch with me, sitting around the fire table. Fitz wraps a throw blanket around Jamie and hugs her to him. Maren blows at something steaming in a coffee mug as she perches on Ozzy’s lap in the other rocker.

“Your mom wanted to be alone in her room.” Jamie’s nose wrinkles. “Your sister is sitting on the floor outside her door, nursing the baby. I told her it’s okay to let your mom have a little space.”

I sip my beer before nodding.

“But we’re not giving you space,” Maren says with a smirk before blowing at the steam again. “We’re the kind of friends who like to be up in each other’s business.”

Our collective laughter lacks its usual energy. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s not drunk enough. I set my beer aside and then run my hands through my hair. The alcohol doesn’t touch this kind of grief. My body’s not numb to the pain; it’s numb to the vices that have gotten me through everything else in my life until now.

“I should have spoken,” I say. “The pastor asked me to speak at the funeral, but I couldn’t.”

“No one expected you to speak,” Maren says.

I shake my head. “That’s not true. I think Mom wanted me to speak since I was closer to my dad than Leah. But . . .” I shake my head and take another swig of beer. “I didn’t want to share our memories with everyone who’s ever known him. They’re mine. They feel private.” I shrug a shoulder. “They kind of feel like the only part of him I have left that’s just mine. Is that weird?”

“Funerals are fucked up anyway,” Fitz says. “Who wants their grief on display? Why do we care about what others think when our loved ones die? You want to pay your respects? Too fucking bad. I want to crawl in a hole and die. So you deal with your feelings and I’ll deal with mine, but this grieving shit doesn’t have to be a team sport with spectators.”

Jamie coughs a laugh. “Wow, babe. Tell us how you really feel about funerals.”

We laugh, and it feels good. I need good. All the damn goodness I can get.

“I thought Everleigh would be there,” Maren says, eyeing me for a reaction.

I have none. I knew she wouldn’t be there. Why would she ignore my texts and calls and then show up at the funeral?

“She’s gone,” Jamie murmurs, stealing everyone’s attention, but her gaze remains locked with mine. “Everleigh. I called her after I found out that she wasn’t returning to the clinic.”

“She took a job at Hopkins,” I say as if it’s just the two of us having this conversation.

Jamie shakes her head. “I don’t think so because she didn’t mention the job. And she wasn’t”—Jamie pauses, twisting her lips—“right. There was something off about her. And I’m not telling you this because I think you need to find her and figure out what’s wrong. You just lost your father, and I don’t want you thinking she abandoned you in your darkest hour for no good reason.”

What would be “off” about her? Well, more than usual? Is it about us? Did I upset her by telling her to take the job? Surely she had to see it from my point of view.

I stare at Fitz like he’s a thermometer taking my mental temperature. Does he think I’m crazy for letting her go or crazy for loving her? Does he know I love her? Did Maren tell him? Did Jamie? How would Jamie know if Maren didn’t tell her?

“She’s too smart for you,” Fitz says with a smirk, repeating what has been my mantra forever.

Still, it doesn’t stop me from worrying. “What seemed off about her?” I ask Jamie.

“She said she was a fraud. When I asked what she meant, she said she had to go.”

Despite the dozen follow-up questions on the tip of my tongue, I say nothing because I’ve hit my emotional capacity for the day, maybe for my lifetime. If she texted me back or answered my calls, I could ask her why she went to see my father. It makes no sense that she would visit a stranger on his deathbed like that.

“I wonder if psychiatrists and therapists are well-rounded people, or if they are the most troubled people,” Maren asks.

“Did you know there’s a phenomenon known as the wounded healer?” Jamie asks.

“You’re such a nerd,” Fitz says before kissing her head.

She elbows him. “Takes one to know one. Anyway, Carl Jung believed that wounded people, or those with troubled pasts, are more likely to pursue professions in mental health. Their experience or trauma makes them more empathetic.”

“So Everleigh has a troubled past?” Maren asks before sipping her drink.

“Who doesn’t have a troubled past?” Fitz deadpans.

“Amen,” Ozzy says.

“I mean, she’s a prodigy,” Jamie says. “That alone could have caused her emotional trauma. Imagine that kind of pressure? And she didn’t have a traditional upbringing. Her time was not only divided between two parents but also between two continents.”

“Can you imagine being thrust into an adult’s world as a child?” Maren asks. “Has she ever mentioned having friends? Boyfriends? Any sort of social life? Has she ever gone trick-or-treating? It’s worse than being homeschooled.” She winks at Jamie and Fitz because they were homeschooled.

Fitz responds with the middle finger, but Jamie just giggles.

This is nice. As I listen to them, the grief I feel from losing my father lessens. Maybe I don’t have to be crushed by his loss. But they won’t be here forever. Before long, I’ll be alone with my mom.

“She’s a good person,” Jamie says. “I wish we had brought her into our circle before she moved in with Will. Everyone just wants to fit in and find people who make them feel included and who will have their backs. Ya know?” She eyes Fitz, waiting for him to back her up.

Like a good husband, he returns a loving smile and a tiny nod.

“That’s on me,” I say without thinking. My confession gains everyone’s attention.

Maren’s gaze feels the heaviest.

Bowing my head, I exhale. “After what happened between us eleven years ago, I convinced myself I hated her . . . almost as much as I loved her. As I love her.” I laugh a little, but I can’t look at them, not yet. “My dad would have been just as enamored of her. He would have said, ‘Now you know why I married your mother.’ He was drawn to anyone who had a story to tell. Mom had a story. She lost her parents before she turned sixteen. She helped raise her siblings. Put herself through college. And she never lost faith that one day she’d find someone to love and who would take care of her the way she took care of everyone else for years. Everleigh has a story. And I hope the best is yet to come. She deserves a storybook ending.”

Silence.

I risk a glance up at my friends. Maren and Jamie have tears in their eyes. Ozzy doesn’t make eye contact at all.

“Then give it to her,” Maren says. Jamie chokes on a sob, but she does it with a smile and a sappy sparkle of hope in her eyes.

“My mom needs me,” I say.

No one argues because they know it’s true.

“Then let her go. Problem solved,” Fitz says, guiding Jamie to stand with him.

“Let her go?” Jamie’s jaw drops. “Let. Her. Go? That’s your solution? Because that’s what you did to me?”

“Yep.” He grabs her face and kisses her head. “See how that worked out for us?”

“Calvin Fitzgerald”—she scowls—“that’s terrible advice.”

“You know what’s good advice?” He looks around the room. “Letting Will and his family have some time alone. It’s been a long day.”

On his cue, Maren and Ozzy stand.

I lumber to my feet, not expecting something so simple to feel this hard. My friends give me hugs. As long as I don’t try to speak, I can keep my shit together. I love them like family.

“Don’t let her go,” Jamie whispers in my ear. Then she rests her hand on my cheek. “But if you do, you’ll be fine. And so will she.”

With a hard swallow, I nod and force a smile.

Fine. Not good. Not amazing. Just fine.

But what if I’m not?

Chapter Forty-Two

I try to properly grieve. Whatever that means. Hold my mom’s hand? Reminisce about my father? Contemplate my life? But no one gives me a chance. My sister heads home less than twenty-four hours after the funeral. And my mom packs her suitcase the following morning.

“Uh, where are you going?” I ask, standing in the doorway to their bedroom—her bedroom. Dad hated the white quilt with cherry blossoms. The gray fabric headboard. The bougie chandelier that replaced his practical ceiling fan. And the pink velvet bench at the end of the bed that he said made him feel emasculated every morning when he sat on it to put on his socks.

“After the funeral, Regina invited me to visit her in Vermont. So I bought a train ticket,” Mom says.

“Now? You’re leaving now?”

“Yes, William,” she says, folding a sweater like she’s mad at it.

I scrub my hands over my face. “Don’t you think you need to take a minute before packing your things and leaving?”

“A minute to what?” She faces me, holding out her hands. “Cry? Miss him? Stare at everything in this house and think about him?”

“Well, yes. Isn’t that why they say grieving is a process?”

“Who are they, and why should I care what they say? There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Leah will find her way. I’ll find mine. And you’ll find yours. No judgment. It’s not a race. It can take a day or a lifetime. It can be a moment or a process. But Regina lost her mom last year, and she’s my oldest friend, so I feel like spending time with her will help me move on. Staying here will feel like a roadblock because he’s . . .” She looks around, tears filling her eyes. “Everywhere,” she whispers. “And yet, somehow gone.”

I drop my head and rub the tension from my neck.

“But if you need me, I won’t go. Not now. You’re my boy, and I choose you and your sister over everything else. Always.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“I thought you’d go to Baltimore.”

If only it were that easy. I shake my head. “She deserves more than my grief.”

“Then give her what she needs. And in the process, you might discover it’s what you need too.”

I find a half grin. “That seems to be the popular answer.”

“What do you mean?” She turns and continues to pack.

“Nothing. If you want to go, then I think you should go. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re not going to Baltimore, are you staying here or moving back to Missoula?”

“I don’t know.”

She glances over her shoulder and smiles. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

The day after my mom gets on a train, I go through my dad’s camping gear and pack everything I need for a long road trip. Then I hit the road.

Sometimes, I glance over at the passenger seat and see him grinning while looking at the passing landscape of frosted valleys and snow-covered mountains. It’s like he’s seeing it for the first time. He never took for granted the power of outdoor therapy. When I was younger, I used to watch him stare at the sunset for what felt like an eternity.

“Aren’t you tired of staring at the same thing?” I asked, drawing tic-tac-toe grids in the dirt with a stick.

“Nope,” he said. “I’m not just staring at it. I’m experiencing it.”

“Experiencing what?”

He laughed. “Someday you’ll understand.”

“I doubt it,” I mumbled, sighing while wishing the sun would hurry and set so we could lie next to each other and stare at the stars. I swore my dad knew every constellation.

As I gaze at the sunset from Dante’s View, Death Valley, I smile. It’s an experience indeed. Everything changes in what feels like a blink as the sun slips behind the mountains, igniting the salt flats in its warm glow. It’s a reminder that time never slows, and every sunset is a gift. Every moment is a gift.

When the shadows fade, and the mountains vanish in the darkness, I settle on a blanket, bundled in my jacket and hat, using my backpack as a pillow. I feel him next to me on the blanket, pointing out constellations in the star-covered sky while rapid-firing questions. Every astronomy lesson he ever taught me replays in my mind.

I don’t want to grieve him. That means he’s gone. And I’m not ready for him to be gone. Maybe I’ll keep him right here with me forever.

Over the next two months, I visit all the parks I never visited with my dad since we rarely hiked in the winter.

Saguaro.

Joshua Tree.

Big Bend.

I occasionally check my phone when I have a good cell signal, looking for messages from my mom or sister. Mom shares a few photos of Vermont as if to let me know she’s okay. Maren and Jamie send occasional texts, just to tell me they’re thinking of me. And a part of me holds a spark of hope that I’ll see something from Everleigh, but I never do.

The more lost I get, the more found I feel. The silence is nice. I practice tai chi every morning and meditate under the stars every night. Sometimes I play tic-tac-toe in the dirt (I always win), and other times I find a magnificent view and perch on a rock with a good book. It makes me think of Everleigh. I have a lot of reading to do to catch up with her. I might need a few more lifetimes.

Christmas comes and goes with texts from friends and family. Not once does my mom mention getting together. I have to believe she’s finding exactly what she needs. And Leah has the family she made.

Maren, Ozzy, and Lola.

Jamie and Fitz.

Everyone has someone. I have strangers in small towns offering me cordial holiday greetings. Bell ringers. Lights. But no snow.

Everything is different this year, and that’s okay. Without my father, I’m different.

By February, I find myself back in Missoula, staring at the half-finished barndominium next to the Airstream. After trudging through the fresh layer of snow to the barndo, I cup my hands next to my face and peer through the window. It doesn’t look much different from the last time I saw it. There’s a Jeep next to the camper, so I knock on the door.

“Hi,” a young woman with short blond hair beneath a pink beanie says.

“Hey. I’m looking for Everleigh Reichart.”

“Oh, she’s not here. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend. Is she in Baltimore?”

The woman shakes her head. “She’s in Key West.”

“Vacationing?”

“Not exactly. I mean. Maybe. Sort of.”

This woman is no help, so I frown.

She wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “We swapped houses for a year. But it’s only been two months.”

“What?” I shake my head. She’s mistaken. “Dr. Reichart? Are we talking about the same person?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think she’s a doctor. That would be weird. Come inside. It’s cold out.”

I bang the snow off my boots and step onto the mat. My gaze immediately goes to the bed that I spent time in with Everleigh. I can still see the defeated look on her face as she took off her clothes, probably despite her better judgment.

“Why do you think I’m talking about a different Everleigh? And why do you think she’s a doctor? Do you mean a PhD?” the woman asks.

“I mean psychiatrist.”

She shakes her head. “That doesn’t track.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she’s like in her twenties and working at a café.”

Is this girl high? “She’s working at a café?”

“Well, not just any café. They sell key lime pies. It’s a big deal. They’ve been listed in national publications and have won all sorts of awards too. They have more than just pies. Candies. Jellies. Breakfast and lunch.”

I tune her out somewhere between awards and candies.

“What does Everleigh do there?”

She shrugs. “Works behind the counter.”

I’m nauseated. Did I do this? Why isn’t she at Hopkins? Why isn’t she practicing psychiatry? It makes no sense.

“Would you give me her new home address?”

She shakes her head. “Sorry. I don’t know you. I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but . . .”

“It’s fine. I appreciate the information. Sorry to have bothered you.” I open the door, desperate to figure out what’s going on.

“No bother. Bye.” She closes the door as soon as I step outside.

I stare at the barndominium. “What are you doing, Everleigh?” I mumble.

Chapter Forty-Three

Twenty minutes later, I pull into Fitz and Jamie’s driveway. After two knocks on the door, Jamie answers. She has a little baby belly and a huge smile.

“Oh my gosh!” She throws herself into my arms. “William,” she says with a long sigh.

“Surprise,” I say, releasing her and sliding off my jacket while I step inside and remove my boots.

“You’re the best surprise. How have you been? Fitz just ran to the grocery store, but he’ll be back soon. Sit. We have so much catching up to do.”

She takes the cream-colored rocking chair that looks new, and I sit on the sofa.

“You look amazing. Dare I say glowing?”

Jamie blushes. “I’ve never been happier.” Her smile fades a bit. “I’d like to see my friend, William Landry, find this kind of happiness.”

“I’m afraid I can’t get pregnant, so I’ll have to settle for something less glowing.”

Jamie strokes her chin. “The beard is new.”

I nod. “It’s a little unkempt from spending so much time in the wilderness. I’ve never grown a beard before now. Firefighters can only have mustaches.”

“Well, it’s ruggedly handsome on you.”

“Aw, thanks, Jaymes. You’re the best.” My gaze drops to her hand rubbing her belly. I couldn’t be happier for my friends.

“How are you?” she asks, drawing my attention back to her face as she curls her dark hair behind one ear. Her head cants to the side. It’s more than a courteous question to spark idle conversation. I can tell from the little creases in her forehead that she’s concerned.

“I’m good. Genuinely.”

“Genuinely good sounds . . .”

“Good?”

She chuckles and nods. “Yeah. Maybe you found yourself, this new, hairier version of yourself”—she winks—“in the process of getting a little lost in the woods. I once overheard Everleigh telling a patient’s parents that what might look like a step backward, a slight regression, is actually necessary to move forward. She told the dad to stand tall and, without bending his knees, jump. Of course, he couldn’t. Her point being that he had to go down before he could go up.”

I hum and nod. “Speaking of Everleigh, have you heard from her?”

“Yeah, like two months ago. She was taking a trip. But I haven’t heard from her since. You?”

“She’s in Key West.”

Jamie’s eyes widen. “On vacation again?”

“She’s living there for the next year. Well, the next ten months.”

“She didn’t take the job at Hopkins?”

“Apparently not.”

“Huh. Is she working at a hospital or clinic? How did you find this out? Did you talk to her?”

“I was just at her place. Out of curiosity, I wanted to see how far she made it on her barndominium. But someone is living in her Airstream. A young woman from Key West who Everleigh swapped houses with for the next year.”

“Wow. That’s unexpected. I can’t imagine what job she would have taken that’s better than Hopkins.”

“Funny you should say that because the woman staying in her Airstream said Everleigh is working the counter at a café that sells key lime pies. Award-winning pies.”

Jamie wrinkles her nose. “What?”

Pressing my lips together, I nod slowly.

“That makes no sense.”

“My thoughts too.”

“How do we know this person staying in her camper is legit? What if she’s a squatter?”

I hadn’t thought of that. That’s weird, but not entirely impossible. After all, she seemed confused when I mentioned Everleigh being a doctor.

“You should call her,” I say.

“Why don’t you call her?” Jamie reaches for her phone on the coffee table.

“I’ve tried calling and texting. She won’t reply to me.”

Jamie puts her phone on speaker as it rings.

“This voicemail has reached its limit and cannot accept new messages.”

We frown while listening to the recording.

“I’ll text her,” Jamie says, thumbs tapping the screen. “Someone is staying in your Airstream. Is that okay? Are you in Key West?” She mumbles the words while typing them, then she sends it and sets the phone on the arm of her rocking chair. “It says delivered. Have you tried calling her mom?”

“I don’t have her number.”

She corkscrews her lips for a second. “Who’s her emergency contact on your rental agreement? You asked for one when I rented from you. I assume Everleigh had to list one. Since her father is in India, I’m sure she put her mom.”

I pull my phone from my pocket. “I think Maren emailed it to me after I found out who she rented the shed to.” When I shoot Jamie a scowl, she grins.

“Elizabeth Reichart,” I say, reading Everleigh’s emergency contact. I call the number on the application and put it on speakerphone.

“This is Liz.”

“Liz, it’s Will Landry. Everleigh’s . . .” I have a moment. I’m not her landlord anymore. Friend?

“Yes, Will, I remember you. I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you. I’ve been trying to reach Everleigh, but she’s—”

“Taking a break,” Liz says.

A break. I look at Jamie. I’m not sure passing up a position at Johns Hopkins to work at a café in Key West is a break. Jamie gestures toward the phone, silently egging me on.

“I’m sure it’s none of my business, but I’m here with Jamie, and we’re just concerned because there’s a woman living in Everleigh’s Airstream that says she and Everleigh have swapped places for a year. She claims Everleigh is living in Key West.”

“What? Swapped houses? That can’t be. She said she needed a little time and space and Johns Hopkins gave her an extension on her start date, but not for a year.”

Jamie cringes.

“Do you know if she’s working at a café that sells key lime pies?”

Liz nervously chuckles. “What are you talking about?”

“The woman living in her Airstream said as much. Do you think you should check on this before we call the police and report the woman on her property?”

Liz blows out a long sigh. “I hope this isn’t related to your father dying. She said it wasn’t, but now I’m not so sure.”

“You mean because she was there when he died?” I ask.

“What? You’re not serious.”

Jamie and I exchange confused looks.

“Yes. I believe she was the only one with him. By the time my mom and I got there, she was gone. Honestly, I have no idea why she was there. Why she didn’t tell me she was going to see him.”

“Shit,” Liz whispers.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I was concerned about her being there with your father so close to dying. I expressed my concerns, but she dismissed them. But I knew it could trigger her.”

“Trigger what?”

“Her emotional issues with the death of her father. Which is a little odd because she never met her father.”

“Wait.” I shake my head. “What are you talking about? He’s a doctor in Delhi. She spent years living three months with him in India and three months with you in New York.”

“Uh . . . when did she tell you that?” Liz asks.

“When we met in California, and she’s mentioned her father on many occasions since then. He’s the one who wanted her to be a doctor. She learned to play the violin for him and took dance for you. He sent her kites. We flew one of them, and I crashed it. She said you met him when he was in New York City for a conference. A group of doctors went to a gallery exhibition, and that’s where he met you.” I feel breathless after spewing those words—the story Liz should know.

After a few seconds, she whispers, “I like that story.”

“What do you mean you like that story? It’s not true?” I drag a hand through my hair. What is happening?

“No,” she says. “Since she was a young girl, Everleigh has made up stories about her father. She wanted her friends to think she had a father too. I guess it wasn’t popular to tell people her mom had sex with a guy who was down on his luck the night we met at a bar. Who wants to tell people their father was mentally ill and committed suicide before their mother even knew she was pregnant?”

Jamie covers her mouth as tears fill her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Will. I thought she had accepted it. After all, she’s a psychiatrist. I had no idea she was still telling white lies.”

White lies? Is she implying Everleigh’s mental issues are trivial?

“Is she getting help?” Jamie blurts out.

Liz laughs. “I’d say no if it’s true that she’s working at a café in Key West. I’ll be damned.”

Jamie’s nose scrunches, and I return a shrug. Nothing makes sense.

“It was a lot of pressure being that gifted,” Liz says. “When she was seven, I took her to Key West. And she said that when she grew up, she wanted to work in Key West. She’s done all the things there are to do. She’s brilliant. Wealthy. Accomplished. Now she’s taking a moment to follow her childhood dream. She’s taking a step back. I have to believe it’s all for a reason.”

“Liz, she turned down a job at Johns Hopkins,” I say.

“She said it was an extension.”

I shake my head and close my eyes. “You can’t believe that.”

Liz doesn’t reply.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “I heard you. And I don’t like that she’s struggling, but I trust her. She must really need this time. I’m doing a job for a client next week. After that, I’ll go down there to check on her.”

After next week? I open my mouth, but Jamie shakes her head.

“Can you call her to see if the woman living in her Airstream is supposed to be there?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll text you when I hear back.”

“Thanks.” I end the call and toss my phone aside before dropping my face into my hands. “Fuck . . . what is going on?” I mumble. When I look up, it’s written all over Jamie’s somber face. “She needs help,” I whisper.

Jamie frowns before offering a slow nod.

“Jaymes,” I stare at the ceiling for a second, “Everleigh talked about her father a lot. Not like once or twice. She never tried to steer the conversation away from him. It’s like she wanted to talk about him. It wasn’t me asking her a million questions. I didn’t back her into a corner, forcing her to tell a white lie because she didn’t want to be the only one in the room without a father.”

“My heart is broken for her,” she says.

I don’t know what my heart is. Everything’s still spinning in my head. I’m replaying every conversation I’ve ever had with Everleigh about her father.

She’s. A. Psychiatrist.

“You should go see her. I would, but I’m not flying this far along in my pregnancy.”

The back door opens, and Fitz grins, kicking off his boots before depositing grocery bags on the counter. “Where the hell did you come from?”

I stand and force a smile while hugging him. “Finally made it out of the woods,” I say.

“I’m glad you did.” He releases me. “Are you back to stay?” He gestures to his own stubbly face, but I know he’s referencing my beard.

I stroke it while smirking, but my smile doesn’t last long. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“He’s going to Key West,” Jamie says as Fitz holds out his hand to help her from the chair, pulling her into his arms and kissing the top of her head.

“Never took you for a beach guy,” Fitz says.

“Everleigh got lost on her way to Baltimore, so Will is going to go get her back on track.” Jamie keeps her arms around Fitz like he’s a big teddy bear while eyeing me with a look that dares me to say otherwise.

“How does one end up in Key West on their way to Baltimore?” Fitz narrows his eyes.

“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later. We need to get Will booked on a flight.” Jamie pulls away from Fitz and grabs her phone.

He eyes me, waiting for something, anything from me. But I’ve got nothing.

“Women are messy,” I say.

Fitz knows better than to agree, but I don’t miss his tiny smirk.

“There’s a 6:20 flight in the morning,” Jamie says. “It’s not a quick trip to get there. Two connecting flights. Ugh, this sucks. But it has to be done.”

“Are you staying here, or did Lola sweet-talk you into staying at their house?” Fitz asks, ignoring Jamie.

“What about a rental car? Do you want one? Or are you grabbing an Uber?” Jamie is relentless. “Booked,” she says. “You can Venmo me the money. I don’t think you need a rental car. The sheets in the guest room are clean. There’s food in the fridge. Fitz will drop you off at the airport in the morning. She’s unwell, so tread lightly. Now, we have to get to our childbirth class. Then Fitz is taking me for a late dinner.” Jamie lifts onto her toes and kisses me on the cheek.

Fitz offers a tight grin. “Nice seeing ya for all of ten seconds.”

“I’ll be back,” I say.

“Or you’ll be house hunting and looking for a job in Baltimore,” Jamie calls from the entry, pulling on her boots. “One sec, babe, I left my purse in the bedroom.” She jogs up the stairs.

Fitz watches her like she’s his whole world, and then he looks at me, and his smile dies. “Just because Jamie thinks you should go, doesn’t mean you have to.”

I scratch my scruffy jaw. “Yeah, I know. But the problem with not going is that I fucking love her so much I feel lost and worthless without her. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she burned down her house just so I’d get my head out of my ass.”

Fitz slowly raises his eyebrows. “Damn. Now I feel bad for calling her the”—he lowers his voice—“c-word.”

I grin and shake my head. “Yeah, don’t do it again, or I’ll lay you flat on your ass.”

“Oh, she’s that girl, huh?”

“Yeah, she’s that girl.”

Jamie heads down the stairs, and Fitz steps past me, but he stops for a second and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Everleigh

“Oh shit!” I roll off the sofa onto the floor, scrambling for my shoes and purse with one hand while reaching for my phone with my other. How did I get into such a deep sleep during my nappuccino that I didn’t hear the alarm I set?

In the next breath, I fly out the door and sprint two blocks to work. I’ve never been late. This is so embarrassing. It’s only twenty minutes, but I’m not the employee who runs late.

“Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me,” I say, worming my way through the afternoon rush line.

“Everleigh.”

I stop and glance back. Did I hear my name? My gaze quickly glosses over the people in line. Then I turn and continue toward the counter.

“Dr. Reichart.”

I freeze. It’s Will’s voice, but it can’t be him. When I look over my shoulder, I do a double take at the tall man in a baseball cap, longer hair curling around his ears, beard thick and unkempt.

“Will? Why do you have a beard?”

He strokes it as if he’s forgotten he has one. “Why are you in Key West?”

“Everleigh, where have you been?” Alexandria, my boss, asks me.

“Uh.” I turn toward her. “I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.” I squeeze around the corner to the back of the counter, place my handbag in a cubby, and don my lime-green apron.

As I package baked goods for Alexandria, my gaze occasionally wanders to Will moving up in the long line. He’s even more ruggedly handsome than he was the last time I saw him, and I didn’t think that was possible. How did he know where to find me? Surely this isn’t a coincidence.

“What can I get ya?” Alexandria says to Will when it’s his turn to order.

“A piece of key lime pie and a green tea.” He looks at me.

With a nervous smile, I tuck my chin and get his tea and pie.

“Is this line for the pies or for Everleigh?” Will asks Alexandria while glancing around the café.

She laughs. “Why would this line be for her?”

Will taps his credit card. “She’s a prodigy. Graduated college when she was twelve. Now she’s a renowned psychiatrist who has won awards and published over seventy-five papers. People come from miles and miles away to see her. They wait for months because she’s the very best at what she does.”

How does he know how many papers I’ve published?

Alexandria snorts. “Who are you? Is this some spoof thing for TikTok?”

“You don’t believe me?” Will slides his wallet back into his pocket.

“No, honey. Sorry. Everleigh was late returning from lunch. I don’t think that’s prodigy behavior.”

I roll my lips together and shrug when he looks at me.

“What time are you off?” he asks.

I glance at my watch. “In three hours.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there waiting.” He nods toward the last café table available by the front window.

“You’re going to wait three hours for me?”

“I am,” he says with his back to me as he makes his way to the table.

“I think you should spend the rest of your shift in the kitchen,” Alexandria says when the line is gone. “That’s where we put the prodigies.”

“Oh. Do I get to help bake?”

“No, dear. There are dishes to be washed.” She blows her wiry black-and-silver hair away from her eyes.

“I see.” I smile. “I can do that.”

“Good to know,” she says with more sarcasm than I’m used to.

By the end of my shift, I’m hot, I’m sweaty, and most of my hair has fallen out of my ponytail. And as promised, Will is waiting for me.

“Is this by chance or by design?” I ask as he holds open the door for me.

“Everleigh, I live in Montana. This is most certainly by design. You wouldn’t return my calls or texts.” He walks beside me as I head toward my house.

“I’ve been busy learning a new job. I realize what you saw there probably looked easy, but it’s not. Did you see the register? It’s older than I am. And the four key sticks, so I’m constantly having to just do the math in my head, which is fine because I’m pretty good with math. But they don’t know that. I’ve made several suggestions, but Alexandria keeps saying, ‘If it ain’t broke, why would I fix it?’ However, I think that register is broken.”

“So, I met the woman who’s staying in your Airstream.”

“Yeah? She’s very nice. I told her it didn’t seem fair for me to get a two-bedroom house while she gets an Airstream. I should have finished the barndominium, but . . . the ocean called.”

“The ocean called, huh? Funny, I thought a new job called. Can I ask what happened to Baltimore and Johns Hopkins?”

“Nothing, to my knowledge. I think they’re both still there. So tell me about you. What have you been up to?” I ask as we turn the corner onto my street.

“I’ve been hiking, stargazing, and spending time in solitude. I took a break, and now I’m going to look for a job.”

“That’s nice. What sort of job are you looking for?”

“Everleigh, I’m a firefighter. That’s what I do. Like you’re a psychiatrist.”

“Life is about more than work, Will. You shouldn’t let your profession define you. One day you’ll resent it. I think humans are too complex to do one thing forever.”

“But I like what I do,” he says as I lead the way to the front door of the single-story turquoise house with white shutters and a small yard littered with bird feeders and whimsical metal sculptures.

“Then you’re one of the lucky ones, and that’s what you should do.” I open the door and slip off my white sneakers. “I like my new job. I don’t know if I’ll do it forever, but it’s a nice change of pace.”

He slips off his tennis shoes. “You run a broken register and wash dishes. No offense to everyone else who has that kind of job, but isn’t that an insult to your intelligence?”

I love all the little things he remembers about me. “Look at this fish tank. Isn’t it amazing? I hope I don’t kill her fish while I’m here.” When I glance back at Will, he’s still at the front door, but he’s not looking at the fish; he’s looking at me. “You’re extra handsome with that beard. It will be a shame when you go back to work and have to shave it.”

Will makes a poor attempt at smiling before he drops his chin. “Is Dr. Reichart available for some free advice? Or did she not make the trip to Key West?”

When he lifts his head, I fold my hands in front of me and grin. “How can I be of service?”

“I wasn’t with my father when he died. And I know I can’t change it, but I also can’t stop thinking about it, wondering what his last minutes were like. Did he die alone? Was he in pain?” He looks at my hands, and I ease my grip, just like I force my jaw to relax.

But I can’t do anything about my racing heart or the hunger I feel for oxygen. So I count to four on an inhale and eight on the exhale. It doesn’t help this suffocating sensation.

“The fish are cool,” he says, stepping closer and turning his body to face the tank. “Is it weird to have an aquarium this close to the ocean?” He grins at his own musing.

I have always loved Will’s smile. He’s the only man in my life who has made me feel . . . anything. When he glances at me, I look away.

“I wonder how Marie Curie would have felt about fish,” I say.

“Is this a segue into how I killed your bird and didn’t save your house?”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing. This is an awkward dance. William Landry is here. Not by accident. He’s here to see me. This is a dream I’ve had since we met eleven years ago. But now I’m unwell.

I’m. Unwell.

Emotion clogs my throat because it’s the first time I’ve let myself say those words, even if just to myself.

“Everleigh—”

“I believe he’s in a better place. Your dad. He’s not thinking about the day he died or who was by his side. I think we torture ourselves over things that don’t matter. We live with regret but die with contentment.”

“What do you regret?” he asks.

I turn my back to him and saunter toward the plants on the windowsill, sticking my finger in the soil to see if they need water. “I regret my nappuccino today. My boss wasn’t happy that I was late returning from lunch. I haven’t slept well lately, so my naps have been hard ones to awaken from. I might need a double shot of espresso next time.”

“Have you talked to your mom lately?” he asks.

“No, why?” I step into the kitchen and fill a yellow watering can.

“I talked to her yesterday.”

“That was nice of you. I’m sure she appreciated it. So how long are you staying in Key West?” I water the spider fern hanging by the television.

“Depends on how long you need me to stay.”

I force a laugh. “That’s silly. I’m fine. Of course I want you to stay as long as you want, but don’t stay on my account.” My hand shakes as I set the watering can back onto the tiled counter. It’s a small house with bright colors and fun accents like seashell mobiles and beanbag chairs.

“When I was in high school,” he says, “I didn’t make the basketball team. I thought I’d be a shoo-in because of my height, but apparently my coordination was lacking, probably from the growth spurt over the summer. Of course, all of my friends made the team. So when they asked me about it, I said I had to decline the position at the last minute because I was getting my tonsils out. Then I had to pretend to be sick for several days so my mom would let me stay home. I packed lunches filled with pudding and yogurt because my friends would’ve questioned my eating regular school lunches. And I faked having a weak voice for a few days.” He grins and shakes his head.

I sit on one of the beanbag chairs and pull my knees to my chest.

“To this day, my friends don’t know that I didn’t make the team. And to make matters worse, I actually had to get my tonsils removed my senior year in high school, so I told my friends I was getting my wisdom teeth removed.”

“Do you have your wisdom teeth?” I ask.

“No.” He laughs, sitting in the beanbag chair across from mine. “I got those extracted two years after I graduated, so I didn’t have to make an excuse. But for the record, I was going with an appendectomy.”

I cover my mouth and snort.

“Thank god I didn’t go to college with my high school friends. I was clearly going to run out of body parts to have removed.”

“Liver, kidney, a portion of a lung. Part of your pancreas or intestine. Bone marrow. You could have kept going for a while,” I say.

Will removes his hat and runs his hands through his shaggy hair before lacing his fingers behind his head. “Everleigh, I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t—”

“Just let me speak.”

I deflate and bite my tongue.

“I’m the least qualified person to help you.” He drops his hands and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I don’t even know if I can help you. But you were with my father when he died. And if that messed you up, I’m so incredibly sorry. I don’t know why you went there, but you did. And maybe that triggered something from your past. Maybe the loss of your own father.”

I shake my head. “My father is—”

“He’s dead, Everleigh.”

My jaw clenches as I swallow hard. I have never felt so weak and helpless. After years of pining for this man, trying to impress him, dreaming that one day he’d want to be with me, I can’t believe this is happening. It’s not a dream. It’s a nightmare.

“I’m sorry for the fucking awful comparison.” His brow tightens. “My not making the basketball team is not even close to your growing up without a father.”

I quickly blot the tears from the corners of my eyes.

“I just want you to know that I don’t judge you for pretending you had a life that you didn’t. In fact, I love the world you made up. It’s endearing. And I wish that it were true because . . .” Will pinches the bridge of his nose as his Adam’s apple bobs.

My tears can no longer be gently blotted. They pour out in long streams.

“Not having a father really fucking sucks.” He clears his throat and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

I push out of the chair and run to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Then I turn on the faucet to make noise while I grab a towel to hold over my mouth, and I sob harder than I’ve ever sobbed. I’m embarrassed. Will’s father was dying on my watch, and I imagined it was my father, a father I never met. I wanted it to be him because he died alone, and no one should die alone. My career. My friendships. My existence. It’s all been built on a lie. I don’t even remember when the lie stopped feeling like a lie. It became my reality. My identity.

“Everleigh,” Will says from the other side of the door. “Let me in, baby.”

Baby.

I buckle over and cry harder. In my made-up world, my father called me his baby girl. Will’s been everything I never had. And now he’s here, trying to make things right and calling me baby. The term of endearment no longer feels endearing. It’s a cruel reminder that I’m not well. It’s his way of easing me off the ledge. But I’m not his baby. I’m the bane of his existence. A fucking charity case.

After I run out of tears, I wait. There will be more. If only I could collapse all at once. But I can’t. So I’ll break apart, a piece at a time.

I hear the front door click. Will left. Is he giving me space or giving up on me?

I roll to my side, tucking the towel under my head as I stare at the green and white tile. And eventually, I fall asleep.

Chapter Forty-Five

Will

A little before eleven at night, the bathroom door creaks open. A sliver of light pierces the darkness as I lift my head from the back of the beanbag chair. I thought opening and closing the front door would draw her out sooner. It didn’t. Everleigh has spent six hours in the bathroom.

She takes several steps toward the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, and then she freezes, gaze on me. “I thought you left,” she whispers.

I hold up my phone. “You’ve published over seventy-five papers. A little fact I came across during one of the airport layovers.”

Everleigh narrows her eyes. She’s stunning. Even in the dim light, with her hair matted on one side of her head.

“I’ve been researching ways to help you. And I keep coming across articles from Dr. Reichart. She’s clearly a brilliant psychiatrist.”

“She’s a fraud,” Everleigh mumbles, continuing toward the kitchen, where she fills a glass with water and drinks it.

“Fake it till you make it,” I say, standing and stretching my back from side to side. Those beanbag chairs are not even a little comfortable.

“I don’t think medical doctors should fake anything.” She sets the glass next to the white farmhouse sink. “The same is probably true for firefighters.”

I slide my hands into my pockets and walk toward her. “Well, I’m not a firefighter right now. And I don’t think you’re a psychiatrist. So let’s pretend that everything is okay.”

She frowns. “I think pretending is what got me here. You’d make a terrible psychiatrist.”

I grin. “You’re probably right.” Using both hands, I curl her hair behind her ears before cupping her face. “Let’s go back to Missoula. We can finish your barndominium together. You can keep me warm at night in your Airstream. I can kick your ass at Roblox. If there’s enough snow, we can build a snowman. Tai chi every morning and nappuccinos in the afternoons until all of my savings run out. We’ll let everyone think we’re falling in love, but we know that happened a long time ago.”

Tears glisten in her eyes as her bottom lip quivers. “You love me?” she whispers in a wobbly voice.

I wipe her tears with my thumbs. “I love you.” My lips brush along her forehead. “And I’m not sorry about it.”

“I’m so unwell.” Her face contorts into a full-on ugly cry.

“I’ve got you.” I kiss her head. “Whatever it takes, I’ve got you.”

The next morning, I wake up to an empty bed.

“Everleigh?” I call, stepping into the living room while buttoning my jeans. Everything is still and quiet except for the bamboo wind chime outside of the open window overlooking the tiny backyard filled with birdbaths, feeders, and metal yard flamingos.

There’s hot coffee in the pot, so I pluck a mug from the holder and pour a cup. The back screen door opens. Everleigh steps inside and removes her running shoes. She’s in a sports bra and tiny running shorts.

“Hey,” she says, a little out of breath, when she looks up and spies me.

“Hey. You went for a run,” I say, stating the obvious because I’m surprised after last night’s revelations that she felt up to running.

“Yeah.” She wipes her arm across her sweaty forehead. “It’s good for my mental health. And I need all the help I can get.”

I step aside to let her into the kitchen for a glass of water. As she fills it from the faucet, she pulls her hair out of a hair tie and shakes her head.

“Speaking of help. Do you think you need some? You know, beyond running.”

She drinks the water, her breath still labored as she sets the empty glass onto the counter. “Because I’m here, working at a café? Or because I make up stories about my life that aren’t real? A father who sends me kites. Growing up on two different continents. Attending medical school because my father wanted me to when in reality, I’m a psychiatrist because he took his own life. Or do I need help because I turned down the job at Johns Hopkins and lied to my mom about them giving me an extension? Oh, maybe I need help because I watched your father die, and I pretended it was my father, whom I’ve never met. And I thought by doing so, it would help me deal with reality. But how ridiculous is that? I mean, it doesn’t take a genius to see how fucked up that is.”

I sip my coffee, buying time to formulate a response because I’m in over my head. “Sounds like a multiple choice, but is there an all-of-the-above option?”

Her shoulders sag. “What you said last night about having me? I’ll let you take that back. I wouldn’t blame you. Things were intense in the moment. I was an emotional mess. So you can go. No hard feelings.”

“Everleigh”—I shake my head and squint—“I don’t want to take back anything. I said I’ve got you, and I meant it. But I don’t think I can do this alone. I think it’s my job to make sure you get the help you need.”

“No one wants to be my psychiatrist or therapist. I will micromanage everything. It will piss me off when they try to act like they know more than I do, and I’ll quickly discover they don’t because they are normal people with real lives, not prodigies like me who consume case studies and the latest research for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They have kids and significant others who require their time. I have gaming. I used to have Marie Curie, but I killed her because I didn’t unplug my curling iron.”

She gives me a toothy grin. “See how I’ve taken responsibility for that and no longer blame you? And I did it all by myself. This ‘help’ you speak of? I will be diagnosed with delusional disorder, but it won’t fit nicely into one category, which makes treatment more complicated. So I’ll be prescribed antipsychotic medications and maybe mood stabilizers and antidepressants. Then I’ll go through therapy, probably CBT and maybe DBT. If I don’t respond to that, there’s always hospitalization and ECT, which involves an electric current through my brain to intentionally cause a seizure. And that’s the goal, not a side effect. The side effects include confusion, headaches, nausea, and memory loss. Now do you want out? Because I don’t want you to play the hero without full disclosure.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t fit the words past my heart that’s lodged in my throat.

“Will”—she rubs her temples—“I’m a liar. A good liar. A convincing liar. That’s my crime. That’s my disorder. And my lies are about one thing. One person. Was it triggered or exacerbated by skipping pivotal moments in my psychological and emotional development because I was bestowed this gift? Absolutely. But I don’t want to dissect it. I don’t want to spend the foreseeable future rehashing the past. And I know how mind-blowing that might sound coming from a psychiatrist, but it’s because I’ve spent my entire adult life digging, dissecting, analyzing, separating correlation from causation, lumping every single fucking human action into the proper category so I can diagnose and treat what might just be one of a million variants of normal human behavior. So the help I need is called time.”

Where is Jamie? I can’t do this. Everleigh is infinitely smarter. She can debate anyone and win. What am I supposed to say?

“Time for what?” I ask for lack of a better response.

Her shoulders slump, and I don’t mean to sound stupid, like I’m missing the whole point, but maybe I am.

“Why do you think I’m here?” she asks.

“I think you’re running away.”

“Running from what?”

Pulling a long breath through my nose, I set my coffee on the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “Your past? The lies? I don’t know.”

“Physician, heal thyself. What am I to learn from this? Humility? Hypocrisy? Self-care?”

I wait, in case it’s a rhetorical question. But she doesn’t continue, so I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Until I’m better, I can’t help anyone else. And maybe that means I need help. But I don’t work that way. If I can’t solve this problem, then how am I supposed to feel qualified to help others? So I’m taking a step back. I’m working for minimum wage at a place where I’m overqualified, and where my boss laughs out loud at the idea of my being a prodigy.”

I shouldn’t have said that to her boss.

“I’m not here to impress anyone or even fit in. I’m just a woman living in a small house with an average job. No one cares about my accolades and credentials. No one cares if I have a father. I don’t have to make sense to anyone. Here, I’m average. Normal. And every day since I’ve been here, I’ve thought about my dead father. I’ve considered the possibility that there was nothing extraordinary about him. I’ve spent time thinking about dollar store kites and the fact that I’ve never been to India. All the expectations that have been put on me were mine and mine alone. I don’t want to numb the pain of healing. I want to go through it. And I will come to accept everything that has happened in my life. It just won’t happen overnight. And it won’t happen if I feel the pressure to perform as the brilliant psychiatrist, the perfect daughter, the sexy girlfriend.”

I roll my lips between my teeth, trying not to laugh at her slipping in “sexy girlfriend” like it’s been a draining task.

We stare at each other, but I don’t know what to say, and maybe she doesn’t either.

“My dad died.” I don’t know why I feel the need to state the obvious to the person who was with him when he died. Maybe it’s the truest thing in my life. An undeniable fact in a sea of ever-changing emotions.

When her only reaction is the tiny line forming between her eyebrows, I shrug. “Your dad died too.” Watch out, world. Dr. William Landry has invented a new form of therapy. It’s called The Blunt Truth. Instead of “fake it till you make it,” this is “say it till you accept it.”

“I need space,” she says.

I take a step back, standing outside the kitchen.

“Stop.” She fights to keep a straight face.

“More space?” I take another step backward. “This is as far as I can go. I gave you space for eleven years. I don’t think you need space. I think you need the one thing you’ve wanted for as long as you can remember.”

She parks a hand on her hip. “What’s that?”

“Me.”

When she doesn’t give me a response, not even a blink, I shrug. “Don’t pass this up. I’m like Halley’s Comet: If you miss me this time around, I might not show up for another seventy-five years.”

“When you’re a hundred and fifteen?”

“A silver fox,” I say, pulling my shoulders back.

“A fossil.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Will.” She sighs, lifting her gaze to the ceiling for a breath before closing her eyes. “Go home.” Her voice breaks, and all the lighthearted joking disappears. “I’m a mess.” She opens her eyes and quickly swipes at her tears. “And you can’t change it or fix it.”

This is it? I came here for her, but I’m leaving alone? What can I say to change her mind when I’ve said it all?

“I love you,” I say in another last-ditch effort. Isn’t that what she’s wanted to hear? I’m saying it. I’m here. I’m all in. My jaw clenches as I swallow my own emotions.

“Go home, Will.” She brushes past me.

As I reach for her hand, she pulls it away.

Chapter Forty-Six

Everleigh

After a long shower and a productive cry, I wrap a towel around my head and one around my body. When I open the door, I half expect to see Will, but after poking my head into every room, I discover he’s gone for real this time. What did I expect? I told him to leave, and that was the right choice. He’d impede my recovery.

A distraction.

My weakness.

Still, the young girl who will forever be trapped in my body wanted him to . . . I don’t know. Not give up so easily.

My father gave up. He didn’t stick around to see me. Maybe that’s my fate. A life where men continually disappoint me.

“One day I’ll find my prince,” I say, retrieving a bra and underwear from the dresser. After I put them on, I stand in front of the full-length mirror and comb my hair. “I’ll find a man who’s not afraid of my intelligence. A confident man who knows what I need more than I do. A caveman who solves all of our problems with a kiss that knocks me off my feet. And I won’t care that I grew up without a father, because he’ll be the only man I’ll ever need.” I dab my swollen eyelids and frown at my reflection.

I’m a mess.

I toss the comb onto my bed and glance at my phone on the nightstand. No messages from Will. Did I mess up? Is space not what I need? What if he is my Halley’s Comet? Maybe I should chase him.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m done chasing men. Done making up pathetic stories. Done begging for someone to love me.” I grab the pillow he slept on and bring it to my nose. “I hate you, William Landry,” I say.

“I hate you,” I say a little louder.

“I Hate You!” I scream into the pillow. Then I swing it, hitting it on the metal headboard. I whack it repeatedly. “You’re such a coward!”

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

The pillow snags on the post and feathers explode all around me, but I don’t stop, not until there’s nothing but a limp cotton pillowcase and torn-up shell in my hands. I use it to wipe my angry tears.

“Fuck you. That’s right. I said fuck you, Will. You’re such a runner. You let my bird die because you were too lazy to save her. You let us die because you’re too lazy to fight for us.” I blow at a feather stuck to my snotty, tearstained face and toss the pillowcase aside. Then I open the closet to get my clothes.

“Ahhh!” My lungs explode, and my heart stops as I experience a real-life horror movie in my bedroom.

There’s a man in my closet.

“What are you doing?” I shove him, and he grabs my clothes to steady himself, but they come off the hangers.

“Well”—Will steps out of my closet, wearing the smirk of all smirks—“I’m not running.”

“I hate you.” I narrow my eyes, hands balled at my sides.

“Shut up,” he says.

“Don’t tell me to—”

He grabs my face and kisses me. I try to shove him away and peel his hands off my face, but it’s pointless. When I finally surrender, he releases my lips enough for his grin to return while still grazing mine.

“I’m not running,” he whispers. “Not if you hate me. Not if you chase me. Not ever.” He pecks at my lips. “I’m fighting for us. I’ll be your prince. I’ll be your caveman. I’ll be the only man you’ll ever need. Your peace.” He kisses me. “Your hope.” Kiss. “Your love.” Another kiss. “And your faith.”

He remembered every word from the garden.

For the troubled may you find peace ~ For the despairing may you find hope ~ For the lonely may you find love ~ For the skeptical may you find faith

“Why were you in my closet?” I ask with his naked body enveloping mine. I don’t even look up at him because I love having my face buried in his neck, his hand cupping the back of my head like I’m the most precious person in his world. And I think I might just be.

He blows at a feather that must be stuck to my hair. “Just pulling proverbial petals from a rose. She loves me. She loves me not. Waiting to see if you got out of the shower and went on with your day like I was an afterthought. I hoped you might call your mom and break down, regretting telling me to leave. But you, my short stack, delivered something so unexpected. I’m not sure how to describe what happened.”

“Gah!” I kick my feet, and he pins them between his. “I’m so embarrassed.”

He chuckles. “You should be. That was . . .”

“Stop.” I pull my head from the crook of his neck and teasingly bite his jaw.

“You’ll never live that one down. Sorry.” He rolls us until I’m pinned beneath him, our fingers laced on either side of my head.

I giggle until he settles his pelvis between my legs, the head of his erection slowly pushing into me. With a heavy blink, my lips part for a tiny inhale as his face hovers over mine.

“Come home with me,” he whispers. “We won’t tell anyone we’re hiding out in your camper until we’re ready. Until you’re ready.” He rocks his pelvis.

I arch my back. It isn’t fair to ask me to make major decisions when he knows the only words on the tip of my tongue are “Yes. Oh, god, yes” and “Don’t stop.”

“Tell me you love me.” I lift my head and kiss him. “Tell me you love me, and I’ll go anywhere with you.”

Will grins. The one that reaches his ears. The one that makes my heart and tummy flutter at the same time. “I love you. And I’m not sorry.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Will

The only thing I love more than Everleigh’s brave smile is the way her hand always searches for mine, whether we’re walking down the aisle of the hardware store, making snow angels in the empty field between the barndominium and the pond, or lying in bed, staring out the window at the stars.

We’ve been in Missoula for two months, but our friends and her mom think we’re still in Key West. Every day, I expect a knock on the door because Fitz or Maren might decide to drive by the property and see us outside.

A chance encounter at the grocery store.

Pulling up to the same stoplight at the same time.

Fitz and Jamie parked my Bronco here when I texted to tell them we wouldn’t be coming back for a while. I’m shocked no one has mentioned seeing me driving around town. Granted, we’re usually in Everleigh’s truck because we’re hauling stuff back for the barndo.

Most days are good days. Scratch that. Most days are fabulous days. But some days, I find Everleigh staring at a wall or something random—like this morning, it’s her cup of coffee—and I know she’s still struggling to find herself again.

“Do you ever think I should have taken you to Baltimore? Maybe not for the job, but maybe to visit the second most brilliant psychiatrist to help you find your feet again?” I ask, buttering our toast and setting it on two plates along with sliced kiwi and hard-boiled eggs.

She gives me a soft smile when I set the plate in front of her. Eighty percent of the interior is finished, but the kitchen table is just a card table and chairs. We want to make our own table out of reclaimed wood, but we haven’t gotten around to it.

“I feel . . .” She takes a bite of kiwi and chews it slowly. “Selfish. I feel like I have a lot to offer, and I’m just hiding out in this beautiful home with the world’s sexiest man, and it’s wonderful. Perfect, really. But sometimes, I feel selfish for not offering my knowledge, my expertise, to help others.”

“Maybe it’s time to get back on the horse.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to go back to the clinic here. And I don’t want to move. Not after we’ve done all of this work. And yeah, I sometimes wonder if I was arrogant and stupid to think that I could get through this with a little mind over matter and an insane amount of sex.”

I grin because I’m not even a little sorry about the insane amount of sex.

“I don’t know,” she says before sipping her coffee. “Maybe I should keep working on gaming therapy. But it’s hard to do without funds and access to proper testing. I suppose I could write books. Start a YouTube channel? TED Talks? Something useful, until . . .” She sets her mug on the table and sighs.

My phone screen illuminates. “Well, look at this.” I hold up my phone so she can see the message and photo from Fitz.

Aster Samantha Fitzgerald 6 lbs 9 oz and perfect

Everleigh cups a hand over her mouth, and tears fill her eyes as she stares at the photo of Jamie in a hospital gown holding their newborn baby girl. “We have to go see them.”

I laugh, setting my phone down. “They think we’re in Florida.”

“But we’re not.” She scoots back in her chair, abandoning her breakfast to make a beeline for the bedroom.

“So we’re just going to show up unannounced?” I ask, following her to the bedroom.

“Yes. It’s called visiting hours.” She removes her white robe and pulls on a pair of jeans. “Oh, we need to get a gift. And flowers. We can’t show up empty-handed. What do you think about getting something for Fitz too?”

“Baby, if we visit, then this all ends. We’ll have to engage with the real world again. Our friends won’t let us hole up in our barn, no jobs, no responsibilities.”

She pulls on a black sweater. “Fine. Whatever. But we’re going to see that baby.”

“If I knew a baby would bring you this much joy . . .”

She snaps her head up while pulling on socks. “What?”

“Nothing.” I change out of my old T-shirt into a newer one, something softer for Aster Samantha Fitzgerald, six pounds, nine ounces of pure perfection.

“Finish what you were going to say.” Everleigh steps into my personal space the second I turn from the closet.

“It was a figure of speech. There was nothing to finish.”

She folds her hands behind her back. I haven’t seen her fold them in front since we left Key West. Is Dr. Reichart gone for good?

I crack a smile and shake my head, glancing past her to the window for a beat. “I’m just going to throw this out there. You can ignore it if you want, and I won’t mention it again. It’s just a thought. Speculation of sorts.” I return my gaze to her. “We’d make beautiful babies.”

She blinks. That’s all I get.

“I mean”—I shrug like I don’t care, because she’s freaking me out with her silence—“you’re between jobs. And I can do whatever too. I’m allergic to cats, so I suppose a dog would be okay if you’d rather—”

She throws her arms around my neck and pulls me to her lips for a hungry kiss. I think it’s a good sign, but this woman has been hard to read lately, so I don’t want to assume anything.

“Put a baby in me,” she mumbles against my lips.

She doesn’t have to ask me twice.

Jamie’s jaw drops when we poke our heads around the corner of the hospital room. “What is going on?” she asks in a hushed tone so as not to scare her baby. “How did you get here so quickly?”

Fitz stands from the recliner by her bed and walks toward me with open arms. He’s beaming with pride. “How the hell are you?” he asks as if I’m the one who just became a father today.

“Never been better. Congratulations.” I deposit the flowers on the table by her bed and hug my best friend.

Everleigh sets the gift next to the flowers and leans in toward Jamie to get a look at Aster. “Oh my gosh,” she says. “I want one too.”

Jamie softly chuckles. “Well, you can’t have her, but I’ll let you hold her.” She passes her swaddled daughter to Everleigh.

I bend down and hug Jamie. “Congratulations. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” she says before kissing my cheek. “Now tell me, how did you get here before Maren and Ozzy?”

I look at Everleigh, but I’m not sure she heard Jamie because she’s so enamored of Aster.

“Well, we’ve actually been in Missoula for a little while, finishing the barndo, and spending some time together, alone.”

“Oh? How long is a while?” Jamie asks.

“Two months,” Everleigh says without taking her eyes off Aster. It’s like her arms were made to cradle a baby. How did I never imagine this side to her?

“Two months?” Jamie’s jaw drops.

“Yes. We needed a little time and space.” I give her a tight smile, hoping she’ll read between the lines. “It’s been therapeutic.”

“That’s code for Everleigh spent years making up stories about a father she never knew. Seeing Will’s dad die triggered the release of buried emotions, and she’s needed time to work her way through that mess,” Everleigh says, tearing her gaze away from Aster just long enough to give us a toothy grin.

Fitz turns and stares out the window, hiding his discomfort with my girlfriend’s blunt confession. I’m sure he’s wondering why Jamie trusts someone who talks in third person to hold their newborn baby.

Jamie doesn’t skip a beat. Not a flinch or an extra blink. “You look well, Everleigh.” She gives her a genuine smile. “Beaming, actually.”

Everleigh hands Aster to me. “Don’t fumble her.”

I roll my eyes, taking the swaddled baby with confidence. “I have two nieces. I save babies from burning houses. They call me the baby whisperer.”

Jamie and Fitz snort in sync while Everleigh winks. “Good to know.”

I’m not sure if it’s just me, but I swear the way she looks at me is transparent, like everyone can read her thoughts.

Will and I had sex right before we came here. We stopped for flowers and a baby gift and had sex in the truck one more time for good measure.

Just as I think that, I realize the look on Everleigh’s face has morphed into something else. It’s a tenderness that feels like a gateway to her dreams. And I wonder if seeing me hold Aster evokes memories of our conversation and a longing to have this life too.

“I love you,” I say, not even realizing at first that the words are being spoken outside of my mind. It silences the room.

I look at Fitz and Jamie. It’s not that they don’t know it, but saying it so casually and out of the blue has left them a little wide-eyed. Everleigh immediately wipes her tears. We’re not a dirty little secret. I’m not keeping her hidden from my friends so I don’t have to explain our complicated relationship.

I shrug, smiling down at Aster’s peaceful little face before looking at Everleigh again. That’s when I see Maren, Ozzy, and Lola standing behind her. How much have they heard? Probably a lot since Maren looks like she might cry too. They’re here to see a baby, but I’ve unintentionally taken the stage.

“I do,” I say. “I love you. I love you out loud—a billboard, banner-in-the-sky kind of love. And everyone in the room is your family. We are your people. With us, you’re just a normal girl who’s fallen for a ruggedly handsome fireman.”

Everleigh can’t wipe her face fast enough, there are too many tears. She startles when Maren taps her shoulder to hand her a tissue. Then, she gasps when she turns to see just how big her new family is.

“What is going on?” Maren asks, hugging Everleigh. “When did you get here? How did I not know you were on your way?”

Before I can answer, Lola rushes toward me with grabby hands. “Give her to me,” she demands.

“Sit in the chair first,” Ozzy says to her.

Once she’s perched in the recliner, I lay Aster in her arms. Fitz sits on the edge of Jamie’s bed and kisses her while Maren hovers over Lola to get a peek at Aster.

I pull Everleigh into my arms and kiss her forehead. “Now this is therapy,” I say. She grips my shirt and hums a “Mm-hm” while burying her face in the crook of my neck.

Epilogue

Our kids are dumb as rocks. I don’t say this to my wife, but I know she’s thinking it too. Genius must skip a generation.

Archie’s three, and he still thinks nothing tastes better than a fresh booger from his nose. Ada, named after Ada Lovelace, an English mathematician who did something a gazillion years ago that changed history (blah, blah, blah), is two, and she thinks pooping on the houseplants will make them grow. So Everleigh tells everyone that Ada is potty trained, but she is not. She squats to pee in the grass and shits on ferns and orchids. There’s no potty involved.

As all these thoughts play in my mind, along with the overarching theme, which is that I have the best fucking life ever, my wife glances up from the sofa, one child on each side of her as she reads them Charlotte’s Web. She rolls her eyes at me because I’m in my usual spot outside the front door, peering through the window like a stalker. It’s what I do at the end of every shift. I’ve taken a cushy job (Fitz’s words) with the Fire Prevention Bureau.

I open the door, and my babies skitter off the sofa and barrel toward me. The only thing that matters to me is being a loyal, loving husband, and a father who prioritizes time with my kids.

“Daddy, let’s fish!” Archie squeals when I pick both of them up at the same time and rub my scruffy face against their necks until they’re squirming in a fit of giggles.

“The house is a mess, and I’m exhausted,” Everleigh declares, standing from the sofa while tying her hair into a ponytail.

I set the kids on the floor and pull her into my arms. “Dr. Reichart says the most important time for a mother to be fully present with her children is in the first three years,” I mumble before nibbling her earlobe.

“There’s a reason Dr. Reichart is no longer practicing psychiatry. She has no clue what she’s talking about.” She presses her hands to my chest. “Am I not allowed to have a long sigh and a few grumbled words at the end of the day without you thinking I want to be somewhere else dealing with someone else’s problems?” She lifts onto her toes and kisses me.

“You’re allowed.” I release her.

“I’m going for a run before it gets dark.” She practically skips toward the bedroom.

Her remedy for exhaustion and mine are totally different. After a long day, gaming relaxes me (it used to), but we rarely game. No screens for the kids until they’re older. Just nose-picking and fertilizing plants along with endless giggles, regular meltdowns, and a wall of bins filled with “sensory activities.” On the rare occasion that we don’t have kids in our bed and we’re still awake after they’re asleep, we dig out the gaming system, and it feels like no time has passed since I met the seventeen-year-old medical student who loves gaming as much as I do.

And while Dr. Reichart is no longer seeing patients, we have frequently packed up the kids and flown around the country for her to speak at medical conferences, and she consults on special pediatric cases when asked. I know raising children is her new chapter in life, but I also know she’s only just begun to change the world.

“Ready!” Archie runs toward me wearing his green rubber rain boots, jeans, no shirt, and his tan bucket hat. He’s his mom with big brown eyes and thick black hair. For that matter, Ada is Everleigh as well. I swear I’m the father, but it would take a paternity test to prove it to anyone.

“Where’s Sissy?” I straighten his hat.

He narrows his eyes like he’s unaware that he has a sister. Maybe his genius is just delayed.

I chuckle. “Let me change my clothes and grab a wrap for Ada.” Everleigh has made me a master at wearing Ada in every kind of wrap and carrier imaginable, so I never have the excuse that she’s too young to go with me. I don’t remember the last time I did anything around here or went on a hike without a child attached to me. My younger self might have complained about the demands of raising kids, but since losing my father and experiencing the profound effects of Everleigh growing up without one, I wholeheartedly embrace the gift of fatherhood.

“Don’t forget I’m picking my mom up from the airport later tonight. And your mom’s train comes in tomorrow morning. She said she’d probably be here by noon as long as there are no hiccups getting a rental car,” Everleigh says, carrying her running shoes to the front door.

“We’re getting away for the first time in over three years, how would I forget that?” I ask.

Our moms are staying with the kids while we take the Airstream up to Glacier National Park for our anniversary. Liz still lives in New York, but she’s not painting as much. My mom lives in Utah with her new husband, but she still doesn’t fly. Both of them wanted to stay with the grandkids while we got away, so we suggested that both of them come because it’s a good idea to have one adult per child.

“Hiking by ourselves.” She grins, squatting to tie her shoes. “I’m so excited.”

“I’m excited too.” I work Ada’s wrap around my waist. “But not for the hiking.” I wink.

My wife still blushes when I flirt with her.

“Hey,” I say as she opens the door.

She looks over her shoulder just as Ada hugs one of my legs and Archie grabs the other.

“I’m so glad you burned down your house. I bet Marie Curie feels honored to have made the sacrifice so we could have this life.”

“William, we’d still be exactly where we are now had you saved Marie.” She blows me a kiss. “Just something to think about.” Her focus shifts to our kids, and she can’t help but grin, the one that says all of her dreams came true.

And mine too.

Acknowledgments

Dearest readers, thank you for taking this journey with me. I wrote this while saying a long goodbye to my father-in-law. Writing is my escape, but it’s also the best therapy.

Thank you to my wonderful editor, Lauren Plude, and the entire team at Montlake. Your enthusiasm for these characters and your support in bringing them to life have been a dream come true. Mackenzie Walton and Katherine Kirk, thank you for making my words shine during the editing process. It’s a pleasure to work with you. And thanks to Eileen Carey for a beautiful cover.

Thank you, Georgana Grinstead, for being my loudest cheerleader and believing in me every step of the way. Thanks to Jenn Beach, the world’s best assistant, for keeping everything afloat so I can stay lost in the fictional world.

Finally, thank you to my friends and family for being a grounding force in my life. You are the reason I feel so much love and inspiration to write stories.

About the Author

Jewel E. Ann is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author with a quirky sense of humor. When she’s not saving the planet one tree at a time, you can find her role-modeling questionable behavior to her three boys, walking her doodle, binge-watching Netflix with her husband, and writing mind-bending romance.

Visit her and sign up for updates at www.jeweleann.com, on Instagram at @authorjeweleann, or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authorjeweleann.

Drop her a message at author@jeweleann.com. She’d love to hear from you!