The Boyfriend Collector
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Date: 2018-12-11 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Contemporary; Fiction
Description: From New York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff comes The Boyfriend Collector. I JUST NEED ONE GOOD MAN TO GIVE ME HOPE… Treated like a servant in my own home, I can’t stop dreaming of my twenty-first birthday. It’s the day I’ll inherit a fortune, break free from my cruel family, and finally start living my life—finish school, travel, find love. After a lifetime of hardship, it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Sadly, I’m about to discover a shocking secret my family’s been keeping from me. I must marry before my birthday to claim the money. Worst of all, he must be approved by my grandparents—the sa
Publisher: P&S, Inc.
Rights: Copyright © 2018 All Rights Reserved

ROSE ENTERS WITH SUCH A FLURRY . . .

that I can almost feel the wind on my face. She’s wearing an extremely sexy outfit—tight, shiny black pants, sexy red heels, and a low-cut blouse. For a moment, I’m unable to tear my eyes away from her large pillowy breasts.

“Bex?”

I snap my eyes up to her face and try to mask my inappropriate thoughts. The problem is I think she’s starting to grow on me in more ways than one.

“Rose, how are…you?” I notice the worry in her large brown eyes. Something’s happened. I bet she went to see that fucking guy. I feel my face heat red with anger, and my shoulders tense up. “What is it?”

She points to the couch.

“Of course. Sit,” I reply.

She doesn’t sit. She crashes on her back. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” She covers her face with her hands.

I rise from my desk and grab a pen from the holder. I don’t have her file handy, so I reach for a piece of white paper from the printer behind me.

“Take a deep breath, Rose.” I’d benefit from one myself. Seeing her like this is triggering me. Rose has been through her fair share of suffering already, and I’m not okay with anyone subjecting her to more of it.

CONTENTS

About the Book

Other Works by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgements

Coming Soon

About the Author

OTHER WORKS BY MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF

COMING SOON!

Battle of the Bulge (OHellNo, Book 4)

Colel (Immortal Matchmakers, Book 5)

The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant, Book 3

My Pen is Huge (OHellNo, Book 5)

The Boyfriend Collector, Part 2

THE ACCIDENTALLY YOURS SERIES

(Paranormal Romance/Humor)

Accidentally in Love with…a God? (Book 1)

Accidentally Married to…a Vampire? (Book 2)

Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? (Book 3)

Accidentally…Evil? (a Novella) (Book 3.5)

Vampires Need Not…Apply? (Book 4)

Accidentally…Cimil? (a Novella) (Book 4.5)

Accidentally…Over? (Series Finale) (Book 5)

THE FATE BOOK SERIES

(Standalones/New Adult Suspense/Humor)

Fate Book

Fate Book Two

THE FUGLY SERIES

(Standalones/Contemporary Romance)

fugly
it’s a fugly life

THE HAPPY PANTS SERIES

(Standalones/Romantic Comedy)

The Happy Pants Café (Prequel)

Tailored for Trouble (Book 1)

Leather Pants (Book 2)

Skinny Pants (Book 3)

IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC., SERIES

(Standalones/Paranormal/Humor)

The Immortal Matchmakers (Book 1)

Tommaso (Book 2)

God of Wine (Book 3)

The Goddess of Forgetfulness (Book 4)

THE KING SERIES

(Dark Fantasy)

King’s (Book 1)

King for a Day (Book 2)

King of Me (Book 3)

Mack (Book 4)

Ten Club (Series Finale, Book 5)

THE LIBRARIAN’S VAMPIRE ASSISTANT

(Mystery/Humor)

The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant

The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant, Book 2

THE MERMEN TRILOGY

(Dark Fantasy)

Mermen (Part 1)

MerMadmen (Part 2)

MerCiless (Part 3)

MR. ROOK’S ISLAND SERIES

(Romantic Suspense)

Mr. Rook (Part 1)

Pawn (Part 2)

Check (Part 3, Finale)

THE OHELLNO SERIES

(Standalones/New Adult/Romantic Comedy)

Smart Tass (Book 1)

Oh Henry (Book 2)

Digging A Hole (Book 3)

THE BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

A Mimi Boutique Novel

Copyright © 2018 by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Cover Design by Earthly Charms

Developmental Editing by Karen Dale Harris

Copyediting and Proof Reading by Pauline Nolet

Formatting by Paul Salvette

Dedicated to being the hero of your own story.

THE BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR

CHAPTER ONE

Bex

Well, this is not a promising start. Seated in my black leather armchair, I rub the stubble on my jaw and glance down at the questionnaire in my other hand. The agitated young woman lying on the couch in front of me has left the entire form blank except for her name at the top. Rose Marie Hale.

Rose. The name fits her. At first glance she looks like a delicate, fragrant flower—long, lean stems for legs, trim body, and blonde silky hair—but a sharpness in her dark brown eyes tells me she’s not all soft petals.

I make a quick note of my observation in the margin of the page before interrupting her fast talking—something about dating…or men…or I’m unsure, actually. “Miss Hale, excuse my insensitivity, but I’m here to help people, not waste their time. Or mine. So what, exactly, do you mean when you say you have to find a husband? Sounds like you need a friend or a dating app, not therapy.” I rest my gold pen across the clipboard on my lap, waiting for her to answer.

Like the pen, this office—situated in a renovated brick warehouse in Atlanta’s trendy Buckhead district—once belonged to my father, who was also a psychologist. I stepped in, merging my practice with his when he became ill last spring. By the time he died a month ago, I learned many things about the man, bad things I loathe him for. The first disappointment came when I discovered he never practiced what he preached in terms of treating his patients, who were receiving little more than touchy-feely pep talks: You can do it. I believe in you.

Complete bullshit. The only thing he accomplished was creating a steady stream of customers who became dependent on him instead of themselves.

I don’t blow smoke up patients’ asses just so they’ll come back next week for another fix of self-esteem injections. I say it like it is, and if they truly want to get their lives together, they listen.

As for this woman on my couch, I don’t know what to make of her other than the obvious that she’s in her early twenties, her attractiveness is distracting, and I’m unsure why the hell she’s here. If she’s looking for boyfriend advice, she’s come to the wrong place.

“Dr. Hughes? Are you listening?” she says, her slender body stretched across my white couch.

Not really. Her lips are moving so fast, I feel like I’m at an auction. “Rose Marie—”

“I prefer Rose. Just Rose,” she corrects.

“Okay. Rose, I’m sorry, but I’m a psychologist, not a romance coach.”

She sits up and plants her feet on the floor. Her red heels look expensive, as does the matching red sweater. Her jeans are the type most men like on women—tight, a bit short to show off some toned calf, and cut to accentuate the feminine curve of her hips.

“I’m not here for love coaching,” she says with a frantic tone. “I have to get married. Quickly. My entire life depends on it.”

Trying to hide my impatience, I lift my brows. She strikes me as the quintessential entitled princess who thinks her social life is the most important thing on the planet. Oh no, someone didn’t like my selfie on Instagram. Whatever shall I do? If she can’t give me a legitimate reason to see her or convince me that she’s here to work, I’ll turn her away.

“This isn’t the Dark Ages,” I say. “Many women lead long happy lives and never marry.”

“I know. And that’s not what this is about. Not even close.”

“All right.” I inhale slowly, taking a moment to rally my patience. “Why don’t you try explaining it once more.”

She lies back down, crossing her long legs at the ankles, her large eyes focused on the exposed wooden beam running across the ceiling.

I wait while she mulls. She’s hopefully realizing how silly it is to pay a licensed therapist, with a doctorate in social neuroscience, just to talk about boys. I never would have agreed to see her if I knew this was her “problem,” but Rose left a frantic message with my service last night. A short conversation followed, where she disclosed nothing and pleaded to see me first thing this morning.

Fast-forward to fifteen minutes ago. I get to my office before my assistant has arrived and find Rose walking around the hallway. My office is one of many on the second floor, so it’s easy to miss. Downstairs are several boutiques and a small coffee shop, where I practically live between patients.

Which reminds me that I skipped the latte this morning, and I’m wishing I hadn’t because I’ll need a heavy dose of caffeine to keep up with all the whining I’m hearing.

Yes, if I were a lesser man, I might be content to sit here all day, staring at a gorgeous woman while she rambles on about her love life. But I am not that man. I’m here to help people. And I think this woman came to the wrong place.

Rose

I knew it would be a waste of time coming here, but this exceeds my worst expectations. Everything about this guy says he doesn’t care. The drab gray tie, plain white dress shirt, and black slacks tell me he doesn’t have a warm bone in his body. All business. The polished concrete floor and a bland gray rug to accent his work space confirm he lacks imagination. And not one item in his office indicates he has any hobbies or passions. I don’t even see a family photo despite the fact he’s fidgeting with his wedding ring. Married. But he obviously doesn’t want to think about her at work. What does that say about him?

“Rose,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice that sounds rehearsed, “this session is only an hour, and I get paid either way.”

In other words, I should start talking if I want my money’s worth. But Dr. Bexley Hughes doesn’t seem interested in hearing anything I have to say. I doubt I’d be sitting here at all if I hadn’t begged him last night over the phone. But I need help, and now that his father is dead, I have no one else to turn to.

I squirm on his lumpy couch. The fabric is soft—some sort of white velveteen—but the springs are pushing into my ass. Another bad sign. He doesn’t care about his patients enough to buy comfortable furniture.

I get up and walk over to the wall of books behind the black leather armchair where he’s seated. I know he’s waiting for me to explain why I need to get married, but his intense stare makes it difficult. I don’t like it or him one little bit.

Ironically, if I saw him walking down the street, the two of us complete strangers, he’d have me looking twice. Dark hair, light blue eyes, and a hard jawline. Classically handsome. Just my type. Though he’s a little older, maybe twenty-nine or thirty.

Of course, all that’s irrelevant. Doesn’t matter if he’s good looking. Doesn’t matter if I like his personality. The question is, will Dr. Bexley Hughes help me? He seems more uncaring and heartless than my family, if that’s even possible.

With our backs to each other, I pluck a book off the shelf and thumb through the crisp white pages. It’s inscribed to Dr. Murdoc Hughes, his late father. Funny, they look nothing alike. Murdoc had warm brown eyes and an even warmer smile.

“I met your dad before he died.” I turn and speak to the back of Bexley Hughes’s head. “He was a good man. Maybe the only decent person I’ve ever met. I hoped you’d be like him. Are you?”

“You knew my father?” he says with a tinge of skepticism, pivoting in his seat to face me.

I nod.

“But you were never a patient.”

“No,” I confirm. “He told me to see you if I changed my mind.”

“Changed it about what?”

I shut the book with a clap, place it back on the shelf, and walk over to the white couch, where I sit with hands clasped. I don’t know why this Dr. Hughes makes me so uneasy, but he does. It’s odd given how I’m no stranger to unpleasant people.

“I met your father last spring,” I say, “when he gave a lecture at my university about the psychology of storytelling. I am—I mean, I was an English major. I dropped out.” I had promised myself that no matter what my grandmother did or said, I wouldn’t leave school this time. But she has a way of slithering inside my head and undermining every positive thought, every productive intention—“You should be home, Rose, fulfilling the promise to your dead mother. There will be time for college later.” After weeks of being guilted, I finally gave in. Idiot.

Or maybe it was fate?

Had I not stopped taking classes, I never would’ve been home on that fateful day when I overheard a strange conversation my grandmother had with her lawyer. Then I wouldn’t have had that quiet nagging feeling in the back of my mind, telling me that maybe, just maybe there was more to my mother’s will. And I certainly wouldn’t have been prompted to go through my grandmother’s safe a week ago when she left it open by accident.

But now I know the horrible truth: The copy of the will shown to me all those years ago was a fake, and everything I’ve been promised is about to be taken away.

I continue, “I liked your father’s perspective about how every epic story has a villain, a victim, and a knight.” The older Dr. Hughes said that in the world of psychology, a therapist’s job is to make every patient their own knight, the hero of their story. “When I decided I needed to talk to someone, I looked him up. He called me back right away, and it was the first time I remembered anyone just listening and wanting to help. Nothing in return.”

I was really sorry when I found out he was ill, but he urged me to come in and see his son instead. Trusting strangers isn’t easy for me, so I told him I’d think about it. Of course, the situation I’m facing now is entirely different. It’s no longer about the guilt or the shame my family has poisoned me with. This is about justice. This is about wrong versus right.

I look away from the younger Dr. Hughes’s judgmental gaze and add, “Your dad told me if I ever needed someone to trust, someone who’d help me, it would be you.”

I suddenly notice Dr. Hughes’s face is a hostile shade of red, and while I didn’t think it possible for anyone to look more anal retentive and intimidating, he’s just proven me wrong.

He sets his clipboard on top of a little wooden table to his side and leans forward. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

I blink. “Sorry?”

“I can’t help you.”

“Did I miss something?” He’s clearly pissed, but what did I do?

“I am not the right therapist for you, Miss Hale, but I can suggest a colleague who specializes in relationships and commitment issues.”

I frown. “Why would I need help with that?” All right, yes, I have issues in those areas, but not how he thinks.

“Didn’t you say you’re here because you’re trying to find a husband?”

“Yes, but—”

“But then I’m not the doctor for you,” he cuts me off.

The anger percolates in my stomach. I’m done with being dismissed, and I won’t tolerate being treated like I’m worthless. Not anymore.

“You said you’re here to help people,” I argue. “Well, here I am, needing help.”

He stands, walks to the door, and opens it. The expression on his face turns from anger to simple disgust.

What kind of therapist just shuts a person down like this? It’s humiliating, and with all I’ve been through, I’m not game for his special breed of head trip. He has no clue what’s at stake and the mental torture I’ve survived.

Doesn’t matter. He’s right. He can’t help me. I stand and walk to the door, stopping in front of him. I’m five seven, but he’s much taller, so I tilt my head back to look him in the eye. There is no compassion to be found in their soft blue hues. Just ice. “I don’t know what I said to piss you off, but you’ve got the wrong impression about why I came here. I’m just trying to survive.”

“Aren’t we all.” He jerks his head toward the doorway as if to say get the fuck out.

This man doesn’t just have a stick up his ass, it’s an entire forest. “You’re nothing like your father. You’re not even half the man he was.”

“Thank God for small favors,” he replies.

I sail out, wondering what he means, and the door slams behind me.

Heartless bastard. He couldn’t just hear me out?

Suddenly, I realize how alone I truly am. I stop in the hallway and cover my face with my hands, fighting off an imminent meltdown. I hate to cry. It makes me feel weak, and I don’t want to be weak anymore. But I don’t know what I’m going to do. The clock is ticking, and right now, the whole world is against me. Not hyperbole. Not a joke. Everyone I’ve ever known is against me, and I need at least one—just one goddamned person to trust.

CHAPTER TWO

When I arrive at the rear gate of the historic Peachtree Blossom estate, located in the prestigious Vinings neighborhood of Atlanta, about four miles from that bastard of a therapist’s office, I’ve already changed out of my only nice outfit—a red sweater, jeans, and red heels I purchased at Goodwill—and into my work clothes: a white polo with the Hale family crest and khaki pants, just like the other staff here on the property.

Yes, the estate belongs to my family, and I basically work here to earn my keep. In fact, the only difference between me and the servants is that my grandparents don’t have to pay me. And while our staff can pick up and leave at anytime, I must live and work exclusively at the estate until my twenty-first birthday. To flee to anywhere else, to find a different home, would be seen as a forfeit of my inheritance. “It was your mother’s dying wish for you to work hard at the estate, to learn the value of a dollar, and to understand the true meaning of sacrifice.” At least, that’s what I’ve been told my whole life.

And whenever I pushed back or questioned why I couldn’t go to school with other kids or have any friends, I always got the same response from my grandparents: “Listen to yourself, Rose. You live in one of the nicest homes in the state. You have the best tutor money can buy. Your mother would have been ashamed to hear you talking like a spoiled, entitled little brat. Just look around you. Look where you live!” Then my grandmother would go on and on about the sinfulness of greed and how if I wanted to be a person my mother would have been proud of, I would do as I was told, work hard, and be grateful for everything I had. “And then,” she would always add, “when you’re twenty-one and inherit everything, you’ll be worthy of such a gift. You’ll value this home because you’ve put your own sweat and blood into it.”

For the record, I have no problem working hard. I clean, I wash, I even help out in the kitchen, though I’m a terrible cook. I know my mother grew up dirt poor and didn’t believe in entitlement. The problem is that everything my grandparents told me was a lie. All of it.

I still can’t believe this is happening. But it is.

“Rose, you’re back early,” says Rhett, the guard at the rear gate. Like most who work for my grandparents, he’s always spying on me.

I bet he texted my grandma the moment he saw me walking up.

“Yep, all done with my errands,” I lie to Rhett, gripping my tattered gray backpack.

Rhett eyes me suspiciously, pushes the button, and the pedestrian gate buzzes.

I give him a nod as I go in. It’s a five-minute hike up to the house from here, but when I leave the property, I always walk. My grandparents don’t give me much money, so I’ve learned to save every dime. I used most of my savings to pay for the few semesters of college I did manage to complete, but now I’m going to need the rest to save myself.

“Rose! Where have you been?” Right on cue, my grandmother Gertie appears at the top of the service driveway, feigning worry. The frigid November wind blows through the white oaks, which have lost their leaves. I love being outdoors, especially in the fall, except for the fact I don’t own a good jacket and my teeth are chattering. My grandmother, on the other hand, looks toasty warm in her green velour tracksuit from some new designer. It has random black spots and a bright yellow zipper. Her short iron-gray hair is covered with a matching hat.

You look like an avocado with syphilis.

“Remember? I told you I needed to get a few things,” I lie. I don’t want her to know where I really was. Of course, now I’m unsure what I’m going to do because things with Dr. Hughes didn’t pan out like I’d hoped.

I need to figure something out quickly, because now I’ve read the will and learned that this twenty-five-million-dollar property, situated on seventeen acres with a thirty-five-thousand-square-foot mansion, will never be mine if I don’t fight with everything I’ve got. Doesn’t matter that this home belonged to my mother, the world-famous author Lana Hale, or that she left everything to me. Millions in annual book royalties, movie rights, merchandising, trademarks, and profits from Lana Hale Enterprises. My mother, who died giving birth to me, was worth over two hundred million dollars when she passed, and I am to inherit nothing, nada, zilch, if my grandparents, Gertie and Melvin Hale, have their way.

A plan that’s been twenty years in the making.

My entire world has been nothing but a hoax, a picture painted by two very twisted people, created out of greed. It explains why I have always felt like a cartoon version of myself—two-dimensional, not exactly real.

“Well, you’d better get started on your chores.” She wags a cautionary pink fingernail at me. “I need the silver polished—all of it. The party is in three days, and everything must be perfect for your big event.”

You mean the next-to-final step in stealing everything from me.

I nod. “Yes, Grandma.”

Her gray eyes twitch with annoyance. “Don’t give me that attitude, young lady. By this time next month, you’ll be twenty-one, and we know what that means.”

In the real will or the fake one you showed me?

It takes everything I have not to tip my hand. She wants me to believe that this party is a pre-birthday celebration to mark the end of a long, arduous journey prescribed by my mother before her death. In truth, it’s a coming-out party stipulated in the will. Sadly, the letter attached only dictated that the party had to happen prior to my twenty-first birthday. “Rose should be given a formal coming-out party, with no expense spared. Should anything happen to me, I want her to feel she’s surrounded by my love and that I’m there with her. The invitees should include trustworthy young women, who will serve as role models as she enters this all-important phase of her life, and no less than fifty suitable young men. I trust you, my parents, to choose appropriately, as Rose could end up marrying one of these men someday. Hopefully before her twenty-first birthday. See Paragraph 10.”

Delaying this party to the last possible moment has made my chances of complying with Paragraph 10 nearly impossible. If only I’d gotten my hands on that document two years ago—hell, or fifteen years ago—I could’ve done something. I could’ve come up with a better plan. Four weeks leaves me almost no time to maneuver before my twenty-first birthday.

With a smile, I turn to my grandmother, who’s waiting with a pudgy fist parked on her plump hip. “The silver will be polished to perfection for the party,” I promise.

“Excellent,” she says. “We want your guests to have a good impression of our family. And don’t forget, Milly will be here to do alterations at four o’clock. Teresa is allowing you to keep the dress, by the way, so you should thank her.”

Milly is my grandma’s seamstress. Teresa is my cousin, who, like her mother—my aunt Belinda—hates me, though I’ve never understood why. Thankfully, I don’t see them often, but when I do, it’s a Rose stomp-fest. Kind of like those traditional winemakers who throw the grapes in the giant tubs and then squash them with their feet. My aunt and cousin go to town on me every chance they get with their crushing words. Stupid…ugly…useless. They hold nothing back when I leave the room, making sure they talk loud enough so I’ll hear every word.

It’s hard to believe that anyone’s family could be so cruel, but now I’m sure it’s my grandmother’s doing.

I force a smile. “Thank you, Grandma Gertie. I really appreciate you making sure I have a nice dress for my party.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for, darling, isn’t it? And we couldn’t be happier to see this entire thing coming to an end.” She gives me one of her sugary, fake-as-hell grins. “You have no idea what we’ve sacrificed to raise you according to your mother’s wishes—I mean, shouldn’t it be every grandparent’s right to spoil their grandkids? But no. That was taken from us.” She shrugs remorsefully. She thinks I’m buying her act. “But I know our dear Lana, God rest her soul, would be proud to see what a strong, independent girl you’ve become. So worthy of all that money.”

How can she look me in the eye and lie to me like this? My own grandmother! I was loyal to her. I trusted her and my grandfather. I fell for the biggest con from the world’s biggest con artists.

I want to shove one of my balled fists down her turkey-skin-covered throat. “I will forever be in your gratitude.”

“Hmph! I certainly hope so because—”

My grandmother’s cell beeps loudly in her swamp-creature-colored pants pocket. She grabs the thing and holds it to her ear. “What? Who?” she barks at the person on the phone. “Show him to the living room.” She looks at me, shooting darts with her narrowed eyes. “Your… doctor is at the front gate.”

I blink. “Who?”

“Child, did you drop your brain?” she snaps, her twang more pronounced, showing she’s irritated with me. “He says you forgot your purse in his office.”

I don’t have a purse. And after the way Dr. Hughes treated me, I’m finding it hard to believe he’s the person at the gate. His dismissal was as sharp as a straight razor.

But who else could it be? That Dr. Filbert I see once a year for my checkups? Doubtful.

Oh no. Dr. Hughes here! It suddenly sinks in. My grandmother isn’t supposed to know about him. Nevertheless, the cat’s out of the bag. My only choice is to convince her I really went to him for therapy. I didn’t. Of course, Dr. Hughes never gave me a chance to explain that.

“I-I meant to tell you about it,” I say. “I went to see a therapist because—”

“A therapist!” Her tone is riddled with panic. I’m sure the last thing she wants is for me to start sharing personal details of my life with a stranger who might put ideas in my head or encourage me to take charge. The more isolated and helpless I am, the easier I am to control.

“I didn’t tell you,” I say, “because I know how you worry—” about yourself “—but I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately. You know it’s a lot of pressure thinking about managing so much money and this place, not to mention my mother’s book estate.” I cast my gaze demurely at the ground, hoping she doesn’t suspect anything. “I’m really sorry I lied to you.”

Her eyes twitch with animosity, but she catches herself and pastes on a concerned look. “Well, Rose, you should have said something. I’m always here for you, darlin’, so there’s no need to waste good money when you have family to lean on.”

Lean on? They’re more likely to push me in the mud and kick repeatedly. Thankfully, she can’t prohibit me from seeing Dr. Hughes, but that’s not the point. I simply don’t want her knowing that I’m not going down without a fight. Otherwise, I’m sure she’ll find a way to stop me.

“I didn’t get much out of the first session,” I say, “so you’re probably right.”

“That’s why you should always confide in your grandmama,” she says sweetly. “Family is the only thing you can trust, Rose.”

Oh, yes. Because according to her, everyone else is just after my future inheritance. Especially men, who I have been repeatedly warned against. “They’ll use you, Rose. They’ll pretend they love you and then take every last penny.” But not good old Gertie and Melvin. I can trust them. Insert angry sarcasm here.

I nod. “Of course, Grandma.”

“Good girl. Now don’t ever lie to me again.” She gives me the once-over and hurries off toward the house. No doubt to hide in a corner or under a couch so she can listen in on my conversation with Dr. Hughes.

And just why the hell is he here? After what he said, I never want to see him again.

I inhale slowly and exhale. Mom, if you’re out there listening somewhere, I could really use your help right now. I know she wasn’t exactly sane when she died, but I don’t believe she wanted me to suffer like this. It doesn’t make sense.

I turn and head toward the house.

CHAPTER THREE

When I enter the living room, the fireplace is already crackling next to the grand piano. No one hardly uses this tacky space, with its over-the-top gold curtains and furniture, but my grandmother insists that the gas fire is lit anytime guests occupy the room. Her entire world revolves around putting on a show to impress others.

“Dr. Hughes?” I say, taking in the view of the tall man with wide shoulders standing with his back to me and looking out the window toward the garden. Our yard was featured in one of those magazines for its elaborate hedges in the shapes of swans, bears, and deer. I’d rather have real animals.

“Rose, I’m sure you’re wondering…” His voice fades as he turns and registers my outfit. He’s likely seen Joseph, the guard at the front gate, and Gloria, the head housekeeper, who answers the door.

“Yep. We’re all into matching outfits,” I say, planting my hands on my waist. “You come to join the club?”

“No.”

“Then mind explaining why you’re here?” I know I’m being extra sassy, but that’s how a Southern woman lets people know when they’re not welcome.

For a brief moment, his mouth flaps, and I try not to notice the shape of his lips or how they’re framed by a shadow of short dark stubble. I can’t care what his lips look like. I can’t care about anything other than him leaving as quickly as possible.

“I came to apologize,” he says.

“For?”

“I think you know.”

I toggle my head from side to side. “Mmm…maybe. But I’m much more forgiving after a long cooling-off period, so if you’d leave? Immediately.” If he says anything about me looking for a husband and my grandmother overhears, I’m done for.

I march past him, toward the front door, only to be stopped by a firm hand on my wrist. He jerks me to a halt.

“Hey!” I protest.

“What the hell is going on?” he whispers, leaning in close.

Funny, he smells exactly like I imagined. Expensive coffee, expensive cologne, and clean clothes. I smell like Windex and sweat most days, though it is clean sweat, so I do have that going for me.

“Don’t know what you mean,” I say, trying to wriggle back control of my arm. “But I’m actually very busy at the moment, so if you’d—”

“Not a fucking chance, Rose.” His cold blue eyes aren’t so cold any longer. In fact, they’re showing a whole hell of a lot of emotion. Most of it disturbed. I can tell he’s a stubborn sonofabitch, so he’s not going to leave until I satisfy…satisfy whateverthehell this is.

“You can’t be here,” I whisper. “If you want to talk, I’ll come to your office tomorrow, but you have to go.”

His jaw muscles beat with tension.

“Dr. Hughes,” I growl through clenched teeth, “you have to go.”

I watch those intense calculating eyes. He knows something’s not right.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll leave. But only if you promise to come first thing tomorrow.”

I nod. “I promise.”

He tightens his grip on my wrist, almost like he’s afraid to let go. But I know that’s stupid. This asshole doesn’t care about anyone.

“Just promise me you’re okay,” he says quietly.

My heart almost stops. Almost. I can’t remember the last time anyone showed this much concern for me other than his late father, Murdoc. Those thirty minutes I spent on the phone with him were a lifeline—thin as spider silk—but they gave me hope that I was not alone. This man’s hand on my wrist, his fingertips digging into my skin, feels like a bridge.

“I promise.”

“If you don’t come, I’ll be back.” He releases my arm.

Shit. Not that. “I’ll be there. Eight sharp.”

“Seven thirty. Not a minute later.” He turns to leave.

With a pounding heart, I watch his sturdy frame exit my painting—the dark nightmare I’ve lived in for the last twenty years. But he leaves something new behind. A splash of color. Real, live, three-dimensional color.

CHAPTER FOUR

The red dress… How to describe it other than to say it’s a metaphor for my life. It’s mine, but I didn’t buy it, nor do I own it. It’s simple and elegant, and all the things I’m not but aspire to be. It’s just a dress, yet it’s so much more than what you see. My gateway to freedom.

Standing in what I call the “Pepto guest suite,” complete with pink curtains and pink carpet, I hold out the long flowing fabric to the sides and pivot in the full-length mirror. “This dress is…” I sigh, “gorgeous.”

“It really is.” Milly sighs, too. She’s a short redhead in her sixties, who’s dressed a first lady, a princess or two, and almost every reigning queen of the R&B charts for the last three decades. Milly knows style, and the only reason she’s dressing me is because my grandmother feels the upcoming party is really hers—an opportunity to show off to all her rich friends.

“Thank you, Milly.” I make one last pivot. “I’m speechless.”

“Well now,” she reaches to unzip me, “it’s the least I can do for Lana Hale’s daughter.”

The sentiment in Milly’s voice triggers my curiosity. “Did you know her?”

“Yeah.” Milly quickly strips off my garment, almost like she doesn’t want to talk about it.

“How?”

“She was a client. Long before you were born.”

“And?” I ask.

Milly shrugs. “And nothing.” She pushes the red dress into a white garment bag stretched across the guestroom’s bed. My room is…well, since I turned eighteen, I’ve been sharing a closet with the maid of the week. All part of Melvin and Gertie’s “You must make sacrifices to be worthy of your inheritance” boot camp. Really, they renovated the wing of the house where I used to stay and added an indoor pool. They want it all to themselves and don’t want me taking up any of their “awesome” guest rooms. As for sharing a room, it’s made me realize that the staff hates it here as much as I do. The maids come and go like lettuce in a vegetable drawer. They’re chewed up or they rot, but either way, they’re gone in seven days. Come to think of it, growing up, all of my nannies and tutors were like revolving doors, too. No one ever stayed around long enough for me to grow attached to. I have to wonder if it wasn’t part of my grandparents’ plan to keep me isolated. No one to trust—other than themselves. No one to put ideas in my head to ruin their scam.

I step into my khaki pants and pull them up. “Well, if it’s really nothing, then you wouldn’t have that sad look on your face.”

Milly bobs her head slowly. “Your mother was special. It’s not easy to talk about her.”

Special? “Like…brain-damaged special or extraordinary-person special?” Because as much as I wish she were alive, I can’t understand her. Not even after reading all her books about people, relationships, and love. The most I got out of them was a confirmation that the worlds she fantasied about were nothing like reality. That isn’t to say that I don’t love reading them. Romance novels are my escape. They always have been. But in the real world, princes don’t pop out of trees, sweep you off your feet, and whisk you away to castles. For me, it’s the other way around. I have to hunt down the prince.

“The best way to describe your mother is that she was like a rainbow”—Milly looks toward the ceiling—“from the most beautiful dream. She could walk into a room and make death smile. She…” Milly shakes her head slowly. “She had a spark about her. You have the same thing.”

“Me? I don’t know about that. I’ve always felt invisible.” Of course, that was just part of the con. I’ve been fed so many lies that I’m not even sure who I really am. Loyal. Smart. Hardworking. Too trusting. Yes, all those things. But beyond that? Where do the lies end? Where do I begin?

Milly’s eyes toggle from side to side as if checking for stray ears. “You are special, Rose. And I adored your mother. Which is why I’m going to tell you to be careful. Watch your back,” she whispers.

Huh? “What do you know?”

“I have to go.”

Before I have a chance to beg or plead, Milly has my red dress and is halfway out the door. “I’ll have my assistant deliver it by noon on Friday.”

A shiver spikes through my veins. What does she know?

Maybe she’s heard the rumors about my grandparents’ greed. Because while my grandma would have me believe I will inherit the estate on my birthday, the truth is there in Paragraph 10: Before my twenty-first birthday, I must be married to a suitable man of “good standing, breeding, and character” whom my grandparents approve of. “Approve” defined as someone they introduce to me or who meets their standards. Not that they have standards. Or hearts. But it doesn’t take a law degree to interpret what’s right there in black and white. If I’m not married, the full estate transfers out of the trust—currently managed by some law firm—over to my grandparents until they feel I am “ready for such a great responsibility.” My annual allowance of one million dollars will continue to be used at their “discretion.”

Meaning, like the past twenty years, I won’t see a dime.

Not of the allowance they’ve been squandering away since my birth—at their “discretion.” Not of the hundreds of millions belonging to the estate, including my mother’s book assets or the house.

I know that’s not what my mom intended, but that’s how the will reads. It left my allowance in the care of my guardians. It’s how my grandparents have been able to syphon off my money to pay for private cruises and champagne. The kicker is, through the trust they were given another million to live off of and manage the property—staff, utilities, and upkeep.

So that leaves two questions:

First, why did my mother trust them so much? The truth is, I don’t know. She was a hopeless romantic who wrote about deeply flawed characters who find redemption in love. But those were books. Fantasies. In real life, why entrust your child to such coldhearted, greedy people? Did she honestly believe there was any goodness to be found inside them? She had to know what they were like. They were her parents, for fuck’s sake.

Maybe my mother really was crazy. It’s what everyone says about her when they think I’m not listening.

The second big question is how I plan to take it all back. This is why I went to see Dr. Bexley Hughes. The will states I must marry a “suitable” man, defined as someone my grandparents choose or approve of, before my birthday. The will also states that they must invite “suitable” men to my party. Therefore, under the terms of the will, if I marry any one of the invitees, I win.

If only I knew who these guys are. But that’s why the party is so crucial. It’ll give me the chance to scope out the candidates. Then I’ll make a list and do a little research on each guy. Hopefully, I’ll find a few prospects I can trust, because my grandparents don’t know I’ve read the will, nor do I want them to. I have to keep my plan a secret until the very last minute, or they’ll stop me.

That’s where Dr. Hughes was supposed to help. I pay him for five evening or afternoon sessions a week, he takes the money and says I’ve been at his office—in case anyone asks. Meanwhile, I’m really out on dates during those four hours (a one-hour session plus an hour and a half walking each way). To save time, I’ll leave the estate on foot, catch a cab down the street, and meet up with my date. I’ll do back-to-backs if I have to. If I’m lucky, my grandparents won’t know a thing until my twenty-first birthday, when I appear before the estate executor and show him or her my marriage certificate.

I’m not going to lie; I know this is a long shot. The chance of finding a man I want to spend the rest of my life with this quickly is slim to none. But not impossible. People fall in love and marry all the time. And while love at first sight is rare, it does happen. So yeah, maybe I am asking for a miracle, but after everything I’ve been through, aren’t I due for one?

Sadly, though, even if I succeed, it won’t answer my biggest nagging question: Why did my mother do this? Why the hell would she put me in the care of such sadistic assholes and then hinge my inheritance on getting married?

Hell, she never married. How’s that for ironic?

The more and more I think about this entire mess, the less it makes sense. And why do I feel like my nightmare is about to turn into something much worse?

I pivot toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the pink room and see my cartoon self staring back.

What the hell are you doing? she says to me. She knows I can’t win this. I know it, too. Still, she doesn’t want me to quit. She wants to be real.

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, I’m shivering from the frosty four-mile walk from my house when I decide to stop at that hipster café on the first floor of Dr. Hughes’s building. It’s actually a quaint little neighborhood—tree-lined sidewalks, twinkling lights in all the boutique windows, and people out walking their dogs. It’s the sort of neighborhood where I’d live if I get the choice. I could see myself being happy in a place like this.

But today, I’m feeling raw and drained. Especially after that hour and a half walk. A small cup of hot coffee will, at the very least, get me through the morning. I can’t speak for what will get me through the afternoon when I get home and have to explain to my grandma why I changed my mind about coming back here so soon. I’ll figure something out. I have to.

I step to the back of the line, and it’s a complete surprise when I find Bexley Hughes at the front, ordering coffee.

“And how’s your morning going, Bex?” the girl behind the counter asks, fluttering her long lashes up at him.

Curious, I watch his every move—posture, hands, the side of his face—to see just what sort of man he is. After yesterday’s yo-yo act of him kicking me out and then showing up to my house, I’m not sure. But I do know one thing: He’s married. Will he act like it? Is he a trustworthy, loyal person, or does he belong in the swamp with my grandmother and her avocado tracksuit?

“Doing fine, thanks.” He hands a bill to the hot, young cashier. “Keep the change.”

I closely watch one side of his lips. Will he show her a friendly smile, the kind a person might give a stranger as they board an elevator? Or will his eyes linger on hers for just a few seconds too long while his mouth tells her what he’s really thinking? Because a smile can mean hundreds, maybe thousands, of different things. A smile can be cruel if it’s in response to seeing someone trip and fall. Smile at another woman while at dinner with your girlfriend and a smile can be betrayal. Smile across a crowded room at a stranger who catches your eye, it can be an invitation for sex. I’ve learned a lot about smiles from years of watching the staff and especially my grandparents. Their smiles mean be quiet, get back to work, don’t disappoint me.

“Thanks, Bex,” the barista chirps, smiling.

“Don’t thank me,” he says, “just keep studying.” He turns away from her and occupies himself on his phone.

There’s a brief moment, before she greets the next customer, where her smile becomes stiff, revealing her disappointment. As for Bexley Hughes, I’m feeling encouraged. He completely ignored that girl’s come-on.

“There’s hope for you yet,” I mutter to myself.

“Rose?” Dr. Hughes’s blue eyes find me at the end of the line behind sleepy people on their way to work.

Shit. Did I say that too loud? “Dr. Hughes, didn’t see you there.” My voice comes out higher and happier than normal.

“I’m glad you made it.” He almost smiles at me. Almost.

“Yep. I just stopped here for a…” I reach into my jeans pocket. Yes, the same jeans I wore yesterday. Same red sweater, too. Only, now my red heels are in my backpack, and I’m wearing my beat-up tennis shoes. And I’ve left my money in my sock drawer. This is so damned embarrassing. “I…uh…I’ll see you upstairs.”

I walk outside, enter the small lobby just a few doors down, and hike the stairs to the second floor, where I wait. A few minutes later, Dr. Hughes appears with two cups in his hands.

Oh, the shame. He has no clue how much I hate charity. It’s not because kindness is evil, but because my grandparents have taught me that nothing is free. Everything comes with strings attached.

“No, thanks. I have a stomachache,” I lie.

He holds out both cups. “I need two hands to open the door. The other coffee is for my assistant.”

“Oh.” I take the piping hot cups while he digs out a key and pushes it into the dead bolt.

We enter the small waiting area that has a few chairs and a coffee table covered with magazines—Atlanta Magazine, National Geographic, and something with a big golden retriever on it. There’s nothing notable or fancy about this room, same as his office.

He closes the door behind me. “Of course, if you change your mind, Hailey will be happy to drink her usual Earl Grey.” His eyes flash over to a table in the corner, loaded up with paper cups, tea bags, and one of those electric carafes for heating water. “She’s not much for lattes given her latest dairy-free diet.”

So the second coffee is for me. It’s kind of him, but I still hate charity. I hand him his cup and set the other on the narrow counter just outside the little receptionist window.

“Rose, come on. She’s just going to throw it out.” His lips curl up at the edges. His smile says: You’re being rude.

I sigh. “Fine. I left my money at home, so thanks.”

“You’re very welcome. Would you like sugar? We have packets around here somewhere.”

“No, thank you. I’m not much for sweet stuff.” I’ve become accustomed to a no-frills way of life, all part of my “thou shalt not ask for anything you don’t absolutely need” upbringing.

He pushes open the frosted-glass door to his office, but I don’t move. Instead, we exchange glances for a long moment. Truth be told, I don’t want to go in there and face all of his questions, but I made a deal with him yesterday, and I am a woman of my word.

“Ready to get started?” he asks, his voice even.

I swallow hard, step past him, and go straight to the white sofa. He grabs his supplies from a cabinet in the corner while I sip away. It’s strong coffee, but I can’t remember the last time I had a cup that wasn’t cold, bitter, and from the bottom of the pot.

“Mmm…” I exhale, savoring the nutty flavor in my mouth.

“Good stuff, right?”

I nod with my eyes closed. When I open them again, he’s seated in his black leather armchair. The firm gaze of his blue eyes puts me on edge.

“Rose, I’m sure you know I have a lot of questions about what I saw yesterday, but before we dive in, I want to lay down a few rules. I think it’s important my patients know what to expect from me—should you decide you want to keep coming here.”

“Okay.” I shift on the sofa. The anxiousness in my stomach isn’t mixing well with the coffee.

“First, you need to know that you can trust me. I’m here for you and you alone.”

Bullshit.

“Second,” he says, “I demand complete honesty. If a patient isn’t game, then I’m not the therapist for them. That’s not to say if they’re uncomfortable about a topic that they have to answer my questions, but they do need to communicate. They need to tell me how they feel so I can dog-ear the topic for another time.”

I bob my head. “So they can refuse to answer just as long as they tell you they feel uncomfortable.”

“Yes.”

Doesn’t sound so bad if I were seeking therapy. Which I’m not. “Anything else?”

“My methods can be challenging for some, which is why I ask for obedience to the process, a leap of blind faith, based on trust and—”

“That would be a deal breaker for me.” I don’t do blind faith, obedience, or anything in between. Not anymore.

“How so?”

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about it,” I retort to test his reaction. “You just have to accept that it’s off the menu.”

He leans back in his chair. “Rose, I never ask for anything outside of what’s customary in a doctor-patient relationship. But if a person wants to get the most out of my sessions, they have to be committed to the process.” He leans forward, a stern look in his eyes. “I’m not here to nag patients to work hard and do the exercises, and I’m not here to sell anyone on my methodology. They’re either in or they’re out. Nothing in the middle.”

I’m beginning to wonder why he’s making such a big deal. What is this process of his? I’ll admit it’s got me curious, but I have my own agenda, and it doesn’t involve therapy. I need his help to take back the life that’s been stolen from me.

First things first, though; I have to be sure I can trust him. His father was the only person I’ve ever spoken to about my situation, but at the time, I hadn’t read the will. Now that I know everything, I keep kicking myself. Why didn’t I see the truth? Because it was sitting there, staring me right in the face all along.

I guess the simple answer is that I never could’ve imagined what my family was hiding. Mostly how my grandparents funded their extravagant lifestyle—Rolls-Royces, a vacation home in the Bahamas, shopping for designer clothes in Paris—with money meant to feed me, clothe me, send me to a good school.

All the while I went without. No friends. No semblance of love or real family. When other kids were out enjoying childhoods filled with memories of summer vacations at the beach or hot cocoa by the Christmas tree, I was with nannies and tutors. Sometimes I’d go months without seeing my grandparents, and now I know it’s because they were busy spending my inheritance.

As soon as I was old enough, they started giving me chores around the property. That’s when the big lies started. I was Lana Hale’s daughter. On my twenty-first birthday, I was to inherit everything. Every dream I’d ever had would come true. But first, I had to learn to live without, as my mother had growing up. “Your mother felt it was important you know her roots, where she came from. She wanted you to understand our struggle before you inherit the great responsibility of her empire,” my grandparents always said. They once owned a small chain of grocery stores throughout the South and ended up going bankrupt when my mother was little. They lost everything and were even homeless at one point. But with determination, my mother climbed her way out of the mud and gave her parents a life they’d never dreamed of.

I have to wonder if that’s the reason they don’t want to let go of my money. If their lives were truly once as destitute as they claim, I’m betting they wouldn’t want to go back to it. But they wouldn’t have. That’s what kills me. My mother left them a hefty sum, more than enough for a comfortable retirement.

But no, they want it all and are willing to lie to get it.

The sad part is, I can’t ever get back what they really took from me: a childhood filled with love, compassion, and trust. Ironically, these are the things I am now in search of. Does such a man exist? I plan to find out just as soon as I get Dr. Hughes on board. Just as soon as I know I can trust him.

“Why did you come to my house yesterday?” I ask.

Dr. Hughes runs a large hand through his dark hair, which is kind of long on the top and curls up a little at the nape. It actually looks good on him—goes with his short, well-groomed stubble. Casual meets classic.

I suddenly wonder what his wife is like. Is she his opposite—power suits and immaculate ponytails—or is she more of the Whole Foods, five-hundred-dollar-orthopedic-sandals type?

And why is he just sitting there instead of answering my question? “You said complete honesty is one of your rules, right? I assume it’s a two-way street,” I say, pushing.

He nods hesitantly. “Within the customary patient-doctor boundaries.”

I’m guessing he means that parts of his personal life are off-limits—sexual escapades, details about his marriage, or his porn preferences. Every man has one, so I’ve read in Cosmo, which the cook always leaves around.

“Well?” I cross my arms.

“I felt ashamed for the way I treated you.” He doesn’t bat an eyelash. “My father was grossly unfaithful to my mother, a fact I learned the day he died when he selfishly decided to give his confession to me instead of a priest. He admitted to sleeping with anything that walked. Interns, assistants, coworkers. So when you mentioned you’d met him and sought him out…” Dr. Hughes shrugs.

Wow. Just…wow. I never would have guessed that about Murdoc. He seemed so genuine and passionate. Maybe a little too passionate? Either way, how horrible to learn that about your father right before he dies. But now Bexley Hughes’s behavior yesterday makes sense.

“So,” I say, “when I mentioned I knew your father, you assumed—”

“That you knew him.”

I place my hand over my heart and wince. “I promise I only met the man once, and it was more of a sighting. I sat in an auditorium while he spoke. When I tracked him down, we spoke on the phone. Nothing more.”

“Trust me, after you left, I realized I was wrong. I doubt you’d show your face to me if you were one of his many women.”

“Not unless I was an insensitive psycho. Which I might be, since I’m here. Psycho-therapy is your thing, right?”

He gives me a look.

“Sorry. Bad joke. But just so you know, your father spoke very highly of you. He said you were the kind of doctor he always wished he could be.”

Dr. Hughes’s eyes flicker with sadness. It only lasts a moment, but I can tell that he’s still dealing with the aftermath of his father’s death, which is why I add, “I’m sorry that you had to go through that before he passed. I can’t even imagine.”

“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t break my mother’s heart. You came here looking for help and got handed my baggage. For that, I apologize. And now that I’ve been honest with you, it’s your turn.”

My stomach knots. I’m not him. I’m not comfortable with his kind of brutal honesty.

He continues, “Let’s begin with something easy. I talk; you tell me if I’m right. Okay?”

I toggle my head. “Okay.”

“Good.” He grabs his notepad and jots something down but doesn’t look at me. It feels intentional, like he doesn’t want me to feel pressured or self-conscious. “Your mother was Lana Hale.”

So he Googled me. Well, point for him. “Yes.”

“And she died when you were born?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Your grandparents were given custody.”

My spine undulates with a cold heat. I don’t like talking about them.

“Rose?” he prods.

“Yes. They were my guardians.”

He looks at me with indifference. “And when you told me yesterday that your future depends on finding a husband, you were referring to the abuse they’ve subjected you to.”

“They’ve never touched me.”

“That’s not necessarily what I’m talking about.”

“Then?” I ask.

He scratches his stubble. I kind of hate facial hair, short or long, but it suits him. Maybe because it makes him look less stick-up-the-ass and more like a real man who goes through each day like the rest of us. Hair that needs to be washed, trimmed, or shaved. Razors and shampoo that need to be bought at Target or the grocery store.

“I’m not sure what’s going on in your home,” he says. “All I know is I showed up yesterday, ready to beg forgiveness for allowing my personal life to bleed over into your session, and instead I found a suspiciously hostile environment where my patient is dressed like a staff member and acts like a hostage in a home that everyone knows is the Hale estate belonging to your late mother.” He leans back. “So, you tell me, Rose. What’s going on?”

I turn my head and massage my temples. Sonofabitch. This guy is smart, and he goes straight for the jugular. Still, something about him makes me want to be brave. I feel like he expects it from me and won’t settle for less. “They told me that living like I do is the price I have to pay.”

He frowns. “For?”

I shrug. “Kind of like a humility-slash-work-ethic boot camp—a requirement for me to inherit my mother’s empire and all of the money she left me.”

“I’m not following.”

“That’s because it’s too fucked-up to understand, which is why no one will ever believe me.”

“I will, Rose. I will believe you.”

Will he? Because I sure as hell don’t.

I exhale with a big whoosh. “Well, I was pretty much raised by nannies and tutors. The staff rotated in and out so quickly that I never got to know anyone very well. Plus, it didn’t help that my grandparents always told me to be wary of outsiders. ‘You’re an heiress. All they see is your money,’” I say, mimicking my grandma’s twangy voice.

“That sounds lonely.”

“Oddly, it was normal for me. I didn’t know anything else. And when I asked my grandmother why I wasn’t ever with them, she told me that my mother didn’t want me growing up taking everything for granted, because such a ‘lucky girl’ needed to know how she became so lucky. With work. With sacrifice.” I exhale slowly and tell him how they put me to work in the house to earn my keep, all terms of the will. Once I turned sixteen, I started venturing out more, but not much. I wasn’t allowed to drive, and there are no buses in our neighborhood. By eighteen, I knew I was missing out—I did catch the occasional TV show in the staff’s room, and I read magazines brought in. As soon as I earned my high school diploma, I began asking about college and was told if I wanted to go before I inherited, I’d have to pay my own way. “Then last week, I found a copy of the will. Not the fake they showed me a few years ago. All that work, all the things they said about what my mother wanted for me were lies. They made it up.”

“I have to ask, Rose, why do you think your grandparents chose to do that?”

It’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times. “I think they blame me for killing their daughter. They want to punish me.”

Dr. Hughes stares down at his notepad. “Do you believe you killed her?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you know you didn’t have a choice in the matter,” he says.

“Yes.” He’s not stupid, so I’m sure he gets the fact that had I not been born, she’d likely be here now.

“Is this why you let them hurt you?”

“I don’t let them. Not exactly. I mean…I-I don’t know.” Part of me always knew the situation was all wrong, but I didn’t want to believe they hated me. I just accepted that was the way they were. Both grew up in families that were extremely old-fashioned and religious, where children did as they were told, and parents thought their role was to toughen ’em up. Preparation for a harsh world. “It’s hard to explain to someone who wasn’t there, but I never knew my mother, so my grandparents were the only parents I had. I loved them. I trusted them. So whatever they told me, I believed it. At least, to a certain extent.”

He nods solemnly. “Well, excuse my bluntness, but they’re disgusting pigs.”

I blink at him.

He adds, “Anyone who’d abuse a child’s trust like that is nothing but a piece of shit.”

“Is that a medical term?” I ask.

“It’s an honest description, one we use to describe members of our species who should be flushed away.”

I think I like this guy. And now feels like the perfect time to put my cards on the table. “I’m glad you understand because—”

“Before you go on, you should know that I can’t provide moral support if you’re after revenge—even if I won’t blame you for wanting it.”

“I’m not after revenge.”

He stares steadily at me.

“Okay, I am. But I don’t want them dead,” I say. “I want what my mother left for me. I want her to rest in peace.”

“You don’t think she is?”

I look away. He’ll think I’m crazy if I say the truth.

“Complete honesty, Rose. You promised me that.”

“How long have you been married?” I look closely at his face, trying to gauge the reaction. I want to know if he really means what he says about being transparent.

He lifts his dark brows. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because I want to know.”

“I think the underlying reason for your question is important, especially because you’re steering the conversation in another direction.” He crosses his legs. “So you’re either worried about something or avoiding the topic.”

He’s smart, but that doesn’t mean I can trust him or that he won’t try to exploit me like everyone else. “Maybe I’m just into you, Dr. Hughes, and I’d like to find out how easy it would be to get you to fuck me.”

His soft-looking lips turn into hard flat lines. “You need to leave.”

It’s the answer I hoped for. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, but I need to know if you’re a man of integrity or just some horny asshole who’s going to try to take advantage of me.” I can’t help being a little paranoid. Like it or not, my grandparents drilled this stuff about men into my head.

“That was an inappropriate way to go about it.”

“Yep. So how long have you been married?” Now I’m asking because I really do want to know.

He hesitates for a long conspicuous moment. What’s the deal? It’s a simple question.

Finally he says, “Sophie and I have been together for seven years.”

There. Was that so hard? “Are you happy?”

“I am unquestionably devoted to her and love her. Nothing could ever make me betray her,” he says with a firm bite. “So it doesn’t matter how beautiful you are, I’m not interested in you. Does this answer your question?”

He thinks I’m beautiful? Though I didn’t expect the conversation to head this way, I won’t lie, a tiny part of me really needed to hear it. I don’t get many compliments. The other part of me is disappointed. What woman wouldn’t want a man like him to be interested? But the part of me that needs him, the part of me that is so damned wounded and ready to fight, is relieved.

“Yes. Thank you. It answers my question. Now let me tell you the rest of my story so you know why I’m really here.”

Bex

No amount of experience or education can prepare a person for what I’ve just heard. It’s humanity in its lowest form. It’s greed and treachery. It’s cruelty. Parents, even grandparents, are supposed to protect their children and put them first. So when I hear Rose talking about how she was raised—like a sick version of Cinderella—I can’t help wanting to get up, go to the phone, and make a few calls. Surely what’s been done to her is a crime. At the very least it’s fraud if the family syphoned off the money meant to raise her. But more importantly, it’s just wrong, and it takes everything I have to maintain my composure.

And to think how Rose’s grandmother greeted me so warmly yesterday. Southern hospitality at its finest with “oh, sugar” this and “oh, sugar” that. But I knew the moment I came to the big iron gate that something was off. At first I thought I got the wrong address off the internet, because the guard looked confused, almost panicked, when I asked for Rose and said I was her doctor. He made a few calls and then spoke to someone, I assume one of the grandparents, to ask if he should let me in. Then, when I saw the distress in Rose’s eyes and the way she was dressed—like the maid who’d opened the door—I knew something wasn’t adding up.

Now it all makes sense. Rose’s lack of trust, the quiet rage behind her wide brown eyes, the spite she feels for the world. It’s going to take years of therapy to work through her emotions. Nevertheless, I’m in awe of her resilience. She’s not cowering in a corner, feeling sorry for herself. She wants to fight and take back her life. I have to admire that.

“So,” I say, “let’s talk about next steps and what I think you need in order to—”

“I need a husband. That’s the only next step. That is the only thing that matters right now.”

I stare for a long moment, wondering if I’ve missed something while preoccupied with my own thoughts. “A husband?” Why are we back on this topic again?

“I have to be married in thirty days or my grandparents get everything.” She winces. “Man, that sounds even more ludicrous when I say it out loud.”

“Rose, I’m not a lawyer, but I have to believe the next step, besides getting you away from them and giving you the emotional support you need, should be filing a lawsuit.”

“Lawsuits can be lost, which would leave me with nothing.”

“Have you spoken to a lawyer?” I ask.

“I went to one of those freebie guys downtown, so I don’t know how good he is, but yes. My grandparents have also been consulting a lawyer—the one who’s been in on it from the beginning. He’s an old friend.”

Well, crap. That means whatever they’ve been doing to Rose, or plan to do, hasn’t been without legal considerations.

“What advice were you given?” I ask.

“The will is worded in such a way that only my husband and I—together—can be beneficiaries. Not one or the other, but both. And the only day to claim the inheritance is on my twenty-first birthday. Not one day before. Not one day after. That’s why my only option is to marry.”

“Why don’t you contest the will?” Because clearly her big plan is to find a husband in thirty days. That’s not a good plan.

“I’ve already considered it, and I’ll consider it again if I fail. But I’ve got four weeks to find someone. If I don’t, then yes, I can sue and take my chances.”

“So you just need to marry. That’s it?”

She shakes her head. “Yes. Well, sort of. The man has to be selected by my grandparents, or at least invited to my coming-out party this Friday.”

“Your grandparents get to pick your husband? The same grandparents who have been stealing from you?” I can’t see how Rose will win this.

“There’s some teeth in the language to ensure they’re not shopping at the nearest prison, but yeah.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?” I ask. Because it should.

“They’re only focused on two things: complying, down to the letter of the law, with that will, and showing off to all their rich friends. I think that gives me a good shot because they’re too stuck-up to invite anyone who’s ‘beneath them.’”

In a way, her naivety is sweet and gives me hope. It says that her view of the world and of the people in it isn’t so dark that she’s a lost cause. Because me, I’m thinking about all the ways this could go south on her.

She continues, “After the party, then starts the process of weeding through the men. I have to pick someone I can trust. Someone who really loves me. Because the entire estate goes to both of us jointly. There are no limitations on what he or I can do with the money. So, technically, he could give it all away two minutes into our marriage without my permission. He could spend it on horse races or other women. I wouldn’t be able to do much more than file for divorce and try to take half, but the money could be long gone by then if I’m not careful.”

This situation keeps getting uglier, and I have to keep reminding myself that my concern is for the patient’s mental health. I can’t give legal advice or get involved. But, dammit, I want to. Someone needs to help this woman. She needs an ally who isn’t going to screw her over.

“Rose,” I say, “as your therapist—”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Dr. Hughes. I don’t want therapy.” She goes on about this party happening in two days and how the men there are her pool of candidates. “But my grandparents can’t know what I’m up to. I need you to cover for me so everyone thinks I’m here with you. In exchange, I can pay you two thousand dollars. I know that’s only a hundred dollars a session and lower than what you normally get, but it’s all the money I ha—”

“You’re asking me to take money while you go out on dates?”

She nods.

That’s beyond unethical. Not only does Rose need therapy, but then I’d be lying about giving it to her. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Why? What have you got to lose?”

“My reputation, for one.”

“Well, I have nothing and no one, and I have everything to lose. Everything.”

“I’m sympathetic. Truly. But I can’t—”

“I understand.” She stands.

“Where are you going?”

“Like I just said, I only have thirty days—not a minute to lose. So if you can’t help me, then I need to find a new alibi. Fast.” She’s leaving, and I don’t want her to. Part of me fears if she walks out that door, she’ll never ask anyone for help again. The world she’s in will swallow her whole, even if she finds a husband or has all the money in the world. A person does not get past this kind of betrayal and pain without help. She will always be the poor little girl who was taken advantage of when, really, anyone can see that she’s smart, beautiful, and has the kind of untapped fire I’m guessing comes from her mother.

Even today, Lana Hale is still a household name. I wouldn’t be caught dead reading a romance novel, but I’ve seen a few movies based on her work. The Firefly, about a woman who falls off a cliff and is stuck for thirty days in a ravine, won an Oscar. Yeah, it was a sappy story, but even Sophie—who’s not big on movies—loved the final scene where a firefly draws the attention of a rescue dog and saves the woman. The point is, Rose Marie Hale doesn’t see her potential. With the right person by her side, she can have a happy life. An extraordinary life. Something inside me says that I am the person to open her eyes to that.

“I’ll agree to help you on one condition,” I say.

She blinks those large stunning eyes at me. “Yes?”

“You commit to seeing me once a week. You keep your money and the other days for yourself, doing whatever it is you need to do. I don’t care or even need to know what that is. I only ask that you keep your appointments with me and stick to our rules.”

She inhales slowly. “Wow. Uh…yeah. I agree. I don’t know what to say.”

“Promise you’ll be careful.”

She looks at me with a funny expression. “Why do you say that?”

Because I have experience treating people with a multitude of problems ranging from depression to childhood traumas. And then there are the untreatables.

They’re evil.

Broken.

Capable of almost anything.

“If what you say is true, and I have no reason to doubt you, Rose, then your grandparents aren’t the type to lose gracefully.”

Her shiny red lips part with confusion. “You think they’d hurt me?”

“There’s a saying my aunt Eugenia always uses: A man who cheats at checkers will cheat at chess.”

“Cheating at board games isn’t the same as physically harming me.”

“No, it’s not. But when there’s a pattern, you shouldn’t ignore it. And as I learned the hard way with my father, you don’t really know a person until you do.”

“I get your point,” she mumbles and looks down at her ratty tennis shoes. It saddens me to see her wearing them now that I know she’s not trying to make some grunge-style fashion statement.

Fucking animals. No, not a very professional thing to say, but I’m not saying it. I’m thinking it just like any normal person would. What’s been done to her is beyond cruel.

“All I’m saying is stay on your guard. Any sign of problems, you need to tell me. And…” I clear my throat. “You need to go shopping.”

“Huh?”

She’s wearing the same sweater and jeans from yesterday. “You need different outfits if you plan on dating.”

“Oh.” She runs her graceful hand through the side of her blonde hair. I can tell now that she’s thinner than she should be. It’s not by much, but enough to know she’s not eating sufficiently for the amount of work she does.

I reach for my wallet. “And please buy yourself a sand—”

“No. I don’t take charity.” She holds up her palm. “That’s nonnegotiable. And I’ll pay you for the sessions we do have.”

“Thank you, but I don’t feel it’s appropriate.”

“I pay my way. You either accept that or you’re just adding to my long glorious list of hang-ups.”

I like how Rose isn’t afraid to speak up. Not with me, at least. It shows how eager she is to take control and own her life. It’s exactly what I want for her—to be the knight in her own story, as my asshole of a father liked to put it. No, not everything he said was crap, and this is one of those things.

“Then I accept.” I stand and hold out my hand.

She smiles, and we shake, but something about the way she looks at me raises a red flag. Affection? Or…something more.

I can’t let it go there, though it’s not uncommon when two people enter into such an intimate relationship.

I pull my hand away and maintain my neutral expression. “Same time next week?”

She nods. “It’ll be after my party, so I’m sure I’ll have lots to share.”

This event makes my stomach uneasy. Mostly because these men are handpicked by the two people in her life who wish to do her harm, and I suspect these con artists aren’t going to leave anything to chance.

“I look forward to hearing the details.” I watch Rose leave my office, but it’s not without struggle on my part. I don’t want her to go back to that vipers’ pit. Someone should have stepped in a long time ago and protected her.

“Dr. Hughes?” My assistant, Hailey’s head of brown hair pops through a crack in the doorway.

“Good morning.”

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Excellent. Why?”

“I just saw that woman leave, but there wasn’t anything on the schedule.”

No. There wasn’t. “She’s new. Rose Marie Hale. Can you add her to the appointment book? Thursdays, seven thirty a.m. for the next four weeks.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“If anyone comes here asking about her, take down their information. I’ll handle them.”

“So…you don’t want me to tell them to fuck off—patient confidentiality and all that?”

“Not this time.” I promised to help Rose, and I will, which means I’m committing to lie on her behalf if needed. Yes, Rose was here this afternoon, evening, whatever. Yes, I see her daily. I can’t have Hailey getting involved.

“Alrighty then,” Hailey says. “Your next appointment is here. Mr. Tilden.”

“Thanks. Send him in.”

After a few minutes of niceties and Mr. Tilden’s ramblings about his latest cat phobia, my mind drifts back to Rose. I can’t help it. I’m fucking worried.

I have to do something. But what?

CHAPTER SIX

Rose

It’s Friday evening, and the guests are arriving as I make the final touches to my outfit. My advice? No one should ever underestimate the power of a well-placed dart and a good seamstress. My red dress fits like a silk glove, making my breasts look fuller and my body curvier. Yeah, sure, I want a man who loves me for my insides, but to catch Mr. Right quickly, I have to use every piece of bait at my disposal.

My wavy blonde hair is straightened to a silky shine, I smell nice, and Milly’s assistant, who brought the dress, saw me struggling and helped with my makeup. For the first time in my life, I’m not the orphan stuck in the attic. I am the princess who’s come to claim her throne.

Tonight’s going to be perfect.

I’ve already learned from Ruby, the maid of the week, that despite Dr. Hughes’s worries, I was right about the invitees. There are two hundred and forty-nine guests total. Fifty-seven are eligible bachelors and twenty-two are women my age, all from elite Georgia families. The rest are press or “friends” of my grandparents. Not that they have any real friends. Nor do I care. I refuse to give their lives one more drop of my precious energy.

My focus tonight is finding the man who makes my heart beat fast and who makes me believe that he could love me for more than the money I hope to inherit, while my grandparents tell everyone behind my back I’m worth nothing.

I’ve already heard the staff whispering about how I’m getting the boot after my birthday and that the only reason anyone is coming to this party is because some extremely eligible singles will be here. Seems I’m not the only one looking to score a spouse.

The way I see it, though, the rumors about my lack of fortune are a gift. Any man who shows an interest won’t be after my inheritance. All I need is one good apple, a moment of magic, and I’m home free.

Or you don’t marry an approved man, I argue with myself, your grandparents get full control of everything, and kick you out on your ass. Yes, in this case, the will says they are to hand things over to me eventually, once they feel I’m ready, but that’ll never happen. My grandparents won’t let the estate go once they get full control. “Oops. Rose still isn’t ready. Guess we’ll just have to keep on spending her money!” The only thing that’s prevented this up until now is the legal firm that’s been holding everything in a kind of escrow, only distributing my annual allowance and the estate management funds. After my birthday, everything changes. It’s all or nothing. Gertie and Melvin will have no reason to keep me around since they won’t be worried about me inadvertently fulfilling the terms of the will. This whole thing, the last twenty years, has been all about controlling my life and firmly placing the odds in their favor. No friends. No boyfriends. No idea what’s really in the will.

I can’t even begin to digest the heartbreak and betrayal I feel, but I can’t afford to fall apart right now. I have to hold it together and see this through.

A loud knock on my bedroom door amps up my nerves.

“Rose, your grandmother wants you downstairs for photos,” says a woman, likely one of the newer servants because I don’t recognize her voice.

“Be right there.”

I take one final look at myself in the mirror. I’ve never felt this beautiful in my life. The only thing missing is a glass slipper and a pumpkin carriage. Okay, and a prince. But I know he’s coming tonight. I can feel it.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. What am I going to do? Never in my life could I have imagined the party would be like this. A few hundred gorgeous people fill what’s essentially a ballroom on the first floor of the house. It’s a room with old-fashioned-looking paisley carpet of muted grays, blues, and browns, and expensive impressionist paintings of flowers hanging on cream-colored walls. Fine white china and glowing candles sit atop round tables covered in crisp white linens.

It literally looks like a wedding reception. There’s even a temporary parquet dance floor at the far end of the room, where a tuxedo-clad, twelve-piece band is playing a jazzy but “properly elevated” tune. My grandmother is big on being elevated. I just call it elevator-musicking the hell out of life.

“Well, Rose, don’t just stand there.” Grandma Gertie, who’s wearing a hideous gold dress, waves me over to the corner where she and my grandfather, Melvin, are all standing with a photographer. To their side is my scowling aunt Belinda.

Wonderful. Gang’s all here. I start walking over, trying not to stumble. The room is nearly full, and all eyes are on me.

“Oh, here comes the psycho,” I hear a woman whisper loudly. “I heard she’s on ten different medications.”

My heart nearly stops, and I feel the warmth drain from my face.

“I overheard her grandmother saying,” whispers someone else, “that Rose has to be locked up at night because they’re afraid she’ll hurt them. She even got arrested once for stabbing a maid—they paid all this money to hush it up and keep it out of the press.”

“Shhh…she’ll hear you,” scolds an unfamiliar voice.

I turn my head to see who’s saying these horrible things, only to find the entire room frowning and glaring like they want to hang me from a tree. The ocean of Prince Charmings, in their expensive tuxedos, are no exception.

I feel my heart crack in two and watch helplessly as my dreams of happiness shatter like a mirror that’s been dropped from a ten-story building. How stupid. How stupid I am. Why on earth did I believe that my grandparents would stop at the penniless rumors? I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.

I march towards my family, the hate and rage bursting from the rips in my tattered soul. A soul I’ve patched up over and over again with excuses, naiveté, and false hope.

“What did you tell them, huh?” I snarl at my grandparents but point to the guests. “What horrible lies have you been spreading about me now?”

“Rose, you will contain yourself this instant,” my grandmother growls.

“No! No more containing. No more being obedient and quiet and locked away!” As the rage gathers, the music stops, and somewhere in the back of my mind I know everyone is listening. I don’t care. “Did you tell them that I’m crazy? That I hurt people?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies, feigning innocence.

“Don’t deny it! I know all about your plans to keep my inheritance.”

My grandmother looks at the faces around the room. “There. You all see?” she says, trying to be charming with that sugary voice of hers. “She’s nuttier than a squirrel turd.” She shakes her head with shame. “What we’ve had to put up with—the rage, the outbursts.”

I point my finger in her face. “Don’t you dare! No more lies.” I turn and face my judgment. “The truth is that my mother, Lana Hale, left everything to me, including an annual allowance meant to be used for my care, which they”—I glance at my grandparents—“squandered away on cars and jewelry while I grew up alone, scrubbing floors. The truth is that tonight is actually my coming-out party, which I was supposed to have when I was sixteen. My mother wanted it for me so that I might meet a nice man worthy of sharing my two-hundred-million-dollar inheritance, which I am supposed to receive next month.”

“That will never happen, you lying, rotten little psycho,” hisses my grandmother before amping up the volume for all to hear. “Oh, sugar, your display here tonight is proof of why we kept that money from you—locked away safely in a bank account,” she lies. “But what we should have done is lock you up.”

I suddenly understand that my grandmother, sneaky rat that she is, planned for this moment. She never leaves anything to chance. “You’re a horrible, evil woman. I hope you die choking on all the diamonds you bought with my money.”

“And now everyone sees it, just as clear as day, the abuse we’ve had to endure raising you. I swear, sometimes I fear for my very life.” She fans her face, like she’s about to swoon.

My grandfather plays his part and puts his arm around her to hold her up.

Ohmygod, these two. I can’t even. Is anyone really buying this?

But when I look around at the condemning faces in the crowd, I realize that this is a PR battle she started long, long ago.

Well, fuck her! I’m getting a lawyer and then the truth will come out.

But what if it doesn’t? My grandparents know all sorts of powerful people, including judges.

“Why would you do this to me?” I ask. “My mother gave you millions to live off of. You didn’t have to steal from me.”

My aunt Belinda speaks up, “Listen to yourself, Rose. Listen to what you’re saying. Why would your own flesh and blood, the people who raised you, steal your money? You are a loon!”

“I’m not. I read the will. You just don’t want anyone to love me and marry me so I don’t get the estate.”

My grandmother laughs and turns toward the guests. “Everyone, I’m sure you know that this is not how we intended for this evening to unfold, but as you can see, Rose is unwell. My deepest, most sincere apologies, but for your own safety, this party is cancelled.”

“You can’t do this,” I mutter in disbelief. “You can’t take away my chance to…”

Already the guests are turning toward the exit, and I know I’ve lost. I’ve lost the battle and the war.

This isn’t right. “You have to listen to me!” But no one is, and the mob continues filing outside.

“She’s telling the truth,” booms a loud voice through the crowd.

I look over my right shoulder and find Dr. Bexley Hughes standing there in a tux. What is he doing here?

Bex

I don’t know if this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done or the nicest. Maybe it’s both. Because, despite knowing it’s wrong for a therapist to meddle like this, I couldn’t stop myself. Not when I knew Rose’s plan wasn’t going to work. Her grandparents are vermin—dirty, cunning, and diseased by greed—which is why I strongly suspected they weren’t going to sit on their slippery hands while Rose danced the night away with potential husband material. At our last session, I wanted to warn her. I wanted to tell her she was being naïve, but my own rules stopped me.

After two very sleepless nights, and a long, late-night conversation with Sophie, my conscience won. “I have to step in and help, don’t I?” I asked Sophie, but I already knew the answer. Rose has no one by her side to protect her and ensure this exploitation stops.

With all eyes on me, I speak to the room. “Every word Rose says is accurate. You’ll also be interested to know that I’ve examined her mental state and found her to be very sane, which is a shock given the way her family treats her.”

Rose’s mouth drops open.

“Who do you think you are?” says an older man I assume is Rose’s grandfather.

“Leave at once!” her grandmother barks.

“Now, Gertie, is that anyway for y’all to be treatin’ my nephew?” My aunt Eugenia steps forward with her twin sister, my aunt Virginia. Both are full-figured women with silver hair, dressed in their usual formal attire of outrageously expensive diamond necklaces and plain black gowns. They never were much for fashion, but they love a good cause. Between the two, they sit on the boards of over twenty charities. They’re also richer than sin.

“He’s—he’s here with you?” Gertie asks my aunts.

“You bet your sorry lyin’ ass,” says Aunt Eugenia, who was born and raised in South Georgia like my father and their sister. “And he’s told us every dirty detail about how y’all used this poor girl and took her mama’s money. What I can’t wrap my mind around, though, is how y’all could deprive her of family. Family is all we have worth a spit, but you shut her out like a breeze from a pig farm and then treated her like a one-eyed whore at a church picnic.”

I’m not going to lie. Watching my sixty-five-year-old aunt lay into Rose’s grandmother feels extremely satisfying. I’m itching for a cushy armchair and ice-cold beer right now. Because while I could have delivered a fairly convincing speech, there’s nothing quite like a ball-busting, no-bullshit Southern woman giving a public dressing-down to a piece of shit like this lady.

She continues, “So now, Gertie Hale, I’m going to show you the same kindness and hospitality you showed to your poor granddaughter here. When we’re done with you, you’ll be so poor the field mice will be laughin’.”

“You-you leave my house this instant! You can’t come in here and tell these lies. We raised that girl!” Gertie points to Rose. “She’s an animal. A psychotic, manipulative little liar. And you’re nothing but a stupid hillbilly with a checkbook!”

The room gasps, and my aunt Virginia smiles.

Oh, Gertie, you’re in trouble now. My skin tingles. Never, ever insult or underestimate a Hughes woman. They didn’t become the wealthiest sisters in the state of Georgia by playing nice.

Fair? Yes.

Nice? Hell no.

They don’t like con artists, liars, or cheats. To this day, they still have no idea what my father did, but had they found out while he was still alive, they would have castrated their little brother and thrown him in their private South Georgia lake occupied by gators. And they would’ve done it themselves. No hired henchmen. These two are never to be crossed.

My aunt Eugenia looks right at Rose. “Honey, I have a room waitin’ for you at the Four Seasons downtown. You may stay there as long as it takes for these bloodsucking shit stains to be washed from your life. My lawyer, Frank, will come see you in the morning to discuss the lawsuit and gettin’ back every penny they stole from you.”

Frank is an old, old friend of the family and senior partner at one of the most prestigious litigation firms in the US. Rose’s grandparents are done for.

I look at Rose’s face. Any woman would be in tears at this point, having all her dirty laundry aired out in public. But not Rose. She looks…happy, like she knows the sun has come out to shine just for her.

Rose turns her head and smiles at me.

It’s not the sort of smile I want, because it’s filled with affection. And now I’m sure I’ve crossed a dozen ethical lines, including one I still agree with, even if it came from my father: Our job is to teach our patients how to be their own heroes. We give them the tools, but they do the work. When we cross that line between teaching and rescuing, we only perpetuate their perception of themselves as the victim.

Even if, for reasons unbeknownst to me, he didn’t follow his philosophy, he was right. And I know I’ve broken my own code. But sometimes you just have to be the example. Rose has never seen a knight, so who will she learn from?

I give her a nod, but I don’t smile back. She can’t get the wrong impression. I’m here for her. I see her not only for who she is but who she’s meant to be. Strong. Smart. Beautiful. And now she’s got her whole life in front of her.

My chest warms with pride. My only job now is to help her heal. Without her growing an attachment I can’t ever reciprocate.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Six days later.

I sit in my leather armchair at seven thirty in the morning. I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited to see a patient, but it’s been almost a week since I’ve seen Rose, and we’ve had no communication since the night of the infamous party, which ended up splashed across every tabloid in the country. “Peachtree Cinderella” is the nickname she’s been given by the media. “Wealthy Georgia heiress left to the cruel devices of her evil grandparents.” Overnight, Rose has become a symbol for everyone, especially women, who have been exploited.

There’s a light knock at my door, and I feel a sense of relief wash over me. She’s here. Now I can help her. Because God only knows what she’s endured out there. The pain she’s gone through. I brace myself for the worst—a woman falling to pieces.

The door opens, and she’s literally glowing from the inside out. “Rose?”

She smiles down at me. “Dr. Hughes.”

Rose

Words cannot describe how happy I am to see Dr. Hughes or how grateful I feel for what he’s done for me. If there was ever a knight in shining armor, it’s this man. Because that moment at the party, when I realized how stupid I’d been for believing I had any chance of winning against my grandparents on my own, was my breaking point.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but it’s been crazy,” I say, noting the early morning sun coming through the window, hitting the shelf and a plant he’s wedged between some books. It’s new. And the only personal item in here. I wonder if it means something.

“Please take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestures toward the lumpy white sofa.

Comfortable? Thinking he’s joking, I almost laugh, but his handsome face lacks any warmth—no smile, no friendliness in the eyes. Just a cool calm look. I suppose I can’t blame him for not being thrilled by my visit. Because of me and his little intervention at the party, he’s been all over the tabloids, too. They implied he was my lover. Some even said he was obsessed with me.

His poor wife. She can’t be happy. On the other hand, maybe she’s proud of her husband. What he did took balls.

I sit, and he takes his place, facing me.

“So, Rose, tell me how things are going with the legal case.”

“Well…” I inhale a deep breath. “The outlook seems promising.” I go on to tell him that what’s been reported in the news isn’t entirely accurate. “We’ve told my grandparents to hand over all the assets they purchased with my money immediately or I’ll press criminal charges and come after them for damages, too. The lawyer says the two are putting up a big fight, but he thinks it’s just posturing and we have a good shot at reaching a deal quickly. The best part is the trust handed over what’s left of the annual disbursement to me. My grandparents spent most of it, but it’s enough for me to live off of for a while.” Eighty thousand dollars is more money than I know what to do with. First, I went out and bought myself some clothes. Of course, I couldn’t bring myself to go crazy—I only shopped at TJ Maxx and spent four hundred dollars. Still, I didn’t have a lot of clothes growing up, so compared to what I’m used to, it was a dream come true. Nothing makes you feel like a new woman like new tennis shoes.

“So where are you staying now?” he asks. “In the mansion?”

“God no. So far my grandparents are refusing to leave, but I would never live there anyway. Too many bad memories. I’m thinking of turning it into a home for girls as soon as things are settled.”

“I see.” He grabs the notepad sitting on the little table to his side and jots something down.

“What are you writing?”

“Just a note—things we’ll want to work through, beginning with your feelings about what went on in that house.”

“I have a feeling you’re not going to like this, but I’ve decided I don’t want to talk about any of it.”

“Why not?” he asks.

I shift on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable spot for my ass. “I’ve been living the wrong life since the day I was born. I have zero interest in spending one more second there.” I’m finally free. That’s all that matters.

“But you need to deal with what they did to you.”

“I am. I’m doing it by focusing on my new life. The future is the only place that hasn’t been tainted or touched by my grandparents.” This moment and every moment moving forward belongs to me and only me. “I’m going to finish my degree, travel, and live the happiest life possible. But first, there’s one thing I have to do: find someone to share it all with.”

He raises his two dark brows, and his angular jaw ticks. I see now that his scruff is a bit longer, like he hasn’t been keeping it trimmed, creating a masculine inky shadow along his cheeks and jaw.

As I’m studying him, I suddenly find the two of us locking eyes. It’s the briefest of moments—more than a glance, shorter than a stare—but the tension in the air makes my heart palpitate. The look in his eyes is raw and exposed and suspiciously similar to—

No. I must be misreading him. But then why do I feel like this? Hot. Flushed. Excited.

He abruptly pulls his gaze away and rubs the short bristles of his jaw, making a scratchy sound. “So that part of the story in the tabloids is true.”

I don’t know if I just imagined the wordless exchange between us, so I pretend it didn’t happen. Besides, he’s taken. “If you mean that I still have to get married in order to inherit everything, then yes.”

“How is that legal?” he questions.

“I’m not sure it is,” I say. “But the lawyer believes my grandparents are going to dig in and fight to nullify the will, which will take years of legal battles. He says in the meantime, I can’t let the trust release the money to them, so the safest thing to do is press forward with marrying.”

“And if you don’t marry?” he questions.

“Then they get the money while I contest the will—on the grounds my mother was insane when she wrote it or something.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I refuse to tell the millions of people who loved my mother that she was crazy.” Not only would they hate me, but I’d hate myself. It would destroy her legacy, everything she worked for. Also, it just feels wrong, like talking shit about a person who isn’t there to defend herself. “It’s one thing for me to have my private thoughts about her or have questions that’ll never get answered, but those are between her and me. What kind of person would I be if I dragged her name through the mud just for money?” I’d be like Melvin and Gertie.

“So you’re moving ahead,” he concludes correctly, “even if it means you might marry someone who turns out to be a bad choice.”

He really hates this marriage idea, and I can’t blame him. The chances of it working out are low, not to mention risky. But this is not about the money. My family lied to me, used me, and stole twenty years of my life. I could have been out in the world—going to a real school, making friends, finding myself. I won’t ever get those years back or erase the bitter memories, but I’ll be damned if Bertie and Melvin get to spend the rest of their lives living high on the hog, stuffing their wrinkly faces with caviar when they deserve a cold cell in hell.

Still, that’s not the only reason. The thing I’m not telling Dr. Hughes is that after the party and the ensuing chaos, I began the painful task of trying to piece together the puzzle. My grandparents’ very public betrayal left me with an even greater need to understand why it all happened. Mostly, why my mother placed me in the care of two vultures. I have spent the last three days rereading her final books with adult eyes, searching for new insights into who she really was at the end. Sadly, I found nothing new: Her characters start out being almost villainous and unredeemable. Then, through the transformative power of love, they become good and spend their lives making up for their misdeeds.

Clearly, a ridiculous fantasy in the case of my grandparents. Some people are just bad. They can’t change even if you wish it with all your heart.

Regardless, this doesn’t explain my mom’s actions, and rereading her stories has only made me realize how her absence has left a gaping hole in my heart. I think that’s the biggest reason I’ve decided to fulfill her wishes. I feel like it would make her happy. Or maybe, in some weird way, it makes her more a part of my life.

“My mother wanted me to find love,” I say. “She wanted me to have a partner in life. I want it too.”

“So you’re still getting married before your birthday,” Dr. Hughes repeats, sounding confused, maybe even a little annoyed by my choice. If he were single, I might even say he sounds jealous, but I know that’s in my head.

“Yes,” I reply.

“You know you could just walk away and let the money go. You don’t have to put yourself through all this. You’re smart, you’re young—you can make your own way. You’d be surprised how many people do, and they’re happy.”

I actually thought about running away. In fact, the first thing I did after the humiliating party was get a certified copy of my birth certificate so I could apply for a passport. I figured I would flee to Mexico or somewhere warm and cheap because I didn’t know if I had it in me to keep fighting these horrible people. But when that clerk at the county recorder’s office handed me my birth certificate, everything changed. I had more stolen from me than just a happy childhood and money.

“Did you know,” I say, “that I never saw a real copy of my birth certificate until five days ago and that the one I’ve been using all these years had been altered?”

He shakes his head disapprovingly. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“My father’s name was on the real one, and I’m guessing my grandparents didn’t want him being a part of my life and muscling in on their scam.”

“You have a father. And they kept it from you?” He sounds pissed.

“Yes.”

“I hope you’re planning to file criminal charges because your grandparents absolutely deserve to be in prison.”

“A criminal trial will drag everything out for years and force me to keep reliving my past and thinking about them. If I do that, I’ll end up vengeful and bitter. They win.”

“But you deserve justice and—”

I hold out my hand to stop him. “It’s my choice. They did this to me and no one else.”

“They did this to your father, too. He lost the opportunity to raise you.” He pauses, a concerned look in his eyes. “Who was he?”

“Don’t worry. He wasn’t your father or anything,” I say, meaning it as a joke.

Dr. Hughes glances away. Just for a moment.

Whoa. “You didn’t really think that my mother and your father…”

“No. Of course not.”

“Are you sure? Not even for a second?”

He toggles his head. “All right, maybe for a split second. My father got around.”

My mother did attend a lot of fundraisers and social events in the years before I came along, so it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility that Murdoc Hughes met my mom at some point. But thankfully, Bexley Hughes and I are not related. I’d feel really horrible if we were. He’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever seen and…

No. I put a full stop to any romantic fantasies about him. He’s married. I’m not about to become like my grandparents, who have no scruples.

“My father was a businessman from Chicago,” I explain. “And he’s dead unfortunately. Motorcycle accident about ten years ago.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“I am too. I would’ve liked to meet him. The silver lining is that he was married with two children. A boy and a girl.”

“You have a brother and sister?”

“I know. I can’t believe it.” I never dreamed I had another family out there in the world.

“Have you spoken to them?”

“I want to. I really do.” But what if they’re like the rest of my family, out to use and exploit me? “I’m not ready yet. Maybe I’ll write to them or something after the whole media thing settles down, and I’m married.”

Dr. Hughes’s expression turns stone cold.

“Why do you keep doing that?” I ask.

“What are you referring to?”

“You turn into a slab of concrete when something agitates you and you don’t want me to know.”

“I’m here to help you, Rose. So let’s focus on that instead of trying to get inside my head.”

“But was I wrong?” I ask.

“Tell me about what comes next. What can I help you with?”

His tone makes it clear that he’s not going to answer, which gets under my skin. I thought we were supposed to be honest. Part of me wants to push him just to see what he’ll do, which is why I jump into the next topic. “I met someone. A few someones, actually.”

“I’m not following.”

“These last few days, I’ve been getting flowers and cards, mostly from the guests who wanted to apologize for how they treated me and for the ordeal I’ve lived through.”

“That’s very kind,” he says, sounding unimpressed.

I nod. “It is. Invitations also started showing up. All from men who were at the party.”

“Oh. I see.”

“No, you don’t. Because I have no idea what I’m getting into. I don’t know the first thing about dating or how to sift through these men.”

Dr. Hughes’s expression turns even icier, and now I’m starting to catch on. The colder his look, the harder his eyes, the more emotion he’s trying to mask. That’s my guess, anyway. And if I’m right, it means he’s not at all pleased that I plan to go on these dates.

But why?

A small, selfish part of me fantasizes that he’s jealous, but I slap that part right across the cheek and tell it to sit the hell down. He’s not a philander like his father—thank God for that. Because I need a good, honest, loyal person in my corner. He’s probably just worried that these guys are all gold diggers. And he should be worried. Because I am.

“Here’s the thing, Dr. Hughes—”

“Please, call me Bex.”

I blink. “Why?”

“I think it will foster more meaningful conversations.”

“Do all of your patients call you Bex?” I ask.

“Some.”

“So, like, you want us to be friends?”

He shifts a little in his chair. “I want you to feel you can trust me with anything, including topics you might not even tell a friend.”

I have no friends, because I wasn’t allowed to. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how Gertie and Melvin screwed you in the head and now you have absolutely no clue how to trust anyone.

“All right. Then, Bex, what I need—”

“Just one other thing, Rose, my rules still apply. Just like before.”

Honesty, commitment to his process, and all that. “Okay.”

“Good. Then continue.”

“Well, here’s the thing. I have all these dates to go on, and I don’t know how any of this stuff works. How will I know if any of them are the one? I mean, I know it’s not like in the movies where the woman just locks eyes with the man she’s destined to be with and knows—although, that would be nice, since I have no clue what I’m doing.”

Bex leans back and writes in his notebook, his lips curling up on one side.

“Hey, this isn’t funny.”

“I wasn’t laughing.”

“You were smirking.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And my lack of knowledge is not a joke. I don’t want these men thinking I’m a moron.” I don’t know what to say on a date, what to ask them, or how to make a good impression. Is it even possible after that party?

“Rose, you’re anything but a moron,” he scolds. “Lots of people struggle with dating—also known as the fine art of getting to know a person without making yourself completely vulnerable. And who’s to say these men won’t feel just as nervous being with you? You are a very…” He pauses. “You have a lot to offer.”

I wonder what he was going to say. Smart? Beautiful? I care what he thinks, more than I should.

“But if it’s the right person,” I say, “shouldn’t there be sparks? Shouldn’t I just feel it in my gut?”

“I suppose it happens, but most people get to know each other little by little. First, they establish if there’s a physical attraction, and then they test the waters to see if they enjoy each other’s company—a first date. If that goes well, they test again and again, revealing just a little more about themselves each time. Until one day, they both decide to go for it and commit to the next step. And…I’m giving you dating advice.” He shakes his head at himself.

I smile. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” He smiles too, and I can’t help enjoying it. His guard is down, and he’s letting a bit of himself shine through. The smile line on his right side is deeper than the left, and the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little, too. I’d say he’s adorable, but I won’t go there. Bex Hughes is anything but that. He reminds me of a tall steel building. Strong and sturdy on the outside, but on the inside, there are all these levels and rooms, compartments, if you will. I can tell he’s a complex man by the way he deals with me. He knows how to dig deep, which says there’s a lot going on behind those cool blue eyes.

“Well, I have a lot of dating questions,” I say, “so I’m hoping you won’t be able to resist helping me too much.”

“I would much rather we spend our hour talking about you—your feelings, any difficulties you might be having since the—”

“No. No rewinding. We only talk about moving forward. That’s my rule.”

His blue eyes twitch just a little, and he bites his upper lip. He doesn’t like that idea. “As you like.”

I do like. I review the Cliff’s Notes version of the men I’m planning to go out with and then…

“I actually had my first date already. Last night,” I say.

His jaw ticks, and he looks down at his notepad. “You really are jumping in with both feet.”

“I’ve only got three weeks.”

“You’ve been through hell. You need time to process,” he argues.

“I’ll process after I’m married.” Right now, I need one hundred percent of my energy focused on this. “And that processing will include last night’s date. He asked me to…you know.” I glance at Bex’s crotch.

Oh God. You just stared at the bulge in his pants. What’s the matter with me? It’s substantial, and now I’ll always be wondering how he looks naked.

Bex crosses his legs self-consciously. “I’m not sure what you mean. Did he ask you to have sex?”

I really don’t want to say this out loud.

“Rose, I promise there’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Okay. Fine,” I blurt out. “He asked me to, and I quote, ‘suck his dick’ so he’d know if I was wife material.”

“Excuse me?” Bex’s hand tightens around his pen. He looks disgusted. Or like he wants to kick someone’s ass. Or both?

“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “It gets worse. I was so confused—or I don’t know, shocked maybe—that instead of getting out of the car, I asked him how doing that could possibly determine if I’d be a good wife?”

“Rose…” Bex rubs his forehead. “Once again, I’m afraid to ask.”

“He said he’d know because I’d swallow his cum without making a weird face.”

Bex leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable, which means he’s outraged by what I’m telling him and doesn’t want me to see it.

“And what did you say?” he asks, his tone level.

“Nothing. I think I was trying to connect the dots.”

“Did you?”

“Are there any?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “None that I can fathom.”

“Didn’t think so. But either way, I sat there for a good ten seconds, feeling like I’d missed out on some big relationship secret. Then he reached for his zipper, and I hightailed it out of there.”

“Good. Leaving is always the right choice when a man crosses the line like that.”

“Ah. There, you see? I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist giving me more dating advice.”

“I can’t help wanting to make sure you’ll be safe. It’s only natural.” He shakes his head and jots something down again. “Was he one of the men your grandparents felt were suitable and invited to the party?”

“Yes. Can you believe it?”

“Surprisingly, I can. And I hope you don’t choose someone like him just to satisfy the terms of the will. There are more important things in life than money.”

I shoot him a look.

“Sorry.” He holds up one palm. “I should give you more credit.”

I can’t contain my grin. He gets me. “I think I like this new friendship.”

“Nice to hear.” He dips his head right as the alarm on his phone goes off.

“I guess that means our time is up?” The thing is, I don’t want to go. Talking to Bex is…exciting, calming, feels good? I don’t know.

He stares for a long moment, like he wants to tell me something.

“What?” I prod.

“Just be careful, Rose.”

His tone puts me on edge. Why is he so nervous? I’m the one going on the dates, trying desperately to keep hope alive. “I will.”

“See you next week, then?”

“Charged up and ready for lots more dating advice,” I reply.

“Don’t hold your breath.”

I’d rather hold his hand. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in being my wingman on any of these dates?”

“No,” he says flatly. “See you next week.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

One week later.

I enter Bex’s office at our regularly scheduled time on Thursday morning, completely lost on where to start. So much has happened, and the clock feels like it’s ticking faster and faster. With only two weeks left, I’m beginning to lose all hope that I’ll find the elusive Prince Charming.

That’s because Prince Charming doesn’t exist and you’re a dreamer, like your mom. I just hope Eugenia Hughes’s lawyer, Frank, is as good as everyone says. If I fail at finding a husband, then the entire estate’s control goes to my grandparents. All of it. No oversight. No trust executors this time.

Sure, I might get it back. Sure, I can threaten my grandparents with criminal charges, too, but it means that things will get louder and uglier and messier. My mother’s sanity will come into play, the shameful details of my life will be put out there for the entire world to judge, and I’m sure my name will get dragged through the mud. For the record, I’m already struggling with some of the negative noise filtering into the media—spoiled, rotten, temperamental. No doubt, all things my grandparents are saying. If we get into a full-blown war, it’s going to be a thousand times worse.

The point is, if I don’t find Mr. Right, I have to be ready for a fight, and I’m not. I don’t want more conflict in my life. I just want to be happy and forget about my past. I want my mother’s legacy and stories to be safe from…whatever my grandparents might do with them. Turn them into pornos or bad B movies. I don’t know. Nothing is beneath them when it comes to money.

I enter Bex’s office and find him sitting behind his desk, writing and looking like there’s something heavy on his mind—blue eyes sharply focused and tight lips.

I stand there watching for a moment, mesmerized. He truly is a stunningly beautiful man—made even hotter since I’ve gotten a glimpse of the insides. I just wonder why he feels the need to always be strong and never show his emotions. His very extroverted father certainly didn’t seem that way.

“Are you going to stand there staring at me, or do you want to take a seat?” he says, not looking up from his task.

“Oh. Sorry.” I snap myself out of it. “I didn’t want to interrupt whatever you’re doing.”

“I’m finishing up this insurance paperwork for a patient.” He signs the page. “All done.” When he looks up, his expression completely changes from stern to that emotionless brick wall. I wonder what he’s trying to hide this time. Happiness to see me? Worry because he knows I’m going to tell him about my dates? I don’t have a clue, but I’m starting to develop a love-hate relationship with our sessions. Part of me can’t stop thinking about seeing him. I ache for our conversations. The other part hates that he’s hiding something. Or somethings? I wish he’d be honest and say what’s really on his mind.

“Okay. Let’s just get this over with.” I take a seat on the white couch and receive a poke in the butt cheek. Ouch. “Jesus, why don’t you get a new couch? This one is terrible.”

He watches me rub my ass, which I stop doing the moment I notice.

“Oh, sorry.” I blush.

“No apology needed.” He puts on his mask. “To answer your question, this office and everything in it was my father’s.”

I let his comment settle. “So you’re not ready to get rid of it.”

“I guess not.”

It’s kind of sweet actually. Bex never struck me as the sentimental type, but now the couch makes sense.

“So how do you feel being surrounded by your dad’s stuff?” Bex didn’t hide his anger the day he told me about Murdoc’s deathbed confession. Makes me wonder if keeping this stuff around is Bex’s way of coping. Maybe Murdoc’s things are a reminder that he was more than just a cheating husband? He was a therapist and a father, too.

Bex stares for a long moment, giving me the distinct impression he wants to say something, but once again, he shuts me out. “Let’s focus on you. What’s new in the world of Rose Marie Hale?”

I know this is not how therapy is supposed to work, but more than ever I’m wanting him to open up. “What if I just ask you questions this session?”

He gives me a disapproving look. “Not going to happen.”

I offer my own stare of disapproval, but he doesn’t budge. “Okay. Fine. I went on nine dates, and they were mostly disasters.”

“Nine. So many?” He grabs his notepad and takes his throne.

“No time to waste. Of course, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing on the dates.”

“I’m sure they weren’t that bad,” he says.

Is it my imagination, or did he move his chair closer to the couch? He’s only two feet away versus the usual four or five. Either way, I like it. Makes being here feel more intimate.

“Sadly, I’m being serious. They were all terrible.”

“Define terrible.”

I rush through a summary of each of the men and the dates, mostly because I don’t want to waste my session talking about some of the disgusting creeps I’ve met over the last seven days. I never knew men were so horny. Okay. Yes, I did. I’ve read my mother’s books.

“I’m not hearing disaster,” he says. “Just sounds like you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

“I’d classify five of the dates that way. Complete mismatch. Then there were the four where I completely screwed up. I think my nerves got to me because those were the men I kinda liked. Almost like I was trying to sabotage myself.”

“Hmm…” He jots something down in his notes. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, for example, I’m not clumsy or a sloppy eater, yet I decided to spill an entire bowl of portobello chowder down the front of my dress at a fancy restaurant where my date Chad took me because the owner is his best friend.” To Chad’s credit, his only concern had been for me. He called for napkins, walked me to the bathroom, and then took me straight home when I asked.

“Sounds like you were very nervous,” Bex offers.

“It’s more than that. I did almost the same thing on each of the dates where I was interested in the guy. All except for the last one. Date number nine.” Gustavo.

“If it’s any worse than date number one, the blowjob bully, I’m not sure I can stand listening.”

“Oh no. This one was different. This was like every date I ever dreamed of, times ten.”

Bex’s back straightens. “You mean it was a good date?”

Good doesn’t come close. It was something straight out of one of my mother’s most romantic books, almost too good to be true. Gustavo was one of the few guys who didn’t try to impress me or size me up as wife material. He sent a simple bouquet of wildflowers and a note: I know what you’re going through. So let’s have some fun. No strings.

I was already weary from the other dates. I mean, come on! How much dating horror can one girl take? Especially one like myself who’s never been with a man or had a relationship. I’m literally an infant, or maybe more like a space alien who’s just landed on this planet and doesn’t understand the first thing about positive, healthy, normal relationships. But something about Gustavo’s no-strings approach enticed me.

I clear my throat, not wanting to confess the embarrassing inner workings of my mind, but I need someone to tell me if I should see Gustavo again. Am I being conned? How do I know if my attraction is real? Who do I trust? I can’t shake off a lifetime of Gertie-brainwashing in a few weeks, and my brain keeps telling me that men can’t be trusted. Except Bex.

“I, uh, well…he showed up at my front door—”

“At the hotel?” Bex asks.

“No, actually,” I say with a perky voice—something new to me. “I rented an apartment. One bedroom. Small, quiet, in a secure building just down the street from here.”

“Congratulations, Rose,” he says with enthusiasm. “A place of your own.”

“Yep. And when I get done furnishing it, it’s going to be perfect.” My only problem now is getting used to the fact that I can buy furniture. I’ve lived my entire life going without because my grandparents only provided the bare minimum. If I asked for more, I got the guilt trip about my mother’s wishes or the “Look at all you have, Rose. A beautiful home. A private education. Don’t be greedy.” Every so often, when I managed to finagle little spending money out of them, I saved it. But I’ve always used my money for the things I need, not for the things I want. Now I’m scared that I might become my grandparents, so obsessed with material things. I want to be the sum of what’s in my heart, not what I own.

“And when date number nine showed up, what happened?” Bex asks.

I sigh contentedly, like I’ve just had a taste of the world’s best cheesecake. “He was…” I shake my head. “Handsome with a really nice smile. He took me to Six Flags.”

“Six Flags.”

“Yeah. I’ve never been,” I say.

“And?”

“And I think I want every date for the rest of my life to be at an amusement park.”

Bex smiles, and I suspect he doesn’t mean to. I’ve caught him off guard again.

Suddenly, his full lips flatten, and his brows furrow.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this whole thing?”

“You mean finding a husband and complying with the will?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I wonder why he keeps pushing back when he knows what’s at stake. “I’m sure. I want to find him. I want to start our lives together.”

“But the more time you take getting to know a person, the less likely you’ll make a mistake.”

I can’t tell Bex this, but there’s something deep inside my gut telling me to believe. Have faith and he’ll be there. You’ll find him. Maybe it’s all of the books I’ve read that were written by my mother. Maybe it’s because I’m desperate for proof that my suffering has a reason. I don’t know. I don’t care. But if I give up now, I’m going to lose more than my inheritance. My faith in the world is on the line, too.

“I promise,” I say. “If my birthday rolls around and I haven’t found someone I can love the rest of my life, then I’ll pursue all legal options. I’d rather do that than marry a man I don’t love. The only thing I need is for you to be my sounding board.”

He seems surprised by my request, because he just sits there staring for a moment. “I thought we went over this already; I’m your therapist, not your romance coach.”

“Bex,” I argue, “you’re a man who understands people. My only experience with relationships has been reading my mother’s books—not exactly realistic models for finding love unless you’re a billionaire with a generous heart and a haunting secret. The last one she wrote didn’t even have a romance—I’m still trying to figure that one out.” I scratch the side of my head.

“Sorry, but telling you what I think about your dates is crossing the line—a line I was quite clear about from day one.”

“I realize that, but it doesn’t change the fact you’re the only man in my life…who I can go to for advice,” I add for clarification.

He shakes his head and winces. “Please don’t ask me to do this.”

“I’m asking. So are you going to turn your back and let me marry the wrong guy, or are you going to help me?”

“I already helped you.”

Oh God. He’s right. And I’m being greedy and selfish—two things I never want to become. “I’m so sorry. Yes, you did help me, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you.” I still haven’t digested my feelings about the night of the party because all I want is to throw myself at Bex’s feet and just…kiss his toes or something. I don’t know. He is the first person to stick his neck out for me like that.

“The truth is,” I say, “I’ve really struggled with how to thank you. Part of me feels like I should buy you a car or…write your name in the sky. How is one supposed to thank another person for saving their life?”

“Just like that—you say thank you.”

“And you don’t ask for more favors,” I scold myself.

“You don’t have a lot of people you can trust. It’s understandable why you’d want my input. But—”

“But it’s not your place,” I conclude.

“No. I can’t tell you who to marry.”

I bob my head. “I understand.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not here for you. We can discuss your feelings, the pressure you’re under, any of that. I just can’t make your decisions.”

The strange thing about Bex Hughes is how he comes across so firm and alpha male. He has his principles and sticks to them. But then he turns around and says, “Let’s talk about your feelings”—such a non-manly thing to do. Maybe that’s what I like about him. His dichotomy. I’m gonna care about you, but we’ll do it my way. The manly way.

“Is something funny?” he asks.

“No. I was just thinking about—never mind. So what’s next?” I ask.

“That’s up to you.”

I think it over for a moment. “I have a date tonight. With Gustavo. I also have a do-over with Chad, the chef, this weekend.”

“And?”

“I can’t keep sabotaging myself.” I make little circles over my temples. This whole dating thing is giving me a giant headache.

Bex bobs his head slowly to demonstrate his attentive listening. “I’d try not to make more out of it than it is. You were nervous. You are under enormous pressure to make everything go smoothly.”

“Ya think?”

“Me think. Which is why I’m a fan of processes. You take something big—”

“Like curing my incurable insanity?”

He smiles. “You take something large and cumbersome and break it down into smaller pieces or steps. It makes the unmanageable more manageable.”

I think about it. That is exactly what I need. A process to weed through these men instead of trying to figure out if I’ve found Mr. Right in the space of a few hours during a date.

Okay, so step one, and a requirement to get to step two, will be having a good date. Easier said than done.

Step two: I think, given the situation, I need to know right away if we’re sexually compatible. Yes, that makes me nervous. No, I don’t care how that might look or what people will say. This isn’t the Victorian age, and I’m an adult. Besides, the way I see it, what’s the point of feminism if women don’t get to own their sexuality? A woman should be able to wait until marriage if that’s what she believes is right for her, or have the freedom to enjoy as many partners as she’s comfortable with, all without ridicule or judgment from others.

Step three: Determine if we have the necessary ingredients for a long-lasting relationship. Loyalty, passion, and trust are at the top of my list. I don’t know how I’m going to figure that part out, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. At the moment, I’m barely passing go.

Step four, then, will hopefully be love and marriage.

This is good. I can handle this. Except…I’m realizing I’ve had a good date with Gustavo, so step two is next.

I look at Bex, knowing there isn’t a delicate way to put this. “Got any advice on how not to be nervous about having sex for the first time?”

Bex’s face turns into a monolith of obsidian.

He really doesn’t want to talk about this. I’m about to ask why, even if I know he won’t tell me, when he offers, “I can give you some relaxation exercises. They work well in any tense situation.”

“Excellent. Because I anticipate having lots of those.”

“Let’s do a few now so you have time to practice.”

CHAPTER NINE

I don’t know how to categorize my session today with Dr. Hughes—Bex—other than to say it was refreshing, uncomfortable, and confusing all rolled into one. I can’t put my finger on it, but something is going on with him.

Still, I know I can trust him, and I need that right now. Plus, as ridiculous and insane as it sounds, I really do feel like we’re more friends than patient-doctor. I’d hang out with him even if he weren’t my therapist. Talking to him is easy, and he doesn’t look down on me for my shortcomings. But what I think I like most are those little moments where he allows himself to be vulnerable with me. For example, after our first meeting, he not only stepped up to the plate with an apology, but he revealed a very painful fact about his father.

My doorbell rings, and I look at my watch. Oh no. Gustavo is thirty minutes early. I’m both nervous and excited to see him, but I’m not ready. I’ve decided to skip the makeup, since I don’t really know how to apply it—other than a bit of mascara and lip gloss—but my blonde hair isn’t straightened, and I smell funny. Target had a sale on body sprays, so I bought one. Autumn Holiday. I think it smells like pumpkin pie and gravy, and it’s making my headache worse. Too late to wash it off.

Wearing sweats and a T-shirt, I yank open the door and find Gustavo looking like the embodiment of my ideal Prince Charming: the Latino version with the world’s cutest accent. His short dark hair is messy, his olive skin looks and smells fresh—not at all like a seasonal squash with bird sauce—and his well-proportioned body is accentuated by his snug blue dress shirt and jeans.

“Oh, what is that perfume you’re wearing? It’s making me hungry,” he says.

“I’m glad you like it because I don’t think it’s ever going to wash off. By the way, you’re early.” I grin, because who wouldn’t want to see more of him?

“Sorry. I just couldn’t wait to see you again.” He steps inside and goes in for a kiss.

I turn my cheek. Not that I don’t want him to kiss me—I so, so do—but I’ve never kissed a man or slept with one. And tonight, when the moment is right, I’m hoping to do both. I want to know as much as I can about him, including if we’re compatible in bed, before moving to step three.

I take his hand and lead him to the only piece of furniture in my living room. An antique white couch with a matching chaise lounge. I found it at this cool consignment store for a few hundred, and it called to me. I really don’t know why because it’s not something I pictured buying.

“Hey,” Gustavo points to the new additions to my home, “you got rid of the crates.”

“I wanted to have more furniture by now, but I’m discovering that shopping is not my gift.”

“Mine neither. Which is why my mother does all that for us.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. She decorated all of our houses.”

“All seven?” On our first date, while standing in line for the Devil’s Tail roller coaster, Gustavo told me he has six brothers. He’s one of the middle children at age twenty-six, the oldest being thirty-two. His mother is now fifty, so she started young, but that’s how things were in their small hometown back in Panama.

“Yes. I will invite you to my place next time so you can see. You can also meet Olga.”

“Is that your dog?”

He chuckles. “Olga is my full-time assistant, but she’s also a masseuse, and she cooks food almost as good as my mother. Of course, she makes sure my house is tidy.”

“So Olga is really your…nanny?” I joke.

“No.” He shakes his head. “She’s my personal, full-time assistant, hand selected by my mother, who makes sure we are all properly taken care of.”

I try not to make any facial expressions that will disclose what I’m thinking, but, man, I’m thinking stuff.

“So, exactly how involved is your mother in your day-to-day life?”

He shrugs. “The usual.”

I crinkle my nose. “Honestly, I don’t know what ‘usual’ means.”

He stares for a moment. “I’m sorry. Ob course. Ob course. Those terrible grandparents of yours—it’s easy to forget the things they did to you. You are so…” He waves a hand over my body. “Abundantly educated.”

Why does his accent suddenly annoy me? Ah, because “educated” is not what he meant, and I just don’t have the stomach for playing games.

He goes on, “Let me juss say that my mother is the caring woman I know you will be with your children.”

Really? Because I don’t know anything about what it means to be a mother. I have zero context.

“Does she like waiting on you?” It’s an honest question.

He blinks. “What do you mean? Ob course she does!”

“Oh. Cool.” I bob my head, but in my gut, I don’t feel like waiting on my family is something I could ever do again.

He takes my hand. “Rose, when we have children someday, don’t you want the best for them—to give them everything? Because I know I do.”

I’m on a tight timeline, but he’s moving fast even for me. “Kids, huh? What happened to ‘Let’s just have fun. No strings’?” I tease.

“I meant that. I am a fun, no-strings kind of guy.”

Now he’s just being weird. “Gustavo, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I feel like you’re talking out both sides of your ass.”

He jerks his head back.

I continue, “For the record, I would never judge you for being unsure of what you want, but I won’t be played.”

He stares for a long moment with those almond eyes. “Rose, Rose, Rose.” He grabs me by the waist and pulls me in. “You see right through me.”

“I do?”

“Oh yes. I meant to convince you that I didn’t care one way or another if you wanted a relationship, but how can any man look at you and not want you all to himself? It’s not possible.”

I come with a treasure chest, and something about this guy is telling me that’s what he’s after. On the other hand, he’s extremely handsome. The full lips, the dimpled chin, the charming smile. If God presented me with a husband catalog and asked me to choose based on appearances, I’d pick this guy. Okay, I’d pick Bex. But Dr. Hughes is not on the menu.

I take one step back. “Gustavo, if my eyes made my decisions, I’d be all in. You are just that good looking. But I think you know it and use it to your advantage. Unfortunately, I’ve lost way too much time on people who aren’t genuine, and I don’t have the patience for more.” I pause, reaching deep for the right words. “I want love—the real thing—and I’m willing to do what it takes to get it. I’ll even risk my inheritance if I have to wait to find it. But I cannot and will not waste my time on men who play games or don’t deserve me.”

I suddenly feel like patting myself on the back. After the party, I swore that going forward, I’d take control of my life. I’d speak up. I would never allow anyone to run my life. Speaking up, like I did just now, feels better than I imagined.

“I understand you, Rose.” He nods slowly. “I do. So please don’t tink I want you for your money. I’d take you penniless.” He cups my cheek with his warm hand. “I have money enough for us both. And if what I have isn’t enough to make you happy, then I’d work for more. I don’t care.”

His words couldn’t be more perfect, but I don’t feel like he’s completely genuine. Almost like he’s just playing a role.

Or…you’re trying to sabotage yourself again. I want to smack myself in the forehead, because that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m inventing a reason not to trust him when all he’s guilty of is playing it cool a little.

I place my hand on his freshly shaved face. It’s smooth. Maybe too smooth, but I’m not going to marry a man for his shaving rituals. It’s all about the heart. “I know what I’m about to say might be breaking every dating rule in the book, but I know what I’m looking for.” Down to the smile. “All I need to know from you is if we date for the next two weeks, and you still want me at the end of it and I still want you, will you be ready to marry?”

His brown eyes gloss over. “Yes. Absolutely.” He swoops me up in his arms and spins me, kissing my face—cheeks, forehead, chin. “I wanted you the first moment I saw you in that ballroom.”

He sets me down and grips me by the shoulders. “You don’t know how happy I’ll make you. Me, my brothers, my father, and especially my mother are all so excited about bringing you into the family. She is not an easy woman to please, but she has a feeling about you.”

His mother? That’s a little odd. And I don’t like how he’s already talking like it’s a done deal. It feels…off.

Don’t sabotage yourself, Rose. He’s nice. He’s hot. Just follow the processes. Yes, the process.

I gather myself and get my bearings. “Just to be clear, though, I’m not proposing to you. We’re not engaged or anything. I was only talking about hypotheticals just in case things go well, which I hope they do.”

“As do I. Which is why I wanted you to know what to expect.” He gives my nose a playful poke. “Whoever I marry becomes a part of my big loving family. I must be sure you’d be okay with that, si?”

I love it. I do. And I’ve always wanted to be a part of a family like his. My mind drifts to a scene where we’re all sitting around a big table filled with enormous plates of food. Everyone is talking, eating, and laughing. It’s the sort of moment I didn’t have growing up, and I want it. I want to be a part of passionate discussions over coffee and dessert, where people pound their fists on the table and make drama, but they ultimately end the night with hugs and forgiveness.

“Rose, I know you and I only juss met, but I’m about to open my first nightclub in Miami.” He takes both my hands and cups them in his own. “This is my dream, and all that’s missing from my life is the perfect woman by my side. By the way, I juss bought a house on the beach, furnished with everything you could ever want.”

I clear something sticky in my throat. “Miami? Nightclub?”

“Salsa. Techno bossa nova. Reggaeton. Flow.”

“Salsa techy what?”

He waves his jazz hands toward the sky. “It’s going to be the biggest Latin music club in the country. It’s going to have vibe rooms and five different concept spaces to flavor the music.”

“That sounds…exciting?” I smile and shrug.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he asks.

“Sorry. I’ve never been to a club, and I’ve only danced in my bathroom—to oldies, the only clear station I could get on my broken radio.”

“This is wrong!” He takes my hand and starts tugging me toward the front door.

“Where are we going?”

“To rectify this situation. Immediately.”

“You mean a dance club?” I ask, fearing he’ll say yes.

“Ob course.”

“But I’m in my sweats.” I dig my heels in to halt our movement toward the front door.

He stops and faces me, his eyes glittering with adoration. “And you will still be the most beautiful woman there.”

I really hadn’t planned on going out like this, but if he doesn’t care, then why should I? I mean, isn’t this what I want in a man? Someone who doesn’t care about what I’m wearing or how much money I have. Or don’t have. I want to be loved for what’s in my heart. Honestly, this is a huge point in his favor.

And, well, fuck it. I’ve always wanted to go to a dance club.

CHAPTER TEN

“Ohmygod, I can’t. I can’t!” Gustavo pulls me back onto the dance floor for the tenth time tonight. And even though I’m in sweats and tennis shoes and a few people stared, I’ve still had the time of my life. My feet, on the other hand, are throbbing.

“Yes, you can. You must!” He laughs, pulling me along.

“Okay. But this is the last one.” Not only am I stuffed from snacking on chips and salsa and those fried cheese stick things, but I’ve had two mango mojitos. I never drink. Ever. Nor am I twenty-one yet, but Gustavo’s friend owns the place, so we were given the VIP service, including our own table. No doubt about it, tonight has been one big hedonistic adventure. Even the club—with its enormous indoor palm trees, three separate dance floors, and live band—is something to remember.

Gustavo takes my hands and threads his fingers into mine. Like he showed me in the quick lesson earlier, I keep my hips loose and my shoulders still. Mostly, I just try to follow his steps. He goes back; I go forward with the opposite foot. He steps to the side; I mirror.

I love the way he maneuvers his strong body, especially how his pecs and biceps bulge and flex when he moves his arms. And I can’t say enough about his ass. It’s hard and tight, like two beach balls under his jeans. Every time he turns around, I can’t look away.

He pulls me into him and grinds his hips in a circle against me. I follow, enjoying the light friction and sensual movements. We have insane chemistry. I just don’t know if that will translate into love.

Ultimately, the only way to find out is to take the next step forward. And then another. Just like Dr. Hughes said.

Suddenly, an image of Bex standing in his tuxedo the night of the party flashes in my mind. There was a look in his eyes I’ll never forget. Fearless, determined. So incredibly hot.

Rose. No! I’m confusing gratitude with something else.

I refocus on my task at hand: step two with Gustavo.

“I’m getting a little tired. Would you mind if we call it a night?” I whisper in Gustavo’s ear, followed by a coy grin and wink. I’m hoping he gets the gist.

He pulls back to look at me, but he doesn’t seem excited. More like uneasy.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

He stares for a long moment, which makes me nervous. Maybe he doesn’t want to have sex with me. Or he misread my come-on?

“Do you want to come back to my place?” I ask.

His silence and lack of enthusiasm suddenly makes me feel like the world’s biggest moron. Ohmygod. “Are you one of those super-religious guys, and now you think I’m a slut?”

“What? No. I just don’t think we should—”

“Um…” I point over my shoulder, feeling all the more humiliated. “I’m gonna go now.” I’m sure there are plenty of cabs outside. If not, I can try Uber for the first time.

“Wait. No, I’ll take you home.”

“You really don’t have to. I mean, I understand if you’re not feeling it between us.” It’s just weird, because up until thirty seconds ago, he seemed to be really interested.

“I’m juss a little nervous,” he says. “That is all.”

He’s nervous? Him? My mind jumps to what Bex said about me not being the only one who gets anxious on a date. Stop thinking about Bex!

Still, he had a point: Guys get nervous too. Maybe Gustavo is worried that I won’t like sleeping with him. Performance anxiety or something.

I smile reassuringly. “You have nothing to be nervous about. Not with me. Can we go now?”

He nods hesitantly and takes my hand. His is cold and clammy.

Wow, he really is anxious. It’s kind of sweet. As we weave our way through the crowd and the hundreds of gyrating bodies, I force myself to focus only on Gustavo. I don’t want a certain therapist popping in and out of my thoughts when I should be getting ready to enjoy my first time and assessing how I fit with this man.

Gustavo and I step outside onto the nearly empty sidewalk. The night air is cold, and a few people are standing around smoking cigarettes. A couple leans against the front of the stucco building, making out.

We turn to our right, toward the parking garage where he left his black Lexus sedan with tinted windows. The car seems a little…I dunno. Too mature for a guy his age? But what do I know?

I let out an involuntary brrrr sound. I have no body fat except on my chest, and I hate it. I get cold way too easily. I’ve been eating more these past weeks just to gain weight because I want to erase decades of bitter memories.

“Are you cold?” Gustavo asks.

“Just a little.”

“I’m so sorry. My jacket is in the back of my car. I should have brought it in with me.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t die.”

He chuckles nervously. He must be cold too, because I can barely keep up with his brisk pace.

We turn the corner and head toward the pedestrian entrance of the garage. All I can think about is getting back to my warm apartment and—

“Yo, hey. Gustavo!” a man calls out from behind us. “Where you going, man?”

We both turn our heads, and it’s a rotund Latino man wearing a gray T-shirt and a black baseball cap.

“Oh shit.” I freeze. He’s got a gun.

In that moment, my focus turns into a blur of images, noises, and thoughts. I don’t know what to do, and apparently I’m the only one because Gustavo takes off.

What the…? Words cannot describe how shocked I am—even more so than the fact there’s a huge fucking man pointing a gun at me as I stand alone on a dark side street at two in the morning.

I look at the guy and hold up both hands while he stares with a predatory gleam in his eyes. Shit. I can’t believe this is happening. It doesn’t feel real.

“I don’t have any money on me,” I say. “Not even a credit card.” It’s a lie. I brought a twenty and a debit card. They’re both inside my bra because I didn’t want them to fall from my pocket and I didn’t bring a purse. But the last thing I want is for him to touch me or to draw attention to that part of my body.

“Then it’s your lucky day,” he says, his voice gravelly and menacing. “I don’t want your money.”

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I blink rapidly and feel my heart knocking against my chest wall. Because if he doesn’t want money, then there are only two other things left for him to take. My body or my life. Yes, it occurs to me that he might want both.

Okay, think fast. He’s a big man, definitely overweight, so there’s a chance I could outrun—

A loud boom cracks through the air and thunders through my eardrums. The man drops to the ground, his hands limp to his sides. Blood spills from his chest, discoloring his light gray shirt.

“Ohmygod.” I step back and cup my hands over my ringing eardrums. He’s been shot, and I’m not the one who did it, so…

I whip my head over my left shoulder, seeing nothing, and then look to my right. There, on the second floor of the garage, is a silhouette pulling back a rifle. It’s dark, but I’m close enough to see the man removing some sort of headgear. I can also see the familiar outline of the two shoulders I’ve been watching for the last four hours.

“Gustavo?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bex

As a man, I feel it’s my obligation to be a protector. As a therapist, it’s my job to instill confidence and keep a level head. But when Rose storms in before my first patient of the day and tells me about her date, I don’t know how to react other than to feel a sense of rage. Whatthefuck? “Did you just say that your date shot someone?”

“Everything I tell you is protected under patient-doctor confidentiality, right?”

“I…I…yes?” Honestly, I’d have to look it up. It’s been years since I’ve read the rules of exclusions. For the purpose of my patient’s safety however, I nod. “Sure.”

“Then, yes. I watched him take a guy out. With a rifle. In the dark of night from like, shit, I don’t know, a hundred yards away.”

“Rose, if this is a joke, I’m not laugh—”

“Look at my face, Bex. I’m being one hundred percent serious.” Her face is flushed and her breathing rapid.

I don’t know what to say, because I somehow feel like this is my fault. I should have insisted Rose give up on this speed dating/marriage idea. “Please tell me you went to the police.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Not only was her life threatened, but someone was killed. Leaving the scene puts her at risk with the police.

“Because when a man saves your life and asks you never to tell a soul, you do it.”

“So Gustavo asked you not to tell anyone?” That has fishy written all over it.

“He can’t get mixed up in any kind of legal issues or scandals. The state of Florida is doing a background check, and if they see his name in the papers or find out he shot someone, they won’t give him the permit for his nightclub in Miami.” She runs her hands through her hair. “That club is his dream, and I can’t take it away from him.”

“Maybe you should, Rose. Legitimate businessmen don’t drive around with rifles.”

“He said he forgot to put it away in his safe. He’s been taking lessons—just a precaution because of all the nightclub shootings. He said he wants to be prepared to protect his staff and patrons in case anything ever happens.”

“Fucking hell, Rose, that sounds too convenient. And what about the man? Who was he?”

“Gustavo said he was some guy who used to be friends with his older brother. Got involved with drugs or something. But why am I getting the impression you want to blame Gustavo? He saved my life.”

He might have killed someone for you, but that doesn’t make him a hero. What kind of man has a weapon and night-vision goggles ready to go? A psycho, that’s who. “Did it occur to you that maybe the man who was shot was really there for Gustavo and that you wouldn’t have needed saving if he weren’t involved in unlawful activities to begin with? You need to stay away from him.”

“I thought you were my therapist who didn’t believe in interfering with my life.”

“Rose, listen to yourself. He’s likely the one who’s caught up in drugs. Or maybe something worse. And here you are trying to…” I see the judgmental look in her eyes. “All right. Fine. I’m interfering because—and correct me if I’m wrong—it sounds like you want to keep seeing him.” And I’m pretty sure the guy’s a bad apple.

She throws her hands in the air. “I don’t know! Okay? I’m still a fucking mess because I just saw some guy die. Side note, this would be a sweet-ass time for you to do your job and help me calm the fuck down.”

She’s right. I am supposed to be here for her, but instead, I’m thinking about how I don’t want her going on any more dates. Especially with this guy. She’d be better off here with me.

My own thoughts hit me like a shock wave. What am I saying? I don’t have feelings for her. I’m just concerned, that’s all. And it’s perfectly natural to want to protect those who are in your care. Especially Rose, who’s so eager to find love. I suppose that’s also what makes her so incredible. I’ve never met anyone who’s been through so much and still managed to keep an open heart. On the other hand, I am overstepping my bounds and trying to interfere when what I need to do is help her process the event, diffuse her emotions. Then she’ll be more rational about this Gustavo man.

“All right,” I say, “let’s get your head in a better place and then we’ll talk more about last night. Why don’t you try one of the exercises I taught you?”

She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, followed by a slow exhale. I showed her how to positively visualize herself responding to situations. “If you want to be calm, see yourself in the moment being calm. Step outside your body and watch it happening. If you want to be confident, see that,” I had said.

Rose continues her slow breathing and, after a few minutes, opens those big stunning eyes.

“Better?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Good. And I’m sorry. You were right. I am not here to tell you what to do. I’m here to help you. So let’s talk about how you’re dealing with watching a man die in front of you.”

“How am I?” she asks rhetorically. “Who the hell knows? I mean, there I was, having the best night of my life and then boom! Literally.” She makes a noncommittal shrug. “I guess I’m okay. Honestly, maybe that’s what bothers me most. The whole time, I just kept thinking that I wanted this man dead. I was looking for a brick or broken bottle—anything to defend myself, because I would rather die than allow one more person to steal something from me.”

“And after he was shot?” I ask.

“Relief. I didn’t have to kill him myself.”

“And after that?”

“All your usual shock-like responses, I guess. Disbelief. Worry that it could happen again. The man knew Gustavo, so what if it isn’t some over-and-done-with deal?” She shakes her head. “I should’ve asked him, but I was in too much shock. I just wanted to get as far away from that alley as possible, go home, and take a hot bath.” She looks at me and worries her lower lip. “A man dies, and all I want is to take a bubble bath. Does that make me a monster?”

“I think the important thing to remember,” I say, “is not to beat yourself up for feeling one way or another. In situations like these, your emotions can swing from one end of the spectrum to the other. Fear, anger, guilt, mistrust. What I want you to do when you get home tonight is write down everything you recall about the incident and, while doing so, describe in detail how you were feeling.”

“Easy enough…freaking out, freaking the fuck out, and freaking the holy fuck out.”

“Then write that down and circle the words related to fear.”

“Why those?” she asks.

“Because while you may see this experience as a traumatic situation you want to forget, I see it as an opportunity for you to confront your fears—to take you one step closer to being the knight.”

She crinkles her brows. “Are you saying I should use the incident to empower myself?”

“Exactly. As for Gustavo, I don’t want you to see him again—”

“That’s a hard no.”

My eyes twitch with irritation, and my lips flatten into two lines. I know I’m angry and showing it, but I can’t help it. All I can think of is making sure she doesn’t see that guy again. He’s clearly dangerous. With her luck, he probably likes to chop up people into pieces or something.

“You’re a grown woman,” I say with a tinge of anger. “And far be it from me to tell you how to run your life.”

“But?” She crosses her arms over her ample chest, and I have to force my eyes to stay up.

“But you said you want my help, which I’m now giving. And, moreover, we have an agreement. Honesty. Trust. Obedience to my process.”

“I never agreed to that last one,” she snaps.

“Yes, you did. Within the boundaries of our relationship and my process. And right now, I’m telling you to stay away from this man so I can do my job properly.” Fuck, what the hell am I doing? I know I’ve just lied to her, pretending that I have some mysterious, therapeutic reason for telling her to stay away from that man, when, really, the only thing I want is for her to be safe.

“Okay. But I’m still going to call him. I have questions, and I’m not as convinced as you that he’s lying.”

I don’t like it. Not even a bit, but I know I can’t stop her. “Fine, but no physical contact.”

“For how long?”

How’s forever sound? “Give it a week. Let your emotions settle and allow us time to discuss everything with a calmer frame of mind.”

She stares with those hypnotic brown eyes, and I fear she sees through me. I don’t want to lose her trust. She needs me, and I can help her. But this? She wants to date, possibly marry fucking Dexter? Not on my watch.

I stare with unwavering determination. She has to see how serious I am.

“Fine.” She throws her hands in the air. “You win.”

I don’t release the breath I’m holding because there’s no reason to tip my hand. She can’t know how pissed and worried I am about this.

She adds, “Besides, I have some more dates this week, so that will keep me busy.”

I flinch on the inside. Fucking great. More dates.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Waylon

Man. Fucking man. The goddamned shit I do for my “friends.” I knock on the door of this chick’s apartment, holding a bouquet of roses in my hand. This is not the sort of crap I do. Girls. Flowers. Hand delivery. But Gustavo said he’d do me a favor if I did one for him, and this girl refuses to see him for some reason. Maybe because she’s smart?

I hear light footsteps approach the closed door, the dead bolt clicks, and the door swings open.

Jesus. I nearly dump the flowers in my hand. She’s drop-dead gorgeous and has intense brown eyes that make me feel like…I don’t fucking know. Like I’m watching the end of some sad-as-shit war movie, where the guy is dying and remembers all the people he loves—his mom and the girl back home. I don’t know. But looking into her eyes feels like that, until she notices the flowers in my hand and smiles. It’s a smile that feels like looking at the most fucking gorgeous painting in the world.

“Those for me?” she asks.

My heart slams against my ribs. This girl is hotter than any woman I’ve ever seen. Fuck. Who is she?

“Uh, yeah.” I scratch the back of my head and look down, handing over the bouquet and a note.

“Oh. Wow.” She takes them and inhales their scent with that perfect delicate nose.

As I watch, all I can think of is how she should be on the cover of a magazine. No. Fuck that. She’s too beautiful. If she were mine, I wouldn’t want other guys jerking off to her picture.

“Oh. Hold on. I’ll get my purse,” she says, leaving the door open.

Purse. For a tip? I’m about to laugh, but that wouldn’t be cool. Babe, I’ve got a mansion on each coast, one in Paris, and millions in the bank. But I am not going to pass up an opportunity to look at her some more, so I wait in the doorway.

“Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” I say, eyeing her as she bends over and shuffles through her purse, which is sitting on a chair by the dining room table.

I’m not a fucked-up pervert who objectifies women. It’s not about that. The thing is, I love the hell out of art. Started out doing graffiti on highway overpasses when I was twelve. At sixteen, when my mother ran off with some drug dealer, I started stealing so I could feed my little sister, who was nine at the time. My dad is a mystery. Never met him. So we were on our own, but I did what I had to and kept my sister and me together. It’s amazing what a kid can get away with as long as he has money to pay the rent. In our neighborhood, no one noticed, let alone gave a shit that my mother hadn’t been seen around. The school didn’t care much either. Just as long as we didn’t get in trouble, which we didn’t, and they had no reason to believe we were fending for ourselves.

By eighteen, I got a real job and filed for guardianship of my sister—some goody-goody free attorney helped me with that.

At twenty-two I got a reputation, a good one, and now I make upwards of one mil per job. I love taking art, but I’ll steal anything for the right price, except shit from the US government. Hey, what can I say? I’m a fucking patriot. And I love my dollars, which I happen to have a lot of and wouldn’t dream of undermining. In God and the almighty dollar I trust.

“I’m so sorry. All I’ve got is a five.” She walks back over to the doorway, hands me the bill, and smiles.

I can’t explain it, but looking in her eyes feels good. Like she knows me, and I know her. Who the fuck you kidding, man? Look at that sweet face and body. She’s not the kind of woman to date a thief, even if I’m the best.

I take the bill and dip my head. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

She laughs. “Ma’am? Oh, God. Please don’t tell me I look that old?”

Isn’t that just fucking like me? Foot in damned mouth. “No. Sorry. You look great. Spectacular even.” I push my glasses up my nose. It’s a façade. Preppy, shy guy on the outside, down and dirty asshole on the inside. It’s a cover I’ve perfected over ten long years, hiding my true life—first my and my sister’s parentless situation. Now it hides my profession. But respectable pretty boy, I am not.

“Ohmygod. You’re so cute.” She giggles.

“Cute?” I raise a brow. That sure is hell isn’t how my acquaintances would describe me. Cunning. Efficient. Smart. Never fucking cute.

“Sorry.” She holds out her hand, and I notice her long elegant fingers.

“That’s it.” I point at her. “You remind me of a Botticelli, The Birth of Venus.” Yeah, that’s exactly it. And it explains why she looks so familiar. Venus has this lost look in her eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s love or sadness. But it’s one of my favorite paintings in the world. I plan to steal it soon. “Sorry. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, I just happen to love art. And you definitely remind me of that painting.”

“Really?” She runs those long fingers over her collarbone. I greedily watch every second of it. “I think you’re just trying to get more money out of me, but you’ll be sorry to know that I’m fresh out of cash, so your compliments are wasted.”

I like how her smile is warm and genuine as she tells me to fuck off. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I actually meant what I said. No hidden motives.” Except to see you smile again, baby.

She delivers, and I’m fucking drilled—holes right through my damned heart. We’re vibing so hard that I forget I’m doing a favor for Gustavo. The fucking hit man. And when a dick like that asks you to do something because you just happen to be in town and he’s busy on a job, you don’t say no. Unless you want to be the next asshole on his trophy wall. Plus, I know his skills will come in handy someday. Like me, he’s the best at what he does.

Which is why I’m walking away now.

“Have a good day,” I say, ready to leave and ignore the amazing attraction I feel for this woman. For the record, I’ve never wanted a woman like this. Instant connection. But whoever she is to Gustavo, he doesn’t fuck around. So if he wants her, that makes her off-limits to me.

“Thanks. You too,” she says.

I step into the hallway, and screw me, but with every damned step I take, I feel the urge grow. Can I really never see her again? Just one cup of coffee. A dinner. Something. It’s crazy as hell, but I’ve never looked at a woman and wanted to know everything about her.

Don’t you do it. Don’t you fucking turn around, man. She’s involved with Gustavo.

On the other hand, I am a thief.

I turn and offer her a charming smile. “I know this might seem strange, but would you like to go to Florence with me next week? I have two free passes to the Uffizi Gallery and two prepaid airline tickets. I won this raffle thing on the radio, and my little sister was going to go, but she’s got finals to study for.”

This tall blonde goddess stares at me, and I can’t figure out what she’s thinking. Normally, I can figure out anyone. It’s part of what makes me good at my job.

“Sorry.” I hold up my palms. “I just came across like some weird stalker. I just… Have you ever had a feeling about someone?”

She blinks at me but doesn’t respond. Not at first.

“Yes,” she finally says.

“Yes, you’ve had a feeling, or yes, you think I’m a stalker?”

“Yes, I’d like to go to Florence with you. I should have my passport in a few days.”

Whatthefuck? She said yes?

I try to play it cool. “I, uh…uh…great. Give me your number and email. I’ll send you all the details.”

She laughs. “How about a name?”

“Yeah, I guess I need your name, too. For the ticket.”

She chuckles again. “No. I meant your name. What’s your name?”

Oh. I stretch out my hand. I’m Gustavo’s new target if you tell him a thing. “Waylon.” I shake her hand. “I’m Waylon Jones.”

“Rose. Rose Marie Hale. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Waylon.”

Rose

Uh. What just happened? This hot flower-delivery guy shows up at my door, smiling at me, and I just melt like a fifteen-year-old girl? And I agreed to go to Italy with him.

I close the door behind Waylon after exchanging our information. This is insane. Why did I say yes? Especially because something in my stomach is telling me I should have said no. He’s not even on the list.

Wait. What am I saying? I go sit on my white sofa and stare out the window with a view of the street below. A woman, a dog walker I presume, is outside with three small dogs and a golden retriever who couldn’t look happier—bounce in its step, tail wagging, nose high in the air, and enjoying life.

Okay, you know it’s time for a little self-reflection when you wish you could trade places with a dog. Clearly I’m at a crossroads I should have seen coming. I promised myself I wouldn’t marry a man just to satisfy the will, and I won’t. But I’ve also been so focused on making sure my grandparents don’t get their hands on the estate that I never considered dating men who aren’t “approved.” What’s the point if it means letting those a-holes win?

But am I really willing to miss out on the possibility of love with the right man, even if it means taking a more difficult path—walking away from my inheritance or fighting for it? It’s a question I have to answer, because in less than two weeks, I have to make a choice.

The thing is, part of me feels like if I contest the will, I’ll be betraying my mother. It would mean letting go of this part of her that’s always been hovering in the background, watching over me. It sounds crazy, but at the time, thinking my life had been by her design always gave me a sense of peace. Yeah, I was alone a lot. Yes, I felt tired sometimes from all the work I had to do. But that was what my mom wanted. She wanted to teach me something from beyond the grave.

All that turned out to be a lie, of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that it made me feel connected to her in some small way.

Oddly, after I found out the truth, I felt closer to her than ever. She never wanted me to live like that. She’d wanted me to be looked after and loved. Maybe this thing about marrying before my twenty-first birthday is my way of honoring her. It’s what would have made her happy. So when I think about deliberately considering a man who’s not on the list, I feel like…like I’m turning my back on her.

Then there’s this other part of me that says she never knew what I’d be up against. She would have wanted me to be loved by a good man, because it’s what I would want for my own daughter. I’d tell her to throw caution to the wind, get caught up in a whirlwind romance, and run away for a weekend with a handsome man to Europe. Get swept off your feet and fall madly in love. That’s what I’d say because it’s what I want for myself. I mean, how many times have I sat there staring at an attractive guy, a stranger on the street, wondering if he’s the one. So now that I’m finally free from my grandparents’ mental prison, shouldn’t I be searching for my epic fairytale, like I’ve read about in my mother’s books?

Or maybe you’re being naïve like she was, I scold myself. She was obsessed with romance, so much so that she died alone.

I often wonder if it’s because her standards were so incredibly high that real men couldn’t compete. Her heroes were all perfect. Perfect smiles, bodies, and hearts. Even the ones who start out all messed up evolve into the perfect man by the end of the story. But I’m not looking for Mr. Perfect. I’m looking for Mr. Perfect-For-Me.

So, Rose Marie Hale, what are you willing to sacrifice for him? An image of my grandparents in that house, counting piles of cash belonging to me while they laugh at my mother’s memory, racks my mind. I instantly feel the bitterness of their cruelty and lies sawing me down the middle.

No. I can’t let them get away with this. They can’t win. Which means I’ll call Waylon tomorrow and tell him I can’t go. If after my twenty-first birthday I come up empty-handed, then it’ll be a different story. But I couldn’t live with myself if I made it easy for good ol’ Melvin and Gertie.

I look at my watch and realize it’s almost seven o’clock. Crap. I really want to call Bex right now. I need to hear his voice—for the reassurance that I’m making the right choice about sticking to my plan, of course. Nothing more.

Unfortunately, I have a do-over date at eight with Chad, who’s one of the guys on the list. His parents own a chain of high-end steak houses, and he’s currently studying to be a chef. He seems like a really nice person, but I didn’t get the chance to talk to him much on our first date since I spilled soup down my dress. I hope tonight goes better since he invited me to some fundraiser dinner at his parents’ restaurant.

I eye my cell phone sitting on my kitchen counter. No. No Bex. You can wait to talk to him. Besides, if I call now, he’ll get pissed. This isn’t an emergency.

On the other hand, he said he’d be there for me.

No. No! You’re a big girl. And you have a date. No more thinking about Bex. Think about moving forward. Finding Mr. Right and living happily ever after.

But why do I feel like something big is holding me back?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I’ve made a special effort tonight with my outfit: white sleeveless, sling-neck blouse that shows off my cleavage, black satin capri pants, and red heels to match my lips for a little color. This outfit isn’t something I would normally wear—a little tight and a lot sexy—but I’ve never been to a fancy steak house. Actually, I’m one of the few people in this world who can count the times she’s dined out on one hand. I’ve definitely never been to a fundraiser either.

My Uber driver pulls up to the front of the restaurant, where tons of people are standing around outdoor gas heaters, laughing and mingling. A banner posted over the front door says “Winter Luau for Leukemia,” and everyone is wearing board shorts, tank tops, straw hats and other beachwear.

Great. Chad didn’t mention this is a themed event. And for the very first time in my life, I’m overdressed.

The next morning, as I’m drifting between a state of wakefulness and utter agony, I reluctantly acknowledge the sun shining on my face through a window.

“No, go away,” I grumble. My head feels like there are ten boom boxes thumping inside, and my eyes can’t seem to focus on anything. “Owww…” How much did I drink?

I take a moment and swipe away a few tequila-flavored cobwebs from my head. Okay, I went inside the restaurant. Met Chad—superhot, green-eyed, stepped-off-the-cover-of-Sexy-Chef-magazine, with tattoos on his arms Chad. He offered me a fruity drink with an umbrella. I said, “I’m not twenty-one yet.” He said, “No one here will tell.” So I drank it. Then another. There was a limbo contest somewhere in there. Then another drink and lots of laughing and flirting and… “No!”

I jackknife upright and look to my side. Chad. Naked. Passed out next to me.

No, no, no. I reach for my crotch, hoping to God that I did not sleep with this man. I will absolutely murder myself if I had my first kiss and lost my virginity but was too drunk to enjoy it.

I touch myself, relieved that I’m still wearing panties. I push gently, and everything feels right. No soreness. I scoot over and peek at the white sheets. Clean.

Yes! I sigh with relief, knowing that very few twenty-year-old women these days would celebrate this hard over maintaining the old v-card, but I promised myself never to drink and fuck. Not that I’m judging anyone who’s ever gone there. I once read that eighty percent of all people, at one time in their lives, engage in a one-night stand after one too many drinks. After last night, I can’t turn my nose up at them, but I do not want to miss one of the biggest moments of my life.

I look down at Chad’s short brown hair that spikes up a little on the top. He has a cleft chin, sensual lips, and gorgeous brows. He is a pretty man.

My head pounding, I have to squint to keep looking at him. I need liquids and painkillers. Something.

Wait a second. Where are we? I look around the room. The hotel amenities binder on the nightstand is a dead giveaway.

Oh, God. I can’t believe I got a room with this guy. I mean, yeah, I have no problem sleeping with someone, but I want it to be a sober, conscious choice because I feel like we have the potential to complete the steps.

Step one: a good date (aka the chemistry test).

Step two: incredible sex (aka the sexual-compatibility test).

Step three: determine if we have the necessary ingredients for a long-term relationship.

Step four: love. Marriage. I hope.

Last night does not count for any of them, though I remember having the best time with Chad. We laughed. He talked about food. We played games and drank too much. Still, I need a real date in order for us to get to round two.

I get up, cupping my hands over my bare breasts. The elephant in the room is that I’m topless, so clearly we messed around.

Dammit! Would it be weird if I hope he kissed me anywhere but my lips? My first kiss is something else I want to remember.

I spot my black satin pants hanging over the back of a chair by the window. My white blouse is wadded up on the floor. A vague recollection, almost like a snapshot of us playing truth or dare, flashes in my mind: Chad stripping for me, slowly removing his T-shirt and blue Bermudas. I remember thinking how he’s the master of seduction. The way he turned his body and flexed his muscles as he smiled playfully and removed his clothes. I clapped and laughed all the way to the end when he took off his boxers.

“My first penis,” I mumble with a smile under my breath. I saw my first penis last night! If only I could remember the details. The only thing sticking is that they are a lot uglier than I thought. Rough—or maybe the right word is textured? Either way, I remember it looked like a long mushroom with veins.

After that, it had been my turn to strip. I did it.

“Where you off to, Rose?” a deep voice rumbles from the bed.

I glance over my shoulder as I slide on my pants. “Uh. I have an appointment with my therapist,” I lie. I’m not due for a session until next week, but I need to see Bex. There are a hell of a lot of emotions swimming around inside me, and one of them is guilt, which makes zero sense. What do I have to feel guilty about? I haven’t done anything wrong.

“Okay,” Chad says, “but don’t forget, you promised to come to that competition with me next week.”

I grab my blouse and pull it over my head, wondering what the hell I agreed to.

“Uh…” I turn and face him. Green eyes glitter behind a curtain of dark lashes. And that smile of his—dimples for days. Where does he get off waking up looking so perfect? I bet I look like I was run over by a garbage truck.

I clear my throat. “I think I had a little too much to drink last night.”

He slowly sits up. The sheet is covering his penis, and the dirty part of me is disappointed. I want one more look at my first live dick.

“We both did. But it was fun.” He runs a strong hand through his hair, making his tattooed biceps flex. He’s a beautifully built boy. No doubt about it. And I love that his ink is all about the food.

Oh! I remember now! He has his grandmother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe on his left arm. He said that when he was seven, he and his grandma baked cookies together. That was the moment he knew he wanted to be a chef, just like his dad. When he got older, he worked in their first restaurant, but every time he wanted to experiment or try something new, his father told him, “This is my restaurant. You want to cook your own food? Get your own restaurant.” That’s why Chad is going to culinary school.

“So? Are you still coming or flaking out on me?” he asks.

I’ve already decided that I won’t forfeit my inheritance to my grandparents unless I have to, which means I can’t go to Italy with Waylon. Unlike Chad, he’s not on the list. It’s not about the money; I just can’t stomach the thought of Gertie and Melvin getting control of my mother’s entire estate—book rights and all. They can’t be trusted. But like I said, if my birthday rolls around and I’ve come up empty-handed in the “approved” husband department, then I’ll have no choice but to contest the will. Then I can date whomever I want.

The sad thought of leaving my mother’s dying wish unfulfilled washes over me. I have to stay hopeful. I have to try to find a husband.

“Um, where is the competition again?” I ask Chad.

“Napa, California.”

“Oh, now I remember.”

He grabs the sheet, gets up from the bed, and comes over to me. “Rose, what’s going on?”

“Sorry?”

“You look like you’re fleeing the scene of a crime.”

I hate that he says that. Reminds me of my date with Gustavo.

“I thought we clicked last night,” he adds.

Oh boy. I have no experience with any of this stuff. “Chad, I’m so sorry. I know we had a lot of fun, judging from how I woke up and by how badly my head hurts, but I’m not going to lie to you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not looking for a one-night hookup. Did we kiss, by the way? And if we did, how was it?”

He frowns. “We didn’t kiss. You wouldn’t let me. You said you’d get naked though.”

Well, at least I have standards. “I’m betting you think that’s a little weird, but I can explain.”

“Rose, you told me everything,” he says. “And I don’t think it’s weird that you want to wait a little. I get it.”

“So I told you about my…” I glance down at my meow, as it’s called in several of my mother’s funnier books.

“That you’re a virgin? Yes. You also told me how you only have a few weeks to get married and that I’m on this list—” he makes little air quotes “—of yours.”

“So why didn’t you run away?” I ask.

He blows out a breath. “I was at your party. I saw the entire thing, and I know how it feels to be an outcast like that, to not be accepted by your family.”

“But I thought you were studying to be a chef so you could—”

“Work in the family business?”

“Well, yeah,” I say.

“You really did drink a lot last night. I’m a vegan. I have been since I was six and discovered where meat comes from. I don’t think it’s right to kill animals, which is why my parents and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

Suddenly, a conversation we had, right before we passed out almost naked in each other’s arms, pops into my head.

“Ohmygod.” I cover my mouth. “You’re a stripper on the side!”

He cocks his head. “Yes. Just like I told you last night, Rose.”

“Oh…” Now I remember. We got to drunk-talking during the party, and he told me his dirty little secret. He then promised a private show, which is why we came here. When he told me it was my turn, I went for it. I think I was trying to be supportive, like…Hey, it’s okay if you’re a stripper. See, I’ll take off my clothes to prove it. Silly. But I do remember we both laughed the entire time.

“My parents won’t help pay for my vegan culinary school, so I’m paying my own way, and it’s not cheap. Being a male entertainer is the only way I can earn money and have time for classes.”

“I get it. I do.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice filled with skepticism. “Because you look like you’re struggling with it.”

We lapse into an awkward stare.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “It’s just that I don’t remember everything.”

“So last night meant nothing to you.”

I don’t know what last night meant. Here’s this guy, so good-looking that he probably gets hit on five times a day. He comes from a well-to-do family and wants to be a chef. He loves animals. He seems like fun and…well…a fantasy. A hot, animal-loving chef.

I clear my throat and look down at my bare feet. I still don’t know where my heels are. “Chad, I want to get married in about two weeks if I find the right guy. On top of that…” I swallow hard, coming to a startling realization: With every step forward I take, my situation becomes increasingly complicated. Chad isn’t the only guy occupying my thoughts. But to lie to him or myself wouldn’t be right. I want to be honest. “I’m not planning to be exclusive. I can’t afford to be until I’m sure I’ve found the one I’m ready to be with.”

With one hand gripping his sheet, he takes the other and rests it on my shoulder. “Rose, I meant what I said last night. I get you. I get what it feels like to be fighting for the life you want, and I’m willing to take this”—he toggles a finger between us—“wherever it’s going. Another date. Five more dates. All the way to the altar if that’s where my heart leads. I’m okay with anything as long as it’s real and we both want it.”

“Where the hell did you come from?” I mutter. Because his response is exactly what I want to hear.

He shrugs. “The same place as you. One hell of a fucked-up family. But I won’t ever let it define me, and I sense neither will you.”

How can one night with a stranger lead to this very real, very honest moment? I feel like he and I are almost the same. Or at least in the same place in life. That said, we don’t really know each other, but we do have a connection that’s unlike anything with the other guys I’ve met.

“What do you say, Rose? Two days in Napa. Then you decide what’s next.”

I nod without even thinking about it. “I’d like that.”

He runs his thumb over my bottom lip and beams at me with those green eyes. Despite my massive hangover, my stomach knots in a good way.

“Are you really a stripper?” I ask.

“I prefer male entertainer.”

I bob my head. I won’t judge him for it. He’s doing what he has to. Not everyone is born into this world with a family who provides for them. Love. Food. Support. A child can starve in more than one way.

“Do you sleep with any of these women?” I ask.

“Only when I really like someone. Never for money or anything like that. I just happen to meet a lot of really attractive ladies in my line of work. And I’m a man.”

“Okay.” It’s an honest answer.

He adds, “But when I’m in a relationship, I’m in it. No fooling around.”

I believe him. I think? Okay, I don’t know. Maybe that’s why at this very moment I keep thinking about Bex. I need to talk about what’s going through my head.

“I gotta run.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder.

“See you next week?”

“Yeah.” I smile. “You will. But can you help me find my shoes first?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bex

“Rose? Rose is here right now?” I say to Hailey and look up from my desk.

“She doesn’t have an appointment,” Hailey says, “but Mr. Aspen cancelled his nine o’clock, so you’re free for the next hour.”

I look down at the pile of paperwork in front of me. I’m a week behind, but if she’s here, it’s for a good reason. “Show her in.”

Rose enters with such a flurry that I can almost feel the wind on my face. She’s wearing an extremely sexy outfit—tight, shiny black pants, sexy red heels, and a low-cut blouse. For a moment, I’m unable to tear my eyes away from her large pillowy breasts.

“Bex?”

I snap my eyes up to her face and try to mask my inappropriate thoughts. The problem is I think she’s starting to grow on me in more ways than one.

“Rose, how are…you?” I notice the worry in her large brown eyes. Something’s happened. I bet she went to see that fucking guy. I feel my face heat red with anger, and my shoulders tense up. “What is it?”

She points to the couch.

“Of course. Sit,” I reply.

She doesn’t sit. She crashes on her back. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” She covers her face with her hands.

I rise from my desk and grab a pen from the holder. I don’t have her file handy, so I reach for a piece of white paper from the printer behind me.

“Take a deep breath, Rose.” I’d benefit from one myself. Seeing her like this is triggering me. Rose has been through her fair share of suffering already, and I’m not okay with anyone subjecting her to more of it.

She inhales sharply and exhales with a whoosh. “Are you in your chair yet? Please tell me you’re in your fucking chair, Bex.”

“Almost.” Though I don’t really see why that makes a difference.

I grab my clipboard and take a seat.

She cracks open an eye. “Took you long enough.”

“What happened?” I ask, my tone unintentionally abrasive.

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“What did he do to you, Rose?” Because I’ll fucking kill him if he touched you. To my shock, I mean every word. As a professional who’s committed to helping others, there are many things I can tolerate: stupidity, narcissism, a general lack of empathy. I can tolerate ninety percent of mental illnesses. It’s why I’m here. But when it comes to thoughts of anyone harming her, I find myself unable to stay calm. I want to find the guy and fuck him up—not a very doctorly thing to do.

Rose

Stretched across the infamously lumpy couch, I wring my hands, wanting to tell Bex everything, but I don’t know how. My feelings don’t make any sense.

“We made a deal—complete honesty,” Bex says with a hint of a growl. “And you stormed in here without an appointment, so stop the bullshit. What happened?”

He sounds angry, but my head is spinning so damned fast, I don’t stop to ask why. I suppose he’s just annoyed with me, coming in here and demanding his time like some entitled princess.

“I think I’m fucking this up, Bex. I have less than two weeks to go, and every turn I make feels wrong.” I’m betraying my heart, betraying my mother, or betraying my morals. What I want is to fall in love with the right man on my own terms when I’m ready. But how can I do that if it means turning my back on my mother’s wishes? Or worse, letting my grandparents take control of the estate and then dealing with all the ugliness that would follow, including a horribly public legal battle? “I don’t know what to do.”

Bex’s armchair creaks under the weight of his large body. “I’m listening.”

Meaning, “Get to the point. Don’t waste my time.” Okay, but where to start? From the beginning.

“I did what you asked with Gustavo. He called three times, but I told him I couldn’t see him yet. Needed time to process.”

“What did he say?” Bex asks, sounding less agitated.

“He begged to come over so we could talk. When he realized he wasn’t going to win, he stopped calling.”

Bex’s shoulders drop, and he rests his pen—not the gold one, but some plastic Bic thing—on top of his clipboard. “So you haven’t seen him.”

“No.” I rub my eyes, disregarding the fact that I still have on last night’s mascara and that I’m going to look like last night’s trash panda, too. “But he sent flowers yesterday, so I’m sure he’s not throwing in the towel.”

Bex doesn’t comment, so I tilt my head in his direction to gauge his expression. I’m surprised because he usually covers himself in a sheet of ice when I talk about things that upset or displease him. This time, he’s not keeping his emotions inside. His eyes are hard, and his jaw is ticking with tension. He’s definitely on edge.

Still, I don’t let it deter me. I tell Bex about Waylon’s invitation to Florence, and how conflicted I feel because it’s forced me to think long and hard about my choices—what I’m afraid I’m giving up just because of my need to see my grandparents walk away empty-handed. I then move on to Chad. I give my very narrow recollection about waking up naked with a man I don’t know.

“So you slept with him,” Bex states. Not a question. Not a nice tone. In fact, it sounds like he’s accusing me of something.

What’s with him? And why is that the piece of this he wants to discuss? Nothing about the conflicted feelings and resentment I just mentioned.

I have to wonder if my being here is more of a nuisance than he’s letting on. Maybe I’ve overstepped some big boundary, or he feels like I’m taking advantage of his kindness. I don’t know, but a part of me doesn’t care. This morning when I woke up, the only thing I could think of was that I needed to see him. So, yeah, maybe I am being selfish for once.

I sit up, plant my red heels on the floor, and stare with intent. “You’re breaking your promise.”

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“You said you’d be here for me.”

He leans back, and I feel those cold, calculating blue eyes drilling into me. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“No. You’re not. You’re sitting there like some passive-aggressive asshole judging me.”

“I think the correct definition is good old-fashioned anger.”

“Why? What have I done?” For the life of me, I don’t know why he’s this mad. Just because I didn’t have a stupid appointment? Then he should have had his assistant send me away!

“Are you going to tell me what happened or not?” he says curtly.

“Not until you tell me why you’re pissed.”

“My job isn’t to discuss my feelings, it’s to discuss yours.”

This time the fact he’s shutting me out feels like a betrayal, and something inside me goes off. “Wrong. Your job is to help me love myself. And I’m pretty damned sure I won’t ever get there if my own damned doctor treats me just like they do because they blame me for my mother’s death. But guess the fuck what? You and they can hate me all day long, but none of you will ever come close to the extreme amount of self-loathing I have for robbing myself of my own mother. There is no possible punishment, torment, or sickness you could wish on me that I haven’t already wished on myself!”

Whoa. I don’t know where this is coming from, but I suddenly feel a little lighter—like the years of guilt and shame, which were used to keep me docile and quiet, needed to get out. The weird thing is, I know I couldn’t have admitted those dark thoughts to anyone but Bex.

I gaze into those powder blue eyes, and I feel it. The connection I’ve been searching for in these other men. Bex sees me. He cares. It makes me feel like we belong together. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. No, no, no.

I jerk to my feet. “I have to go.”

“Rose.” He stands too and steps forward.

“I can’t see you anymore.”

“Rose…?” he growls like a warning.

“Goodbye, Dr. Hughes.” I turn and leave that place as quickly as possible. I can’t want him. I can’t. And yet…I do.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two days go by, and Bex hasn’t called. He hasn’t come to see me either, and I’m glad. The thing is, I refuse to become that woman. The one who tears apart a marriage, a family, her own dreams. Pursuing a married man is where I draw the line. Besides, he’s not even on the list, and it’s only a little crush.

Plenty of fish in the sea, too. Right? Just these past two weeks, I’ve already met three men.

Gustavo, who is fun and passionate and…okay, the jury is still out on him. I’m not sure I believe his story about the guy in the alley or the gun. On the other hand, I was in so much shock that night, maybe I need to hear his explanation again before shutting the door on any possible future. What if he was telling the truth? Then I’d just be dismissing the man who saved me from a situation he had nothing to do with. According to him, it was his older brother who’d gotten mixed up with some bad people, not him.

Then there’s Waylon. I’ve already texted and said I can’t go to Florence. Maybe after my birthday? But I keep flip-flopping on my decision. He’s cute, clean-cut, and the kind of guy you could bring home to mom. Just an expression, of course. But he loves art, he clearly likes to travel, and there’s a definite attraction between us. No, he’s not on the list, and I’m not ready to give up on marrying before the deadline, but who’s to say how things will work out?

Finally, there’s Chad. Animal-loving, tattooed, hot-chef Chad. I won’t dock him points for being a stripper, but I won’t lie either; if we got serious, I’m not sure how I’d feel about sharing him with all those women, and I know he’s a pay-my-own-way kind of guy. Meaning, he wouldn’t let me help with his tuition even if I had all the money in the world. So that leaves me asking the question: Could I live with him being a stripper until he graduates and gets a real job? I’m not sure. Of course, if our weekend in Napa proves him to be more than just a fun time, I’ll have to consider it.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at my still undecorated walls, my mind slowly drifts back to my therapist—or ex-therapist? I don’t know if I’m thinking straight about what happened. I’m aware it’s easy to mistake feelings of trust for love when you’re sharing intimate pieces of yourself. Maybe I just overreacted. Either way, I need to sit on it for another day. And I definitely need to talk to Gustavo. And…Crap. I have another date tonight. His name is Markus.

I can’t do it. I can’t handle adding another variable to the mix right tonight. I grab my cell from the nightstand and dial Markus. I’ve never spoken to him live, but he’s on the list and texted me after the party. I think he got my number through the rich-people grapevine.

The phone rings and a deep, velvety voice answers with a hello.

“Markus, hi. This is Rose Hale.”

“Rose, I hope you’re not calling to cancel on me.”

“Oh, uh. Actually, I sort of am?” I feel like a turd, but how can I go on a date with him? I’m spinning too many plates as it is.

There’s a long stretch of silence on the other end.

“Hello? You still there?” I say, wondering if he just hung up.

“Yeah. I was just debating if I should make you feel guilty or let you off the hook.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m actually relieved,” he finally says.

“You are?”

“My sister wouldn’t stop bugging me about asking you out after that party.”

“Ah. So you just did it to shut her up.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “You’re an attractive woman, but I’m really more of the outdoors type. Hiking and camping. That kind of stuff.”

I chuckle. “Are you saying I’m too high-maintenance for you?” That’s pretty funny actually. I’m about as high-maintenance as a pet rock.

“Well, you were wearing a ten-thousand-dollar dress that night—according to my sister, who saw the dress and knows about these things.”

It cost ten thousand dollars? I quickly shove away my anger, given where the money came from. My grandmother bought it for my cousin Teresa.

“That was a hand-me-down,” I inform him, “and I happen to enjoy being outdoors.”

“Then it’s a shame you’re canceling our date because I was planning to take you on an evening hike up Stone Mountain for some stargazing. It’s pretty spectacular.”

Hmm… Not that it matters now, but he never mentioned that in his texts. “What were you going to do if I’d showed up for our date in heels and a dress?”

“Take you shopping for thermals, jeans, and tennis shoes?” He laughs. “Okay. I lied. I was really going to take you to dinner for our date and call it an early night, then go on the evening hike with a few friends.”

“Oh my god!” I laugh. “You were going to ditch me after dinner?”

“Pretty much.” He chuckles.

“What a guy.” But he is honest. I’ll give him that much.

“Had I known you were more the nature-loving type, I definitely would have planned to take you on the hike. Which I’m still going on, so you’re welcome to join us.”

I just turned him down for our date, and he invites me anyway? I think most men would call it quits. “You’re bold, Markus. Point for you.”

“Bold makes me think of those guys who like outrageously expensive cars and suits. I’m more of a calm, low-key, straight shooter.”

I don’t know much about Markus other than his family owns some golf courses. Maybe that’s another reason I wasn’t too excited about the date. Golf isn’t my thing, though very few things are. I haven’t had the chance to figure out all my “things.” I know I want to finish college, I love to read, I want to travel, and I enjoy the outdoors.

“So what do you say?” he asks. “And by the way, if you say yes, I’d feel more comfortable if we didn’t call this a date.”

“What would it be, then?”

“Just four people going on a hike with a telescope. And warm clothing. And maybe some hot chocolate, but only if you decide to come.”

I admit, his offer of hot cocoa is tempting. Plus, since this isn’t a date, I feel like it might be just the sort of thing to relax me. “Fine. You convinced me.”

“I’ll pick you up around eight, then,” he says enthusiastically, borderline gloating. He won, and he knows it, but I don’t mind. “And be sure to dress warm. It’s going to drop below forty tonight, and since it’s not a date, there will be absolutely no cuddling.”

I laugh. “See you soon.”

I end the call and stand there staring at my phone. Wait. I just agreed to go out with another guy. What am I doing?

There’s a knock at my door, and I’m not going to lie. My heart starts pounding. It’s not Markus, because we just got off the phone. Chad is working—Ugh! Don’t think about it. Do not think about horny women shoving dollar bills down his shorts. That leaves either Waylon the art lover or Gustavo.

Or Bex?

I rush to the door and look through the peephole. None of the above. The guy has a scruffy jaw, dark hair, and bedroom eyes.

I open the door, thinking he’s likely a delivery guy or something because he’s holding a thick envelope.

“Can I help you?” I say.

His mouth kind of just falls open, and his dark eyes run from my face all the way down to my toes and back again. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, exposing tattoo-covered arms, and well-loved jeans that hug his nicely built body.

The universe must’ve heard my prayers about finding a husband because gorgeous men keep popping out of the woodwork.

“Please don’t ask me on a date because I might have to say yes,” I mutter.

He cracks an amused smile that reaches his warm eyes. “Sorry?”

“Did I just say that out loud?” I feel my face flush.

He chuckles and hands me a yellow envelope. “Here. This is for you. It got delivered to my mailbox by mistake.” He jerks his head toward his right shoulder. “I’m your neighbor—just down at the end of the hall.”

I take the envelope and look at the return address. “Oh. It’s my new passport.” I know I’m smiling like a fool now. This is big for me, a symbol of the new Rose, the real Rose, and not that cartoon version who was trapped in a painting.

“You must be going somewhere fun,” he comments.

I promised myself I’d take my first trip soon, regardless of what happens. Maybe the Caribbean. Maybe Europe. I don’t know. “I’m not sure yet. Haven’t decided.”

“Well, if you need any suggestions, let me know. I’m not much for flying, but I’ve seen a lot of boats and every inch of road between here and Tierra Del Fuego. I love to ride motorcycles.”

He actually fits the motorcycle-lover image. Really cute, a little rugged, lots of tattoos.

He adds, “That’s probably why we haven’t met before. I just got back from a three-month ride through Canada.”

“Wow. Sounds like fun.”

“Amazing, actually.”

We stare at each other for an awkward moment.

“Okay, well, I guess I’d better get back to my piles of mail.” He points over his shoulder.

“Thanks for dropping this off. I’m Rose, by the way.” I hold out my hand.

“Jor Mazzara.” He slides his hand into mine, and it’s rough, almost like leather.

Why does that name sound familiar? Wait. Ohmygod. I’ve seen him in those celebrity gossip magazines the maids always left around. “You’re Jordan Mazzara. The one who was engaged to—”

He holds up his hand to stop me. “I prefer to put that chapter of my life behind me.”

I nod sympathetically. “Totally understandable.” He was with Ariel Medina, the pop star. Their breakup went public when the paparazzi caught her cheating on him. Anyway, he has or had his own custom motorcycle shop and a TV show at some point, I think. I never watched TV, but I remember reading about it. High on Hogs, or something like that. They make custom bikes for obscenely wealthy people.

“No offense, but why are you living here?” Not that there’s anything wrong with this building, but the apartments are small. And very affordable.

“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone. This is kind of my hideout. The paparazzi thing got old real fast.”

I hear that. “My lips are sealed. Well, nice to meet you, Jor.”

“Nice to meet you, too. Hey—I’m not around much since I split my time between coasts for business, but maybe we can go grab a coffee sometime.” Like he knows I’d say yes, he doesn’t wait for my reply before turning to leave.

Yes, I look at his ass. Not on purpose, but the man is walking away, and it’s just there. Firm and round and—Stop it, Rose.

Wait. No. I should look. I’m a free woman. I should be pushing myself to…to…not think about a certain someone else.

I stare for a moment longer. All right. Enough. You have a non-date to get ready for.

I go inside and hear my phone beeping on the kitchen table. There’s a missed call from Gustavo, but no message. For a split second, I consider calling him back and putting this whole thing to bed once and for all, but I don’t have the energy. I need a calm evening hike under the stars.

I’ll call him in the morning.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dressed in tennis shoes, a red down jacket, jeans, and a sweater, I wait for Markus outside. He’s prompt and arrives in a black Ford Explorer, which is a good sign. He’s not the flashy-car type, just like he said.

He steps from the car, and wow. He’s what I’d describe as all-American handsome. Short brown hair neatly cut and parted on the side. Slight almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. Very nice lips, the bottom one fuller. His five o’clock shadow is more prominent around his mouth, kind of like a frame for his lips.

“Rose.” He leaves the car running and walks around to greet me with a handshake. “I was at your party, but we never had the chance to meet.”

I wonder why. I shake his hand. It’s warm and rough, but nothing as extreme as Jor, my neighbor.

“Nice to meet you.”

He smiles, and it’s a good one. It says he’s genuinely happy to see me. There’s no wolfish gleam in the eyes. No twitch of lusty seduction in the lips. It’s as genuine a smile as they come.

“Oh, I know this isn’t a date, but”—he reaches for the rear passenger-side door, opens it, and produces a bunch of big fluffy marshmallows on skewers, wrapped in cellophane—“I got you a bouquet.”

“Oh, what unusual flowers,” I say with a giant smile.

“Phil and June are bringing the chocolate and graham crackers.”

I surmise that Phil and June are the friends who are joining us. “Please tell me we’re making s’mores.” I’ve never had them. My childhood memories contain zero outdoor excursions or camping trips—something I plan to do a lot of going forward.

“And cocoa as promised. Premade and waiting for you in my thermos.”

“This is already the best non-date I’ve ever had.”

He flashes a warm smile, closes the rear door, and opens mine. “Then I’ll be sure to say something incredibly awkward at some point during the evening so the bar is set really low—just in case we ever decide to go on an actual date.”

I chuckle and get in. I can already tell that Markus is special. Warm, friendly, confident. I’m definitely considering counting tonight as our step one.

Markus and I keep the conversation light during the drive to the trailhead about forty minutes away. He’s a high school English teacher, of all things. He only casually mentions that his parents were really supportive when he decided not to go into the family golf resorts business, which is nice to hear. He has an older brother who runs things on the West Coast, and a younger sister, just by one year, who is at grad school, studying business.

“So she’s the one who made you ask me on a date?” I say.

“I can’t say no to her. Doesn’t matter how hard I try, she always gets her way,” he says with affection.

He clearly adores her, which makes him adorable.

“So tell me more about you,” he says.

“Pretty much what you witnessed at the party explains all of the drawbacks.”

“So it’s all true? They kept you in the attic, stole your money, and starved you?”

“Ah, I see you’ve been keeping up with the tabloids.” The staff, who were all fired, told the press everything and then some. “My situation was difficult, but not as dire as some of the stories. I wasn’t chained up or anything like that.”

“It still sounds like one hell of a crap situation. I can’t imagine growing up like that.”

“And I don’t recommend trying. It’ll only depress you.”

“But you seem…I don’t know. Well-adjusted?”

I shrug. “I’m happy to be free. Happy to start my life and put it all behind me.”

We turn and pull into a nearly empty parking lot lined by tall thick trees. There are signs posted everywhere.

He stops the car and turns off the engine. “But what they did to you—they deserve to be in prison.”

“They already are. It’s called greed.”

He bobs his head. “Still, I’d feel better if they weren’t running free. After everything I’ve heard about them from my parents, it wouldn’t surprise me if they came after you. Clearly they’ll do anything to get your money.”

“What have you heard?”

“That they don’t like anyone getting in their way, and they’ve threatened people in the past. Physically. Just rumors—but everyone says they used to run some illegal gambling ring in the seventies until they got hit and lost their money.”

Whatthehell? “My grandparents. You’re sure?”

“Like I said, they’re just rumors, but if what you said at the party is true, then that’s reason enough to watch your back. Who knows what they’re capable of.”

Ohmygod. “It never crossed my mind that they’d try to hurt me or hire some…hit…man…” My voice fades.

The memory of Gustavo and that night in the alley flashes in my mind. Two-man job? No. Don’t be ridiculous. Gustavo had the chance to let that man kill me. Or Gustavo could’ve taken me out himself. But he didn’t. He saved me. He’s a mama’s boy who wants to open a salsa club, not a hit man.

“Is everything all right, Rose?” Markus asks.

“Yeah. Totally fine,” I lie, with a hard swallow.

“Let’s get the gear, then, and I’ll introduce you to Phil and June.” He points to a white sedan pulling into the lot.

I nod, and we get out to grab the packs from the back.

“You sure you’re alright?” Markus asks.

“Yep. This hike is exactly what I need.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Date ruined. Completely and utterly ruined. The entire time I was with Markus, I kept thinking about Gustavo and if he had in fact been hired to kill me. Or hired that man in the alley to help him? On one hand, it makes sense. Remove me from the equation and the estate goes to my grandparents. No legal battles. No risk of me contesting the will. Done.

On the other hand, I feel like that’s a little extreme, even for them.

Not if the rumors about their past are true, I argue with myself.

Am I being too naïve again? I’ve already proven I’m too trusting. Case in point, it took Markus bringing up how ruthless my grandparents are for me to even see this gruesome angle.

No. They wouldn’t kill me. But then my mind quickly replays the thousands of times they lied to my face—the fake copy of the will, my altered birth certificate, hiding the fact that I had a father all those years. Do they know I have a half brother and sister? Did they keep that from me, too? My grandparents purposely isolated and brainwashed me into submission, including making me work like a slave for room and board in my own home. “Pay your own way, Rose. That’s what your mother wanted.” But given the money she left behind for my care, I know she wanted me looked after—to go to school, have a real childhood and friends—not taken advantage of. Not used.

Fuck. And this is why I’ve been avoiding thinking about it. I could spend the next ten years of my life thinking about how I had twenty years stolen from me. Screw the money. Screw the mansion. I just wanted love. I wanted a family and friends. I wanted not to feel invisible or ashamed for being born. Instead, I just feel…angry. Hurt. And maybe confused about why my mother trusted her parents. Or, an even bigger puzzle, why she put the marriage clause in her will.

Stop, Rose. You can’t deal with this right now. I’m running out of time. And maybe I can’t change my past, but I can change my future.

Just after midnight, Markus and I pull up to my apartment building, and I offer a polite smile. “Thank you again for the outing. It was really great. Especially the s’mores.” They’d actually brought one of those little tins you light and use for heating food instead of making a real fire. I didn’t care. Phil and June, who’ve been dating for about four years, are really nice people, and I could tell how much they love Markus. They were definitely trying to size me up, asking all sorts of questions about where I went to school, what I want to be.

“You’re being polite,” he says. “It sucked. Especially the stargazing. But in my defense, the forecast said clear skies.”

“No. Please. It was just what I needed. Fresh air. The cover of darkness to hide how out of shape I am.” It was only a mile and a half or so, but the trail had been straight up.

“It’s okay, Rose. I don’t mind if you’re honest. I know I upset you.”

“You mean the comment about my grandparents.”

“I saw the look on your face.”

“Am I that transparent?” I ask.

“Yes. But you know what? I don’t regret saying it. You seem like a really nice girl, and I think you’re underestimating your family.” He shrugs, but I can’t see his eyes clearly. With the small amount of light from the dashboard, he appears to be annoyed. Not at me, but by the thought of my grandparents hurting me.

“I’ll be okay.”

He turns his body to face me completely. “I hope so. Because I’d like to take you out on a real date sometime.”

Oh, but you just did. And though my head wasn’t entirely in the game tonight, I’ve seen enough to know that Markus deserves to go to step two: sexual compatibility. So far, it’s just him and Chad, the rebel chef.

I clear my throat. “Markus, there’s something I want to say. Actually, no, it’s something I want to ask you.”

“All right.”

“I know you’ve read about my situation in the tabloids, and you were at the party, too.” He heard the fight firsthand.

“Yes,” he says.

“Then you know if I don’t marry before my twenty-first birthday, I’ll have to go to court to get any of my inheritance.”

“I think you should contest the will anyway. It’s barbaric to make a woman marry just to get money. Especially in this day and age.”

“I agree.” I’m about to tell Markus about how part of me wants to do this for my mother. I feel like it connects us because if I find the one, fall in love, and wake up every day beside an incredibly special man, I will always know in my heart it was because of her. This is what I want to say to Markus, but I can’t. I’m not ready to be vulnerable with him or anyone. Just Bex. Who I am not going to think about. “What can I say? My mother was a hard-core romantic.”

“So you’re going through with it?” Markus asks.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you; if you date me, it’s okay if you’re not ready for marriage or even a commitment. But you need to know that I am. I’m not going to dance around the subject or play games. I’m not ashamed of it or afraid. I’m in this to find Mr. Right.” Just like The Bachelorette. Only, I’m not on TV. And have a lot more on the line than just my heart. I could end up with the wrong man and lose everything.

“What are you asking?”

“Honesty. That’s it.” Like I said, I’m willing to give it all up for the right guy if I have to. But I’m not willing to give it all up for the wrong guy. “I’m going to see other men until I feel like I’ve found someone I’m serious about. I’m not going to lie to you about anything. All I ask is that you’re transparent with me. If you don’t feel like you could see being with me long term or—”

Markus reaches over, slides his hand to the nape of my neck, and pulls me to his lips.

I freeze. Part of me registers how soft his lips are and how warm and sensual they feel. Another part of me is whipping out the pom-poms. This is my first kiss.

I move my hand to his jawline and lean into him. He slides his mouth horizontally over mine, allowing me to feel the velvety texture of his lips. So sensual. He presses softly and then opens his mouth. I suddenly think of Gustavo teaching me to dance salsa. Follow his lead. Mirror his moves. Is it wrong to think of him while Markus is sliding his warm tongue past my lips, urging me to open myself up to him?

Regardless, I tilt my head, allowing him to deepen the kiss and taste me. I stroke my fingertips along the bristles covering his jaw, enjoying the masculine texture.

Being kissed is different than I thought. It’s pleasurable and intimate, but where are the sparks? Where’s that lightning in my heart, flutters in my stomach, or throbbing ache between my thighs? The stroke of his tongue spurs a gentle warmth, but nothing more.

Suddenly, it all changes. My body starts to heat up. My nipples tingle and harden. I feel hard waves of sensual palpitations deep inside my core. I realize it’s because I’m imagining kissing someone else.

I pull back, ending the kiss, and Markus gazes into my eyes. All I feel is his adoration, which I’m not so sure I deserve. Here I am preaching honesty and thinking about another man.

“That was a good kiss,” he says. “But I’m not sure about the rest, Rose.” He tucks a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. “I’m a take-it-slow kind of guy. Really slow.”

I bob my head. “I get it. I really do.” And I’m beginning to see why dating is so damned difficult.

One guy says all the right things, but you’re not sure you can believe them. Another asks you to Florence, but you know saying yes means shutting the door on other things—big things—and consciously choosing to take a more difficult path that involves court battles, trials, and a whole hell of a lot of talking about things in your life you don’t want to face. Then there’s the guy who “gets you” from the first moment you lock eyes and you know you can just throw down with him, get a little crazy, lose your inhibitions. But being with him means making compromises that will lead to resentment. The truth is that Chad is a great guy, but my dream of falling in love and sharing my life with a man does not include other women touching him every night.

Then there’s Markus. He’s nice, genuine, and an all-around good guy, from what I can tell—but the spark just isn’t there. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. I don’t exactly know how to describe the feeling other than to say I think he and I could build something over time.

Then there’s Jor. Just met him. Don’t know him. And somehow I know that I never will. He’ll always be the guy who’s just out of reach, the one you can’t nail down who blows through town every so often just to tempt you, to make you dream of what it would be like if you could just catch him.

“So? You free on Wednesday?” asks Markus. I realize he’s been talking, and I haven’t been listening.

It’s because I’m suddenly thinking about the last book my mother wrote. It was hated by most of her fans and deemed a “romance disaster” by critics because there was no happy ending. The heroine dies alone in a cabin, full of regrets, wondering what her life might have been like if she hadn’t been so afraid to give her heart unconditionally. She might have found happiness. Instead, she kept dating these men—all of them different—some rich, some poor, some educated and some not, all of them beautiful in their own way. But she just couldn’t take the leap. The fantasies in her mind kept fueling her drive to find the perfect man, who doesn’t exist. In the end, as she’s dying alone, she calls herself “the boyfriend collector.” Her life had been all about collecting the hearts of these men, but none of them got to own hers. She never had the bravery to take the harrowing journey with anyone.

Oh my god. My mother was the boyfriend collector. The realization hits me. That’s why she put that clause about marrying in her will.

“I have to go,” I say to Markus.

“Is that a no for Wednesday?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I think…” I could be going crazy and wake up tomorrow wondering if I’ve truly lost my mind. “I think tonight is just what I needed. Thank you for taking me.”

I leave the car, grab my phone, and dial Bex. His answering service picks up.

“Hi, this is Rose Hale. Can you please tell Dr. Hughes to meet me at his office in thirty minutes? Tell him it’s an emergency.”

I hang up, knowing this is wrong, but it’s what I have to do.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bex calls five times, but I don’t answer. I know he’s on his way. And I know this is the sort of conversation we need to have in person. As strange as it sounds, I’m not afraid. I know it’s going to suck, and I’m going to cry when he reminds me he’s married.

It’s the worst, most hopeless romantic situation ever, and I’m slicing open my veins to it. I want this inoculation, because I was right about sabotaging myself. I think fear is what’s holding me back. I’m afraid to have my heart broken. I’m afraid these men will betray me. After all, it’s what I’ve come to expect from the world. But until I get over that fear, I’m always going to find an excuse as to why someone isn’t good enough. I’ll focus on what’s wrong instead of what’s right. I’ll sabotage myself over and over again despite what happens with the will.

I’m leaning against the wall when I hear the creaking hinges of the stairwell door. Bex steps into the hallway, and my breath hitches. Tall, rumpled dark hair, thick stubble. Still, as tired and pissy as he looks, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He was there the night of the party. He came to my rescue. And then he turned around and pushed me to be the hero. He refused any other possible ending to my story. All of that makes it impossible not to want him.

“Rose, what the hell is going on? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” He walks toward me, and my heart feels like it’s about to pop from my chest and run away.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s late, but this couldn’t wait. Can we talk inside?”

He stops in front of me and looks down with those icy blue eyes. They’re filled with emotion: concern, irritation, and something else I can’t pinpoint.

“This had better be good.” He fishes his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door, pushing it open for me.

I enter, and he flicks the switch on the wall.

I don’t bother with entering his office. Instead I turn and face him.

“Do you want to go inside?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I’m not here to see my therapist.”

“Then why the hell did you get me out of bed at one o’clock in the morning?” He frowns with confusion.

“I’m falling in love with you. Not a crush, like I tried to convince myself over the last few days, but love. It’s why I ran out in our last session. But I don’t want to be a home wrecker. I don’t want to love a married man who will only tell me that what I’m feeling is the result of transference. I know patients fall for their doctors. Victims fall for their rescuers.” And romance addicts like my mom fall for no one.

He stares for a long moment. “Rose…I don’t think you—”

“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “I know you can’t reciprocate. I know you’re happily married. I know you don’t want me and never will. But that’s not why I’m doing this. I’ve decided that love is more important than getting my inheritance. I want it more than I want to win, and I’m willing to risk everything for it. But I’m never going to find it until I stop being afraid and just accept that love should be given without fear or any strings attached. I think that’s why my mother put the clause in her will about me marrying. Not to make me miserable, but to push me to take a chance. And maybe she did it expecting I’d fuck up so hard that I’d marry some douchebag and have my heart broken. And then…I’d keep on living. I’d keep breathing. I’d pick myself up and live another day.” But after that, I’d never be afraid to love. I wouldn’t collect boyfriends, like she did.

Bex’s face is a solid block of cement. I don’t care, because I know it means he’s trying to keep his emotions to himself.

“Rose, those are a lot of assumptions.” He scrubs the back of his neck with a large hand. “All of them worthy of your introspection. But you’re right about one thing. I can’t reciprocate. Not because I don’t think you’re amazing or stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. You’ve already overcome things that would take most people a decade. But at the end of the day, if I care for you, then I have to do what’s right.” He takes my hands and holds them tight. “I’m not the man for you, Rose Marie. I’m only here to help you move on to the next part of your life, the best part.”

I blink, feeling my eyes tear. This isn’t the rejection I expected, but I still know it had to happen. Now I can move on. And I’ll do it with an open heart instead of allowing my fears to hold me back.

“I understand.” I nod, squeezing his hands, too. They’re warm and just the right amount of softness. His smile is the same. Nothing fake. Nothing underhanded. Just a genuine smile that says no matter what, he’ll be there for me. He’ll love…love…me?

I blink. “Bex?” I say it like an accusation. He can’t love me back. I don’t want that.

“What?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I drop my arms.

“Like how?”

“Like…never mind.” It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. “I just want to say thank you. And goodbye. I’m going to be okay now.”

He dips his head and looks at me with those affectionate eyes. So blue. So full of desire.

Oh God. That’s what he was hiding from me this whole time: He’s falling in love with me, too.

I exhale. Damn, I could have loved you. But at least I did it. I told him.

We stare for the longest moment, and then, fucking hell, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I push up on the balls of my feet and kiss him.

Electric shock.

Flutters.

Starlight raining through my veins.

All I hear is the sound of my heart pounding through me.

The colors of the room fade to white. Suddenly, I see myself walking down the aisle toward him. My hands are empty. The seats are empty. But his smile fills my soul.

I break away and step back. For once I have no words. Except, “Why did I do that?”

“Rose, I’m sorry. It was wrong to let it go this far, but I—”

“Please don’t apologize. This is all on me. I shouldn’t have kissed you.” Because now I’m wondering if this is what my mother was really afraid of. This. I’m never going to be the same again, and a part of me will never stop wanting him.

I leave and don’t look back.

Bex

What the hell just happened? I watch Rose leave my office, but this time it feels different. I want to run after her. Yet I’ve made promises and taken oaths. I can’t break them because then I’d only be as good as my father, a man who put his own needs first. A man who betrayed the people who trusted him.

Fuck. I run my hands through my hair. This is the first time since my father died that I’ve allowed myself to really think about him. Despite everything, I could use his advice right now. He always knew what to say to make me see clearly. The thing is, I want Rose. I think I did from the first moment I saw her. But to act on it isn’t just immoral, it puts her at risk. She came to me for help. She gave me her trust. What does that say about me if I abuse that position? And how can I help if I’m fucking her instead of healing her?

This is the precise reason there are professional boundaries. Acting on any romantic impulses goes against everything I believe.

Still, I think I could’ve walked away if she hadn’t kissed me. Now I’m not so sure.

I grab my keys, get in my car, and head home, resisting going to her apartment. No good will come of it. I can’t be with her. I would never respect myself again if I gave in to my desire for those long legs and plump lips or those eyes that tell me exactly what she’s thinking. Mostly, I’m captivated by her spirit. I’ve never known anyone to get knocked down so hard that it leaves a tear in their soul, only to get right up and face life head-on. That’s Rose. That’s the woman I haven’t been able to get out of my mind since the day she entered my office. She’s a force of nature, and if the right man is lucky enough to catch her wind in his sails, I have no doubt he’d stay by her side forever.

I pull up to my house, a brick ranch with a lawn and lackluster garden. I don’t have much of a green thumb, and Sophie kills just about any plant she touches. The backyard looks more like a scene from a postapocalyptic movie. Red clay and more red clay.

I unlock the door and Sophie is standing in the hallway, giving me one of her looks. Why did I leave in the middle of the night when I spend all day at work? Why don’t I spend more time with her? She’s right. I know she is.

She turns and disappears into the bedroom.

“I’m sorry! I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but I am.” Since my father died, all I think of is work. And Rose…

No. Don’t go there. It can’t happen between us.

I head to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich, trying to take my mind off that kiss. I can’t allow my emotions to get the best of me. I know what’s right.

The doorbell rings, and my blood turns cold. There’s only one person I can think of who’d show up in the middle of the night. It’s not hard to Google my name and find my home address. Rose. I can’t believe she came to my house.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Rose

I’m standing at Bex’s door, and it takes everything I have not to scream. Or pee myself. I know that whatever’s about to happen, it’s not going to be good. But I had no choice. Literally.

“Ring the fucking doorbell again,” says Gustavo, pushing the nose of the gun into the base of my spine.

“Stop it, okay. I already rang it.” And from the sound of the heavy footsteps, Bex is pissed that someone is knocking on his door in the middle of the night. With the way he drove home, I assume he was pissed then, too. He didn’t even notice the car following him. I wish he had. I seriously wish he had.

“Gustavo, please. Let’s just go. I promise there’s nothing between him and me. He’s married to a nice woman named Sophie.”

“Then why the fuck were you two kissing, huh?” Gustavo growls.

So he saw us. He must’ve followed me to Bex’s office and been in the hallway. “Because…because I don’t know, okay? It was a moment of weakness, and I’ve been feeling lonely.”

He grabs a clump of my hair in the back and pulls. “And whose fucking fault is that, huh?” he snarls in my ear.

“Stop it. You’re hurting me,” I whimper, and he lets go.

The door flies open, and Bex is standing there with a massive scowl. The moment he sees Gustavo and the look on my terrified face, he becomes an unreadable brick wall.

“Rose,” Bex says, “why are you here? You know it’s inappropriate to show up at your therapist’s house.”

I hear a big dog bark in the background. It sounds like it’s shut up in a room or something.

“She’s here for more of that tongue therapy I’ve heard so much about,” says Gustavo. “It’s your specialty, right?” He waves his gun at Bex as if to say move it.

Bex steps aside, keeping his calm cool façade. If I didn’t know him, I’d say he was bored by all this.

We enter, and Gustavo grabs me by the hair again, drags me to the living room, and shoves me down onto the couch. It’s a navy-blue thing with yellow dog hair all over it. Chew toys are scattered all over the floor, and the TV is set to Animal Planet, but on mute.

“You. Sit next to her.” Gustavo waves the gun at Bex. “Where’s your wife? I think she should join us.”

“I don’t have a wife,” Bex replies calmly. “Just the dog, and she’s locked in my room. She’s not going to bother you.”

Bex has no idea that hiding Sophie is only going to piss Gustavo off. The thing is, Bex was right. This man is dangerous, and clearly he’s crazy, too.

This is all my fault. I should have listened to Bex and called the police the other night. Had I done that, maybe we wouldn’t be here right now.

“Gustavo,” I say calmly, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, but I needed time to—”

“Fuck all those men?” he snarls and points the gun at me. “Yeah, I’ve been watching you, bitch. Every night, another guy.”

“You’ve been spying on me?”

“I call it protecting myself. From little whores like you.”

Whore. I’m not even sure where to start with that one. “Those were only dates. Nothing happened. And either way, this is between you and me. It has nothing to do with Dr. Hughes.”

He looks at Bex. “Bring her here.”

“Who?”

“Your fucking wife, asshole!”

Bex exhales slowly. “I don’t have a wife,” he says as calmly as a gentle breeze. “And if you’d lower the gun, we could discuss what it is you wan—”

“Don’t you move, or I’ll blow her brains out,” Gustavo says to Bex.

Gustavo obviously doesn’t believe Bex because he takes the gun, points it at my head, and drags me by the hair down the hallway. Bent at the waist, I stumble behind him, trying to pry my hair free. “Stop it! Fucking get your hands off me!”

I can’t see where we’re going, but I get that he’s inspecting every room of the house. Thankfully, it’s small—kitchen, den, laundry room, and the bedroom.

Gustavo pops open the last door, and a large golden retriever bolts out and begins attacking him.

Gustavo kicks the dog hard, and it yelps, flying back.

“No!” Bex yells from behind and rushes at Gustavo. A gunshot fires off at the exact same time he releases me.

I fall straight forward; my nose and cheekbone smash into the hardwood floor. Grunts and groans echo against the walls of the dark hallway, and when I clear the hair from my eyes, I see blood. Gustavo is on the ground. Bex is on top of him, wrestling the gun away. I look over my shoulder, and there’s a woman in pajamas, holding a gun in one hand and a cell in the other. She’s blonde, tall, and beautiful.

Bex stands up, gun in hand, and points it at Gustavo. “Don’t move.” He looks at the woman. “Are they on their way?”

“Yes,” she replies.

Bex looks at me with that stern expression I’ve come to know. “Go wait in the living room.”

I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I have no idea what’s just happened. Except…suddenly there’s a rage inside me, and it overflows like lava from a fiery volcano. I scramble to my hands and knees and lunge for Gustavo.

“You fucker!” I beat his chest, going right for the spot that’s bleeding. I don’t care. Everything bad that’s ever been done to me is now him. He’s the monster who takes and hurts. He wants me to be afraid. I won’t let it happen. “Die! Fucking die!” I slam my fist into his chest one more time before Bex manages to pry me off.

“Rose, get off him. Come on, honey.”

“No! I’m done letting them hurt me. I’m done!” What Bex doesn’t know is that on the way here, Gustavo told me that my grandparents had hired him. The night in the alley, I was supposed to die—a violent mugging gone wrong. He knew I had no mother or family, so he painted a picture he felt would lure me in, make me trust him. Truthfully, Gustavo is a bad, bad man, and I should’ve listened to Bex—something that kept running through my mind when I asked Gustavo why he didn’t just kill me that night. “Why did you save me?” I asked him.

“I was supposed to bring you to the alley. The other guy would do the rest. Your grandparents paid to make it messy—but I don’t do those kinda jobs. Clean kills only. And I don’t do rape.”

Gustavo’s words knocked the wind right out of me. How could my own grandparents pay to have me violated and brutally murdered? I didn’t think it possible to feel as sick and heartbroken as I did in that moment. Knowing this kind of cruelty exists in the world is one thing. Knowing your own family wishes it on you is another.

Gustavo then added, “I was about to get in my car and drive away—then I changed my mind. I liked you, Rose. Genuinely liked you. But I didn’t know what a dirty little slut you’d turn out to be. It’s enough to make me change my mind about getting messy.”

In that moment, I was sure I wouldn’t come out of this night alive. And part of me almost didn’t care. The devastation, the hate, the anger—my heart would never recover from this, so what was the point? To live my life like two ruthless, greedy cowards like Melvin and Gertie?

But then I saw him. Bex. Standing there in his doorway, and somehow I just knew I’d be okay. Because since I met him, I’ve become real. Not a cartoon version of myself living in a nightmare where I’m invisible and worthless. Yes, I’m flawed. Insecure at times. Naïve in a lot of ways. But surviving this long has made me strong. I can take hit after hit and keep my chin up. It’s what makes me a survivor because my resilience reaches deep into my soul. Nobody can take that from me. No matter how vicious, how deceitful, how hard they try to keep me down, they will never alter my DNA. And that’s what makes me the hero of my own story.

And right now, this hero isn’t afraid anymore. She’s fed up! I make one last attempt to hit Gustavo, but Bex stops me.

“Rose! It’s over!” From behind, he wraps his arms around me as restraints.

“They hired him. They want me dead,” I say.

“Then he needs to stay alive so he can help us put them in prison.”

He’s right. I need to make sure this situation is dealt with once and for all. I didn’t want to face it at first—what they did, the people they really are. I wanted to move on and put the past behind me. But really, I was just afraid to confront the pain. Well, not anymore. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care how much it hurts.

In the background, I hear sirens and cars pulling up. The house floods with voices, and Bex whisks me away to the kitchen. He doesn’t want me anywhere near Gustavo, a dangerous man, and maybe I’m a little grateful for that. Even a strong woman like me needs people looking after her.

Bex

“What a fucking night,” I mutter to myself as I close the front door and try not to think about all the ways this situation could have ended. Thankfully, Rose is alive, and we’re all okay.

“They’re gone,” I say to Rose and enter the kitchen, immediately going for the wine rack near the pantry. The police took the photos they needed, and I cleaned up the blood from the hardwood floor. “We’ll have to go to the station in the morning and make formal statements, but warrants are out for your grandparents.”

I pop open a bottle of red wine, pour a tall glass, and hand it to Rose, who’s sitting at the breakfast counter. I know she’s not twenty-one yet, but who gives a shit? What just happened requires Valium, and I don’t have any.

She takes the glass with a surprisingly steady hand and sets it on the counter beside her.

“You all right?” I ask.

“I will be,” she says quietly, staring at the floor. Her mind is in another place, and I can’t help wanting to pry off the lid and see what’s bubbling around in there.

“I know.” I pour my own glass and chug it down.

“I’m so sorry for bringing him here.”

“You can’t blame yourself.” I set down my glass and refill it.

“But I do. I went out with him. And then I didn’t listen when you tried to warn me. If I had, this never would have happened.”

I take the chair at the counter next to her. “What you mean to say is that had your grandparents never hired him, none of this would have happened.”

“Maybe.” She worries her bottom lip. I wish I could tell her how many times I’ve thought about the way her mouth moves. When her mouth is resting, her lips pout so sweetly. When she’s anxious, she chews the bottom one and it’s seductive as hell. And when she smiles, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more hypnotic.

“It’s been a rough night. I’ll make up the couch, and we can talk about everything in the morning.” I know she’s still sorting through the event, but it’s important she doesn’t try to make sense of it all right now.

She nods. “That’s nice of you. Please thank your wife—actually, what am I saying? She saved my life. I should thank her myself. Where’d she go?”

Fuck. This is the part I wanted to avoid discussing right now. I tried to tell Rose earlier tonight, after she kissed me, but now is not a good time. I much prefer to discuss this when things are calmer, so she’ll hear my side of the story with an open mind. Nevertheless, I don’t see how I can put this off any longer.

“Rose, I wasn’t lying to Gustavo. I don’t have a wife.”

Her wide brown eyes slowly lift and meet mine. I’m unsure if she’s going to scream, cry, or read me the riot act.

“Sorry?” she says.

I hold up my left hand. “The ring is to ward off patients who might get the wrong idea.”

“Who was the woman earlier? The one who shot Gustavo?” She frowns with confusion.

“My next-door neighbor Erin. She’s a US Marshal. I called her the minute I saw you standing at my front door with a gun to your back.” I’m not stupid enough to just open my door at two in the morning without looking through the living room window first. The moment I saw Rose with a menacing-as-hell man behind her, it was clear I couldn’t wait for the police to show up. I called Erin and told her what was happening.

“Don’t open the door, Bex,” Erin said.

“I can’t risk him hurting her,” I replied, thinking my only option was to talk this man down.

Rose takes her glass from the kitchen counter and takes a small sip. “Who’s Sophie?”

There’s no easy way to say this. “My dog.”

“Your…dog?” The anger in her eyes is palpable, and I can’t blame her. She trusted me, and I lied to her. What she doesn’t understand is that with everyone else, it’s a white lie, an insignificant detail that has no bearing on my relationships with my patients. As it should be.

“Three years ago,” I say, “I was engaged. My fiancée left me because she said there was no room in my life for her, only my work. A female patient of mine heard through a mutual acquaintance that I was single again, which prompted her to form an unhealthy attachment. I referred her to a colleague, but it got ugly. She accused me of all sorts of things, which I was exonerated for, but not before I had to spend every last dime on lawyers. I almost lost my practice, my home, and my reputation. After that, I put on the ring I’d bought for my wedding. It was a harmless way to discourage any future patients from coming to see me for the wrong reasons.” I take a deep breath and exhale. “It worked. Up until you, my marriage was never a topic.”

Rose’s little nostrils flare. “But you still lied to me.”

“Yes.”

“You broke your rule.”

The one about honesty. “Yes. I did. But it was only because I wanted to help you. I never want therapy to become about me or anyone except my patients. It’s the same reason I turned you down, Rose. I meant what I said about not being the right man for you.”

She returns to staring at the tile floor and is silent for a long stretch. “So you can’t date me because I’m your patient?”

“No, I can’t.” Even if I was invited to Rose’s coming-out party.

Yes. That’s right.

I am on the list.

My aunts received my invitation and didn’t bother mentioning it to me until I called the day before the party, asking if they knew anything about Rose’s grandparents.

They knew plenty.

All of it bad, which is why they disregarded the invitations. “No nephew of mine is gettin’ involved with that Hale trash,” said my aunt Eugenia. But when I told her about Rose and her ugly situation, they wanted to help. The rest is history, except I never told Rose that I’m on the list. I still can’t tell her because it will only make this harder for me. On the outside, I’m the perfect solution to her problems. I’d be good to her. She’d get her inheritance. Unfortunately, being with me is not what she needs.

“So you won’t date me because I’m your patient.” She looks me in the eyes, and I can’t deny how it affects me. “But do you want me?”

“I do.”

She nods stoically. “All right then.” She gets up and leaves the kitchen. I expect to hear the front door, but I don’t.

“Rose?”

I find her in the living room, using the phone. I’m guessing she’s calling a cab or something. I’m about to tell her to stay—that she shouldn’t be alone tonight—but her words stop me.

“Hi, this is Rose Hale. I need you to send a message to Dr. Hughes. Tell him I’m not going to see him anymore. He’s fired.” She pauses. “Yes. That’s right. He’s no longer my doctor.” She hangs up, and a few moments later, my cell beeps on the counter.

I shake my head. “Rose, please don’t do this.” It’s taking every ounce of restraint I have to keep from taking her to my bed and fucking her senseless. I want her. But if I do this, it will be a selfish act to satisfy my own needs. And it will be wrong.

She looks up at me with those willful eyes. “I don’t care about fulfilling the will anymore. I don’t care about my inheritance. I just want you.”

Fuck. Don’t do it, Bex. Don’t you fucking do it. I inhale slowly, feeling my fingertips pulse. I want to touch her so badly. “I’m going to call you a cab.”

“What?” she snaps.

“We can’t be together, Rose.” I look away, anywhere but at her beautiful face and those sensual lips. “With time, you’ll thank me because your feelings aren’t real. They never were.”

“I have one question for you, Bex, and I hope you’ll answer honestly—if not for me, then for yourself. Are your feelings for me real?” She lifts her chin defiantly, and it startles me. She is stunning—the way she faces life: head-on. No fear. I’m in awe of her.

“Rose, I—”

“No.” She holds up her hand. “It’s a simple question, Bex. Is what you feel for me real?”

“It’s not a simple question.” Which is why I do what I do best. I put up my wall. Nothing gets through it. Not until her. Because the truth is, my other patients don’t call me Bex. I’m Dr. Hughes. And in our last sessions, I found myself moving my chair closer to the couch. I wanted to be near her because I feel all kinds of things for Rose Marie Hale—desire unlike anything I’ve ever known for a woman, and the need to see her life on a track to happiness—happiness she deserves.

But she’s broken. Even if she doesn’t see it. Nobody goes through that kind of hell and comes out unscathed. But I also know she’s a fighter. She’s resilient and strong, which makes her all the more beautiful and deserving of a good life. She will make it out of this. I have no doubt in my mind.

But if I truly care for her, I will walk away. If she jumps into a commitment now, she’ll lose herself in the story of “we.” She needs time to heal and find her way. Otherwise, one day, she’ll wake up wondering why she’s unhappy, why she can’t move on from the past.

So, while I know I have feelings for her, very real feelings, I can’t be worthy of her if I’m not willing to do what’s right. And right now, she doesn’t need me as a lover. She needs me as a man, someone strong she can lean on without the mess and obligation of intimacy.

I clear my throat, doing my best to keep my tone level despite the searing desire coursing through me. I’m an inch away from giving in, taking her to my bedroom, and making love to her. I want her more than she’ll ever know.

“Rose,” I say calmly, “I have a proposal for you.”

She crosses her arms but doesn’t speak.

“Give it one year. Just one. I can recommend a colleague who’s incredible and will help you—”

“Excuse me?” she snaps.

I see the anger in her eyes but continue anyway. “If after a year, you still feel the same way about me, then—”

“Ohmygod. I don’t believe this,” she seethes. “I tell you I’m falling in love with you, that I’m willing to give up everything for you. And not only do you reject me, but you try to pawn me off on some other therapist and pat me on the head like a child with that fucking lame consolation?”

“I understand why you might think that, but it’s not a consolation. I want—”

“Bullshit. What you want is for me to walk away. You figure in a year, my puppy love will fade and little Rose will move on. Because Dr. Bexley Hughes is always right, always in control, always saying the right things. But really? He just wants to be the hero and save me. Well, guess what, Bex? I can save myself. I’ve been doing it for the last twenty years.” She steps forward and pokes me in the chest. “You’re the one who needs help, because you’re afraid of what will happen if you love someone enough to let them in. You’re afraid because then you’ll have to find out if you’re really a good man or if you’re a selfish hypocrite just like your cheating father, who couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

Wow. It’s one hell of a mean blow, and I can’t deny it’s hit a nerve. “Say anything you like, Rose,” I growl, “but it isn’t going to change my answer and certainly won’t fucking help you.” As I’m losing my temper and the argument, I’m thinking this is exactly what I was afraid of. It’s become about me, about us, rather than her.

“I’m calling you a cab,” I say coldly. “We can talk tomorrow after we’ve both had time to cool—”

“Don’t bother. I can find my own way home. As for you and your year, I don’t need either. I made a mistake. You’re not the brave person I thought you were, and on top of that, you’re a liar, so congratulations.”

I don’t want Rose to leave, but in this moment, I’m not sure how to get through to her. I don’t know how to say that I’m willing to wait for her. I’m only asking for a year so she can give everything she has to herself. If she still wants me after that, I’m all in. I’ll wait for you so you know it’s right, that I’m what you really want.

Why can’t I say just that? Why? Instead I rebottle my emotions. “I’ll call you that cab—”

She turns and heads out the front door. I take five steps forward, wanting to go after her, but stop myself. I’m pissed. Really fucking angry, and I don’t want to say something I’ll regret. I’ll see her in the morning after we’ve had time to decompress.

I go to my bedroom to check on Sophie, who’s resting quietly in her usual spot at the center of my bed. I curl up next to her, wishing for a different blonde in my bed. “I think I fucked up, Sophie. I never should have lied to Rose.”

The next morning, after a restless night, I head to the police station and make a formal statement and complaint against Gustavo. The detective on duty tells me that there’s no word just yet on Rose’s grandparents, but that it won’t be long until the arrest is made.

“It’s good to know,” I say. “Rose Hale isn’t going to be safe until they’re behind bars.”

“From the sounds of it, they’re the ones who should be worried. Miss Hale and her lawyer made it clear they’re going after those two with everything they’ve got.” He signs the paper on the desk. “Can’t say I blame her.”

“Rose—I mean, Miss Hale was here?”

“Just left five minutes ago.”

I’m surprised somehow. Maybe I thought she’d need more time to confront last night and make her sworn statement.

And maybe you keep underestimating her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Two days later, Thanksgiving at my aunts’ house comes and goes like always, except for subtle sadness lingering in the air. No one mentioned it, but I think we all felt my father’s absence. Of course, my mother, who refuses to talk about it or anything real, and my many aunts, uncles, and cousins found their usual distraction in picking apart my love life. I’ll be thirty soon, and apparently, in my Southern family it’s a sin to be that “old” and unmarried. “Where them babies at, Bex?”

The irony is I know who I want. And I can’t stop thinking about how I left things with Rose. But she won’t answer her door, won’t answer my calls, and from what I can tell, she’s disconnected me from her life completely. The call yesterday from her lawyer’s assistant, who advised me that “Miss Hale” required a statement to settle her account with me, was a clear sign: “Stay the fuck away.”

It’s not what I want. Not in the least, but what choice do I have?

This morning, I decide to take Sophie out for a little window-shopping. Christmas is coming. I’ve never been much for the holidays, but I want to do something more than just order pears and cookies online and tell everyone how sorry I am about not having time for a better gift. Maybe because it’ll be the first Christmas without my father and I don’t want it to be a sad repeat of Thanksgiving—that unspoken gloominess hanging over us. Or maybe it’s because the glimpse into Rose’s world has made me see what it’s like to be alone, and I want to try harder. As pushy, overbearing, and flawed as my family is, I’ve never been left wanting. Not as a child. Not as a man. They’re always there for me. They’ve given me a life versus an existence. And it’s something I never would have realized if it weren’t for Rose Marie Hale.

I enter the small bookstore not too far from my office. I come here at least once a month, but rarely buy anything. It’s more for Sophie, who’s allowed inside and enjoys the free treats. The owner, Jerry, was a friend of my father’s—or maybe more of an acquaintance. I don’t think anyone ever knew Murdoc Hughes well enough to really claim him as a friend.

“How’s it going?” I jerk my head at the young woman behind the counter. I think she’s Jerry’s niece or something. Either way, she smiles politely, and I make my way toward the self-help section.

I think I go there for amusement as much as I do inspiration. I’ve always wanted to write a book, and someday I will once I have something valuable to share. It’s not to say that I feel invaluable. My process works. My patients will attest to it. But there’s more to learn, more to understand before I’m ready. Until then, I come here looking at what’s new in…

Cat Therapy? I chuckle at the cover showing a man petting his calico. Letting Go of Stress is Furrrtastic? I show the cover to Sophie. “What do you think?”

She blinks those golden eyelashes at me.

“I guess you’re more of a TV person.” It’s true. She loves watching movies, too. Really, just about anything with animals will hold her attention.

I return the book to its shelf and decide to hunt for something in the biography section. Or maybe a good travel book. This year I want to give gifts to my family that mean something.

After twenty minutes I give up. My head isn’t in the holiday-shopping mood. I head out with Sophie, pulling on the leash. “Sophie, come on.” But as I’m dragging her down the romance aisle, a display catches my eye. Hale all Things Hale. I stop and look at the twenty-something books on display. The covers show everything from couples walking hand in hand on the beach to a woman in a leather corset gripping a raised sword. For the life of me, I can’t understand why anyone would want to read these books, let alone write one.

I pick up the book with a bright yellow sticker on the front that reads “The Finale. Lana Hale’s last book.”

I turn it over and read the back.

Julie Cross wants love. She’ll do anything for it. But when true love eludes her, she takes a trip around the world in search of Mr. Right.

“Do you see this, Sophie?” I show her the book.

“Don’t read that one,” says a soft voice to my side.

I turn my head and find a petite brunette staring up at me. Jerry’s niece.

She adds, “Everyone hated that book. I’d go with Nookie Cookie Magic, Fanged Love, or even Accidentally King—you can’t go wrong with those. But The Boyfriend Collector,” she crinkles her nose and glances at my ringless finger, “your girlfriend will hate it.”

I look at the cover again. It shows a woman in a red dress sitting on a white couch, surrounded by a bunch of men in tuxedos. “Why did everyone hate it?”

“No happy ending. It’s like”—she exhales with deep thought—“Lana Hale didn’t want us to find love there. Almost like she rejected romance in the end.” She shrugs. “Honestly, I wish I knew, because that was the last book she wrote before she died, and I don’t think any of her fans understand it.”

I hold out the book. “I’ll take it.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s—”

“Ring it up,” I repeat.

“Okaaaay.”

I know Rose has read these books, and I wonder if there’s something in this one that will help me understand her. Because the truth is, I really want to.

I pay for the book, walk home, and that evening I read it. Cover to cover. When I finally put the book down at three twenty in the morning, my eyes are burning with exhaustion. I know I’ve made a huge mistake. I slammed the door in Rose’s face when she reached out, offering her heart to me.

I pick up my cell on the nightstand and dial Rose. It goes to her voicemail like I expect. “Rose, it’s me. I just want to say…” I inhale slowly. “You were right to be pissed. I’m a fucking asshole, and I’m sorry. Call me back.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Bex

It’s a few days to Rose’s birthday, and I’m at the edge of insanity. This past week, the only thing I’ve learned is that I can’t get Rose Marie Hale out of my mind. I’ve seen forty patients, I’ve called her and hung up as many times. I’ve gone to her home, knocked on the door, and driven away. I’ve pulled myself back and pushed myself forward, only to come to one conclusion: I am in love with her. Nothing is going to change it.

I was a fucking idiot to offer that goddamned proposal of waiting a year, and not to trust her. She had the balls to say what I knew from the first moment we met.

Sitting in my parked car, I spot Rose stepping out of her building, and I can’t begin to explain how happy I am to see her. It’s almost her birthday, and I want her to know how I feel before she makes any mistakes. I am “the one” for her, and she is perfect for me. We’re meant to be together.

I leave my car with a present in hand, feeling more anxious than I’ve ever been. When she sees what I brought, she’ll understand. She’ll forgive me. She’ll know I’m all in no matter what.

A tall man with thick dark hair exits the lobby and comes up behind her. He smiles down on Rose, and she beams up at him. They kiss passionately.

It’s like a fucking bullet through my heart because now I know I’ve been waiting my entire life for someone as special as her. My only regret is not leaping.

But you didn’t.

I slide the present into my pocket and get back into my car.

Rose

Give me a week, and I’ll show you a new woman. I can’t thank Bexley Hughes enough for turning me down, because he was right. My feelings for him weren’t real. And had he taken me, my life would have become another painting. His world. His rules. And I would have gone willingly, because I was afraid to face what happened to me. Maybe I still am, but the only way forward now is to stop denying who I truly am and what I know to be true: Love is a fantasy that belongs in books.

My mother wasn’t trying to warn me about staying single. She was trying to show me the way. Trust no one. Understand that they’ll hurt you. Fight like hell for what’s yours. All reasons I told the lawyers, “Game on.” I’m contesting that ridiculous will, as I think I was meant to all along, and anyone who tries to come after what’s mine will fucking regret it, starting with my grandparents. They’re in jail now, along with Gustavo, who regrettably didn’t die, but I’m not stopping there. I’m going to be sure they’re left without a pot to piss in if they ever get free. I’m fighting back with everything I’ve got.

“Thanks, Markus.” I push up on my tiptoes and kiss his lips, lingering just long enough to make sure he’ll taste me long after I’ve left.

“Are we on for your birthday?” he asks.

What he’s really wondering is if we’re going away together. He booked a hotel in Manhattan and a private table at some restaurant with a view of Times Square. He knows I’ve never slept with anyone, and he wants to be my first. He wants it to be special.

“Yep.” I peck him on the lips. “I can’t wait.”

He kisses me again and looks down at me with so much affection. I soak it in. I like it, even if I don’t need it.

“Are you sure? Because I’ll understand if you want to wait.”

I shake my head and smile. “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do on my birthday, or anyone else I’d rather be with for my first time.” For the record, I still plan on dating other men—Chad included. I’m even planning to go to Italy next week with Waylon. Still feels off going to Europe with a man I don’t know, but he called yesterday and begged. Poor guy sounded panicked, like he might cry if I turned him down. Hates traveling alone or something. Anyway, he said he’d consider it a big favor, and I’d already decided to go to Florence with or without him. It’s the perfect place for my first big trip.

Markus blinks. “Why do I sense that I’m more nervous about your first time than you are?”

I laugh and swat him playfully on the chest. “I could find someone else to do the honors.”

“Don’t you dare.”

I won’t. I wouldn’t. I’ve already decided he’s the right man for the job. But what this poor bastard doesn’t know is that he’ll never truly have me. From here on out, I decide who has my body and what piece of my heart they’ll get. Markus will own the real estate near Sentimental Central because I know he won’t abuse it. But a complex woman like myself will never give herself to one man. Maybe that’s what my mother really wanted me to learn. And only now, free, independent, can I see it.

I’ll never settle down. I’ll never allow anyone to rule me, especially a man. Because for the first time in my life, I am alive, in full color.

I am the boyfriend collector.

To Be Continued…

Ready for Part Two (of two)? Head to my bio at the back of this book and click the link to sign up for my newsletter so you don’t miss the next juicy piece of the story…COMING SUMMER 2019.

Dr. Bex Hughes knows he’s in love with his patient, the fiery beauty, Rose Marie Hale. But Rose, after growing up as a real-life Cinderella, is now free, wealthy, and trapped in another story. One where she’s convinced that love is used to hurt people, family tries to murder you for money, and no one can be trusted. It’s all she’s ever known.

Bex knows he can help Rose find her way to real, lasting happiness, but to do it, he’ll have to continue their sessions and endure listening to the details of Rose’s sexual escapades with other men.

Will his love for her be strong enough, or will his jealousy get the best of him?

FOR MORE INFO, including updates on releases for this series:

www.mimijean.net/boyfriendcollector

Author’s Notes

Hi All,

I hope you enjoyed part one (of two). I can’t do the story breakdown just yet, because it will give away some of the twists to come. But for those of you who’ve read my stories, you KNOW something’s coming! I never, ever tell a story in a straight line.

If you want a hint, I suggest you look closer at the men. Each of them represents something different, and one of them is a little more special than the others (apart from Bex).

In the meantime, be sure you’ve signed up for new release alerts so you don’t miss part two! (Link is in my bio at the back of the book.) Or check here for updates:

www.mimijean.net/boyfriendcollector

WANT A FREE SIGNED BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR BOOKMARK? You know what to do!

Step One: Have a hot date with me!

Step Two: Test our compatibility in…Just kidding!

1.   Email me at Mimi@mimijean.net

2.   Provide your full name and complete shipping address (country needed if you’re outside the US).

3.   MENTION if you were an awesome reader and posted A REVIEW, even if SHORT AND SWEET. I don’t care!  If I have extra goodies, like fridge magnets, I will include one. (While supplies last, so hurry.) At the minimum, you will get a thank-you from me if you show the BOOK LOVE!

4.   Be patient with slow-poke Mimi! It sometimes takes a month to get to all of the emails and requests, but I do get to them.

As for what comes next, I shuffled the release dates for 2019 a bit, and I plan to make more changes, so be sure to check my monthly emails. Right now, I’m working on BATTLE OF THE BULGE (OHellNo, #4). I had actually meant to write COLEL next, but I couldn’t get Mitch Hofer, our Australian Olympic swimmer (aka “the Bulge”) out of my head. Plus, I really need a good laugh, and that story makes me giggle like a crazy person. So, I hope my Cimil fans forgive me about delaying Book #5 of the Immortal Matchmakers two more months. (Not like she’s going anywhere anyway, all stuck at the bottom of the ocean. Hehehe…)

Until next time!

XOXO,

Mimi

P.S. Want to see my visual inspirations for this story, head on over to my Pinterest board:

www.pinterest.com/mimijeanromance/the-boyfriend-collector/

What songs did I write the story to? My insanely long Spotify playlist is public
https://spoti.fi/2AKI6Kd

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A big hug to everyone who took the angsty ride with me to create book #36! Su, Dali, Kylie, Karen, Pauline, and Paul.

And, as always, a big thank you to my guys. They’re always there to make sure pets get potty breaks, food gets to my writer’s cave, and the coffee is hot. I love you.

Mimi

COMING SOON!

FOR MORE INFO: www.mimijean.net/bulge

FOR MORE INFO: www.mimijean.net/colel

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF is a New York Times bestselling author who’s sold over one million books around the world. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.

Sign up for Mimi’s mailing list for giveaways and new release news!

STALK MIMI:

www.mimijean.net
twitter.com/MimiJeanRomance
pinterest.com/mimijeanromance
instagram.com/mimijeanpamfiloff
facebook.com/MimiJeanPamfiloff