Princess and the Player (Strangers in Love)

Jasper gives me a fist bump as he takes his chair. He’d been up at the bar getting us another beer. “We pulled it out at the last minute, yo! You think it was the bracelets?”

“Absolutely!” I laugh.

He salutes me. “You kicked ass, Big T!”

Yeah, I guess I did. Tate, my replacement, limped off the field with a twisted ankle, went to the locker room for scans, and never came back. I played my ass off with no mistakes. I fidget in my seat, trying to relieve the pain in my hips from a fall I took.

I take a sip of my beer. Yeah, the win was good, but this season is the first time the Pythons haven’t made the playoffs.

The waitress sets down my grilled chicken and veggies, then gives Jasper his chicken and Cheetos. I shake my head at him as we sit inside the Baller.

Shawna, a brunette with big tits, sits across from me. She keeps giving me the “Do you wanna get lucky?” smile. A friend who hangs around with Courtney, she homed in on us when we sat down.

I’m midbite when she slides her bare foot up my calf. I set down my fork and raise an eyebrow as she takes a long sip from her red wine.

“I’ve been missing you,” she says. “You used to come in every weekend.”

“He’s pining after someone,” Jasper tells her with relish. “You should focus on me. He’s not interested.”

I haven’t seen Francesca since she left the penthouse the day after the gallery. We spent the night together, then woke up and went for a walk. She insisted I get a tree for my place, so I bought a nine-foot evergreen; then we ran into boutiques for ornaments. After the tree was delivered, we decorated, had dinner delivered, and then fucked for hours under the twinkling lights. She gave me a compass keychain as a gift, something she bought secretly while we shopped together. Something to guide you home, she said, her eyes glittering, an earnest look on her face.

The next day, she, Cece, Brogan, and Darden celebrated their Christmas in his apartment while I spent it in the penthouse, just me and Cherry. I told her I was seeing family in Virginia for a few days. Embarrassment and pride kept me from admitting that I was alone.

Refocusing, I think about the compass. I am lost. I have no direction. How does she know me?

I exhale.

Yet I’m not surprised at our connection. Is it the great sex?

After Christmas, they flew to LA to meet Lewis and see Cece’s house. I pull my phone out and scan through the texts we shared as Shawna renews her efforts on my other leg.

I smile at one I sent her. It’s raining here today.

She sent me a photo of her and Brogan in a lush garden outside Cece’s house. The sun was shining, her hair was in a ponytail, and she looked young and beautiful.

Later, I sent her a pic of my scruff I’d let grow out. She sent me a pic of her unshaven legs.

The next day, I asked her if she’d had the lemon bars at the bakery around the block, and she said she loved them with ten heart emoji. I walked down to the bakery and had some overnighted to Cece’s address.

One morning, she sent me a pic of a charcoal sketch of a woman wearing her emerald-and-topaz necklace. I saved it to my phone and added it as her contact photo. I like her art. She’s talented without being obvious or pretentious about it. She’s so real. Genuine.

On New Year’s Eve, I sent teal and pink roses (for her tattoo) and several bottles of Dom to her at Cece’s. She sent me a pic of her smelling them.

We passed each other in the sky when she returned to New York on New Year’s Day while I was flying to Vegas for the game.

My lips twitch. I’m back now, and we could have seen each other. We do live in the same building, but I’m giving her leeway and letting her come to me. Whatever we have, it feels easily breakable.

Shawna’s foot sneaks close to my crotch, and I’m in the middle of moving it when a woman’s voice reaches my ears.

Wearing a halter-style black leather dress, it’s a raven-haired beauty with ruby lips and leopard-print heels. She sways through the throng, and males eye her as she comes toward us. She wears a smile, and her eyes shine, aquamarine and outlined with black. Her straight hair spills around her face. “Hi. I didn’t know you came here.”

My gaze eats up the creamy shoulders, the hollows of her elegant throat, my necklace around her neck.

“Uh . . . ,” I start.

She leans over. “Just when you think I’ll zig, I zag.”

A rumble of laughter comes from me. “How did you get inside?” Then it dawns on me. “Have you been here before?”

“Once.”

“Were you here with an athlete?” Ire threatens to rise.

Not answering, she grabs a chair from another table and places it at the end of ours and sits. She waves at the waitress, who hurries over, and orders a club soda with lime.

“Mind if I join you?” she says.

I roll my eyes.

Jasper chuckles as he licks cheese puffs off his fingers. “Finally. Where have you been hiding out, Princess?”

I grunt. “Only I call her that.”

He snorts.

“Who the heck are you?” Shawna asks her, a sour look on her face.

“I’m his princess. Who are you?”

Shawna blinks. “Um, a friend.”

“Oh, I get it.” Francesca swivels her head back to me, then takes a look around the bar. “I imagine there’s quite a few friends in here. Should I be worried, boo?”

I laugh. Shawna and I have a brief history, but . . .

“Nope,” I murmur.

Jasper leans over to Shawna. “Told ya. Pining.”

“We’re having sex,” Francesca tells her. “It’s complicated, but . . .” She kisses her fingers. “Hot.”

Shawna frowns.

Francesca waves her hands at her. “Leave. Go. Find another man. This one is mine.”

Shawna jerks up, her chair scraping the floor. “You could have said something, Tuck.”

“Sorry . . .” I laugh, still watching Francesca as she shoos at Shawna. I never expected her to draw a line in the sand because a woman was flirting with me.

After Shawna leaves, Jasper talks about the game, shows her our bracelets—she’s already seen mine, but he doesn’t mind—asks about her holiday, and then eventually gets up to grab more beer.

“I need to go to the ladies’ room.” Her lids lower. “Want to come with?”

“Hell yeah. You aren’t going anywhere alone here.” I drain my beer, throw a wad of money on the table, and take her hand as I stand. “Follow me.”

We pass several tables of players, and they murmur hellos. I barely notice. I’ve missed her, and she’s here. She came to me.

I stop at the restroom, and she tells me that she doesn’t really need to go, but do the stalls lock?

My cock thickens. I tug her farther down the hall, open a door, and usher her inside, then lock the door.

“A private room. Cool.” She takes in the couch, the cowhide rug on the floor. Two televisions play football games. One shows hockey.

“Do wicked things happen here?” she asks.

My arms cross over my suit. “You have to be a member of the Baller or know someone. So who have you been here with?”

“You’re jealous, boo. Tsk, tsk.”

“Yes,” I grind out. “Immensely.”

She closes the distance between us and laces her fingers around my neck. “I like you all growly that I was here with an athlete, but I only fall for artists.” Her lips trace up my throat as her fingers rub the scruff on my jawline. “This is so sexy.”

“Who was it?”

“Brogan. He dated a basketball player.”

“Did you see me?”

A small smirk crosses her face. “Yes. Not on purpose, of course. I just happened to be here. You had two girls draped over you.”

“Why didn’t I see you?”

She presses her nose to my chest and inhales. “Sadly, I’m too short.”

I chuckle, my fingers sliding through her hair as I hold her scalp.

“Hey, I’m glad you came to find me. I fucking missed you.”

“I missed you.”

Over the texts, we somehow grew closer? I don’t know, but I know what I need from her right now. I gaze at her rosebud lips. She’s never let me kiss her on the mouth, and I need it.

“Kiss me. For real,” I murmur as I touch her lips. “Show me you missed me.”

Her eyes hold mine, uncertainty in their depths. “Tuck . . .”

“Hmm?”

Her eyes fill with water, and I tug her closer, pressing her face into my shoulder. “Hey, don’t do that. I can’t have you crying over it.”

She pulls back, her eyes searching my face. “No, it’s not that; it’s just . . . there’s something I should tell you.”

“What?” I cup her face gently. “You have a phobia of kissing?”

“No. I want to kiss you.”

Our gazes lock for several moments. She bites her bottom lip, a vulnerable expression on her face, maybe a touch of fear.

“Hey, baby, come on—don’t. It’s nothing, okay. Forget it—”

Before I can finish, her rosebud mouth presses against mine. She caresses me with tentative brushes, back and forth. I sigh as she deepens the touch, her lips nibbling on my bottom one. A guttural sound erupts from my throat when her fingers feather through my hair.

“Baby . . .” My fingers tighten around her as fire dances down my spine. Her breasts press into my chest as I lift and carry her to the couch. “Don’t stop, beautiful; don’t be afraid. This is good, so fucking good,” I manage to say as our lips lock again.

Our breath mingles, her lips parting as her tongue slides against mine. Gone are the hesitant touches as our mouths grow bolder, taking more, giving more. I take control of us, pressing deeper. I want to touch every part of her: her teeth, her tongue, the roof of her mouth.

“I want you,” I rumble.

“Same,” she murmurs as her hand reaches between us and palms my cock through my slacks. I arch into her hands.

“Why did you stop?” I breathe as she pulls back. Her lips are red and swollen, and I brush my fingers over them.

“To do this.” She jerks my suit jacket off, then undoes the buttons on my shirt. Her lips press against my chest and trail down to my stomach. Her fingers undo my pants, tug down the zipper, and then pull out my thick, hard length.

She gazes up at me. “May I?”

I caress her face. “Don’t make me come. That’s for your pussy.”

Her lashes flutter as she starts at my root and licks up my shaft. Her palms cup my balls, her nails tracing the skin as she takes me in her mouth.

Her tongue flutters around my head, and I lean back and groan. She plays over me, then sinks down. She’s ravenous as she sucks, and when her throat swallows around me, I call out her name. She inhales me, making a meal of me. My cock throbs, and bolts of heat radiate up my spine as I pull her off.

“Panties. Off. Now.” I fumble with the condom in my wallet and slide it on.

She slips her lace panties off, tucks them in a pocket in her dress, and then straddles me while bunching up her dress. My breath hitches as she takes me in her hand and sinks down. I hold her hips as she inches down, little gasps coming from her as I push up, teasingly, delving deeper. I pump on the way home and shudder. Our fit is exquisite. She’s the ultimate fuck, her pussy tight and wet.

She unties her halter dress and shoves it down. Her bra is black and see through. Her hair cascades down her back, and when the strands brush my fingers at her hips, I grasp them and slide them through my hands. “You’re the most gorgeous fuck I’ve ever had,” I gasp as she rotates in my lap.

Her peach scent mingles with the smell of sex as I tweak her clit. My tongue flicks over her breasts, sucking on the soft skin. She cups her breasts, and I bite my lip. She’s fuller, plumper, and when I suck her erect nipple in my mouth, she jolts as her channel flutters my cock.

“Baby. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” I pump inside her, my hands bruising her hips.

I fuck her hard.

Again and again and again.

We’re loud, our breaths gasping.

“Touch me,” she calls, and I find where our bodies meet. Wetness drips from my hands as I explore her, the outline of her pussy, her stiff nub.

She arches her back and shouts, her breath ragged as tremors shimmy over her body.

“You undo me.” I thrust inside her velvet channel.

There’s a knock at the door and someone saying my name.

“Come,” she whispers, and I stare into her eyes and explode inside her.

I’m trying to catch my breath as she rises up and slips her panties back on.

I haul myself up, tie off the condom, and throw it in the trash. I zip up, fix my shirt, and then grab my jacket and slip it on.

“Someone is at the door.”

I grasp her nape and pull her to me and kiss her hard. “I really don’t care. Do not run off.” I walked into the bar with tension in my chest, but now it’s gone. Vanished. She’s the magic that keeps it away.

I lace our fingers together and open the door. Jasper is there, his eyes widening as he takes in her just-fucked look. “Oh, um, Big T, I didn’t think, um—well, I’m heading out and wanted you to know.”

“All right. You got a ride?” I tug Francesca along, hooking her hand in my arm.

He follows on our heels. “Yeah.”

“Who?”

He doesn’t say anything as we reach our table, and his face has reddened. “Um, I’m taking a cab to Courtney’s. She needs help moving the furniture around.”

She moved out right after Christmas. “That’s really nice of you,” I say dryly.

“What?” Jasper asks. “I’m a nice guy. It’s what I’m known for.”

Francesca chimes in. “You two seem to have a little, um, opposites-attract thing going on—”

“No, we don’t!” He scoffs. “She’s a total bitch. And I’m a meathead. Not a match. Pfft. Fuck that.”

She shrugs. “Maybe you can help her be kinder, hmm?”

“Um, yeah, totally,” he says as he fumbles around to get money out of his wallet. He puts it on the table. “You don’t mind if I help her, right?”

I grunt. “Please, so help her.”

“All right, I’ll see y’all later.” And then he’s out the door.

I toss an arm around Francesca as we watch him go. “He’s totally fucking her. He thinks I don’t know—maybe he’s worried I wouldn’t approve—but it’s been going on since the night he went off on her.”

I tell the valet to bring my car around.

“Back to Wickham?” she asks.

“Not yet. I want to show you something, sort of a surprise.”

Her eyes light up. “Fun! Can we stop at McDonald’s and get some fries?”

I laugh. “McDonald’s seems like a great first date. Thank God they don’t have that clown up anymore.”

The valet brings around my Ferrari. We pull out on the highway. I find the nearest McDonald’s on the map and head that way. When we pull up to the drive-through, she asks the teller to add chopped bacon to her fries. I didn’t know that was an option, and she says that if you ask, you shall receive.

I shift gears as I hit FDR Drive, then head south, leaving Upper Manhattan.

“Where are we going?”

“SoHo, about thirty minutes away.” My body tingles with anticipation.

“You know this isn’t our first date.” She’s got a mulish look on her face.

“Oh?” I grin. “Are we counting Decadence?”

“Hypothetically, that night was like ten dates in one.”

I speed through a yellow light. “Most people call themselves couples after five.”

“Did you just make that up?”

“Maybe,” I say on a laugh.

“Anyway, we could say we met via a blind date. It was an awful date because I called you a pervert. Our second date was when you rescued me from a real pervert and we did shots. On the third date, we played a game and went dancing. By the fourth we celebrated your birthday, then watched live porn. On the fifth, we fucked like bunnies on crack.” She stuffs a wad of fries in her mouth and chews. “Five dates in one. Works for me.”

“We took walks, there was the bookstore, the night at my penthouse, then the Christmas shopping.”

“Hypothetically, we’re going steady,” she announces.

“Should I buy you diamonds?”

“No more jewelry.”

“So since we’ve been on these hypothetical dates, I have questions.” I glance over, lingering on her face before turning back to the road. “If we were dating, and I wanted to cook you dinner, what would be your favorite?”

“Avocados, ice cream, and bacon. Kidding. Um, I guess pasta. Any kind of sauce will do, red or white—with lots of garlic. What would be yours?”

“If football training wasn’t involved, a big chocolate cake.”

“What about the meal?”

“Filet. Baked potato with tons of butter and sour cream. And bacon.”

She laughs. “Okay, new one. Tell me your favorite female actress.”

“Hmm, I sense danger in this question.”

“Who is it?”

I sigh. “Fine. Betty White.”

She scoffs. “You picked her because she’s passed away.”

“Because I knew you’d ask some silly question like, Would I dump her for you?”

She smirks. “Something like that, yeah.”

“I don’t even want to know which male movie star you lust after.”

She smiles.

“Okay, I do. Who is it?”

“No one, really. He’s barely even handsome.”

“Who. Is. It?”

She bats her lashes. “I’m not telling. It doesn’t matter.”

“Who is it?” I mutter.

She laughs. “Boo, you’re so jealous! Okay, it’s Jensen Ackles.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

She gasps. “You’ve never watched Supernatural? Oh my God, there’s fifteen seasons.”

I shake my head. “Would you dump me for him?”

She taps her chin. “First, you need to watch the show. I’ll sit with you. His character, Dean Winchester, fights demons and ghosts and vampires. He’s cool and loyal—and sexy, of course.”

I grunt.

“He’s a bad boy, sort of reckless, but he’ll do anything for his brother, including going to hell for him. His best friend is an angel, he knows his way around a knife, and he drives a kick-ass 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Nah, I’d keep you around if I met him, but come on; you must watch it! He kinda reminds me of you. Tough on the outside, kind underneath.” She sighs. “Okay, my turn. If you had one wish, what would it be?”

I had been watching her and pull my eyes back to the road. “I’d be an ass if I didn’t say world peace.”

“Forget world peace. What would you choose?”

I sigh. “World peace. I insist. Or a cure for all disease.”

“Nothing for yourself?”

I speed past an SUV. “Hmm, I really can’t decide. You tell me your wish.”

She gazes out her window, her voice soft. “I’d want to know who my parents are. Not that I can go back and change anything—my life turned out being the one meant for me—but to know what happened. Maybe I’d have closure.”

“Do you think they might still be out there?”

She chews her bottom lip. “I have this gut feeling my mom couldn’t take care of me. It’s funny, but when I was in the group home, I had dreams about her. She always looks like me and lives in Manhattan.” She smirks at me. “Okay, your wish. What would it be?”

“My wish is that you’re amazed by what I’m going to show you.”

Her eyes narrow as she studies my profile. “You must have another one besides that?”

My hands tighten on the wheel. Yeah, I have a wish—that my parents had been different—but I can’t say that. We’re having fun, and it would bring the mood down.

“Fine,” she says as she studies my face. “New question. Hypothetically, if we made it to, let’s say, fifty dates, would you agree to get a tattoo of my face somewhere on your body?”

“I hate needles. A lot. Almost as much as clowns. It’s called trypanophobia. I passed out once as a kid when I got a shot, and it messed me up. Even giving blood for my checkups makes me freak. I have to psych myself up and meditate. It’s not a fun experience. Needles suck.”

Her mouth parts. “Seriously? Oh my God, I would do it for you!”

“You love tattoos—and needles! Little, tiny, vicious ones that dig into your skin—ugh, it makes me want to hurl to even think about it.”

She crosses her arms. “Fifty dates! I’ve never had fifty dates. That’s it. We’re over. I’m breaking up with you.”

“Are you going to give back my class ring?”

“Pawn it, of course.”

I clutch my heart. “You’ve killed me. I’ll never date again.”

“You will. She’ll be twenty and tall.”

I chuckle.

She scoffs. “I’ll start dating an artist.”

“Then I’ll run into you at Café Lazzo and beat him up.”

“And I’ll have a girl fight with your model.”

“Then we’ll go back to my penthouse.”

“And I’ll still be angry because you didn’t get a tattoo for me and go straight to my apartment.”

“That wasn’t the direction I was going in.” I’m still chuckling as I park on the street. Around midnight, the neighborhood is quiet, lit with ornate iron lampposts. Just a few streets over are high-end hotels, galleries, and restaurants.

“I love SoHo,” she says, then sighs. “It’s pretty.”

I tell her that I own rental property here and in Tribeca. I don’t mention the real estate I have in the Hamptons, Boston, and Virginia. I lead her down the corner and turn down West Broadway until we reach a cobblestone side street. We walk to a large yellow building with an old royal-blue double door.

I unlock it and show her inside. Even without lights, the white-and-black diamond-tiled floor glows. “The first floor used to be a boutique, and there’s a loft upstairs. There’s another entrance to the loft that bypasses the downstairs, but I wanted you to see the full effect of the door. I’m partial to it.”

“You wanted to impress me.” Her gaze drapes over me. “You don’t need real estate. You had me at the scruff.”

I laugh as we take the side stairs and enter the loft. I turn on the lights, and she looks around, surprise on her face as she takes in the various styles of art, the wooden beams on the ceiling. She sees the clothes I was folding on the couch, the ragged books on the coffee table. “You come here a lot. It’s downright rustic compared to your penthouse.”

“Hmm.”

I lead her into the kitchen. “It’s twenty-five-hundred square feet with three bedrooms and a rooftop. I come here for a change of scenery—more since Jasper moved in.”

“Who watches Cherry when you’re gone?”

“Dog walker, one of Herman’s relatives.”

“Is that who kept her while you were in Virginia?”

I stop, my hands twitching as I wrestle with a bald-faced lie or . . .

“I didn’t go. I stayed home instead.” I glance away from her.

“You were alone over Christmas?”

“Don’t feel bad for me. I could have gone to see Ronan and his family, but . . .” I pause, frowning. “It would have felt like an intrusion on their family time. He’s got a kid now.”

She watches me. “I get it. I’ve spent plenty of holidays with no one. Whether you’re rich or poor, it’s hard.”

I set down two different types of ice cream, and she squeals and picks chocolate. I dish out a large portion in one bowl, spray whipped cream over it, grab two spoons, and lead her to the couch. She takes a mouthful and groans.

She talks around a glob of ice cream. “I remember you saying you didn’t ever eat in the bed, but the couch is okay?”

“Don’t make fun of me because I’m picky. The bed is for sleep and fucking.” Then I tell her about Jasper and his cheese puffs on my couch.

“You’ve really got a sweet tooth,” I say when she asks for more whipped cream.

“I never did much before . . .” Her words stop. “Anyway. I love the art you have.” Her eyes trace the room, taking in the pieces I’ve collected. I tend to buy art from every place I visit, and I never know where to put it. The penthouse was decorated by an interior designer, so most of my personal purchases end up at the loft.

After we finish, I give her an old practice shirt, boxers, and a pair of white tube socks. I change into my oldest, most comfortable flannel pants and a T-shirt with holes. We lean back on the fluffy chaise in the den.

She snuggles into my arms, her head fitting under my chin as we talk about our favorite paintings. I tell her mine is The Starry Night.

“Van Gogh painted it from the view of his room in an asylum in France. It’s dark, but there’s light in the sky.”

“Hope, maybe,” she says. “He came from a religious family, and there’s a church in the painting, as if he’s clinging to God.”

My fingers trail over her shoulders as I recall her compass. I add, “I like to think the stars are there to guide him back home to his brother, Theo. Vincent struggled with mental illness—that no one knew how to treat—religion, poverty, loneliness. He was there for a year, even took over an entire floor as a studio. He painted a hundred and fifty paintings in a year at the asylum.”

“Then, a year after he left, he walked out to the wheat fields he loved to paint and shot himself in the chest. He walked back to the inn and got in his bed, and when his brother arrived, he told him that his sadness would last forever.” She pauses. “Maybe today, he could get help.”

“I like that you know who he is. Most people just know that he’s the guy that cut off his ear.”

She smiles. “And I like that you know who he is.”

I ease her up. “Speaking of art, I still haven’t shown you the surprise. Come on.”

We hold hands as I guide her to my master bedroom. Before I open the door, I say, “This place doesn’t get a maid. Prepare yourself . . .”

She sees the unmade bed I slept in a few nights last week and the floating bookshelves, then peers out at the floor-to-ceiling view of the rooftop. Outside is a retro yellow patio set with different-colored chairs, a hot tub, and a small pool that needs cleaning.

She nods. “Quaint. Not what I expected.”

“The surprise is over there.” I nudge my head to the charcoal sketch that hangs over the dresser, and she rushes toward it, nearly tripping over a pile of sneakers.

“It caught my eye years ago at an arts festival.”

She looks from the sketch to me. Tears pool in her eyes.

“Sweetheart . . . ,” I start, and she huffs under her breath.

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m fine. Just crazy emotional right now. Sorry. I swear I never cry.” She bites her lip as she studies the drawing of Wickham. “You got this at the art fair in Greenwich. You bought it.” Her hand covers her chest. “Tuck . . . this means something, yes?”

Not replying to that, I close the space between us and stand behind her with my hands on her shoulders. “I bought it several years ago, yes.”

“I drew it from a bench across the street,” she continues. “I even sketched Herman at the door and Darden on his balcony. There’s Cece talking to Brogan on the sidewalk.”

My arms encircle her waist. “It got my attention because it was my building. And it’s a good piece. See her?” I point to the woman leaning against the building.

She melts against me. “Me. In my harem pants with my satchel . . .”

“Wearing your locket.”

She turns around in my arms. “Decadence? You recognized it? So you knew I lived or was familiar with Wickham outside Café Lazzo?”

I shake my head emphatically. “No. I recognized the locket as being familiar, but things moved so fast that night there wasn’t time to figure it out. I realized it when we were in the elevator together after one of our walks.”

“Fate is crazy.”

“Hmm.” We sway together to a song that isn’t playing.

She looks up at me. “Just throwing this out, and keep in mind it’s late and my thoughts tend to get more fanciful the later it gets . . .”

“Okay?”

“Some cultures believe in reincarnation, like a wheel of rebirth, and then there’s the whole karma thing. Basically, your next life may depend on the way you lived your past life. When you’re reborn, whether it’s ten years later or a hundred, the people around you might be past family members or lovers, and you’ll be faced with the same struggles. If you’ve been horrible, you might be an animal or a plant.”

“Are you saying Cherry could be my dead ancestor that fucked up?”

She rolls her eyes. “Some say you’re destined to meet the same person over and over until you get it right.”

“Ah.” I sweep her up and settle her in my bed, then plop down next to her. I lean up on my elbow as I gaze down at her. “So fate keeps pushing us together because we never got it right in our past lives?”

She rolls on top of me and smiles. “I hear skepticism. Do you believe in anything?”

I pause at the seriousness in her eyes, choosing my words carefully. “I believe in today. I believe the sun’s going to come up with us together in this bed. There’s no force pushing me around a chessboard. I create my own destiny. I’m not at the whim of the stars.”

She tsks as her fingers trace my eyebrows. “You’re a cynical man. I’m a cynic too, but . . .” A troubled expression flits over her face. “There must be purpose; otherwise what’s the point in tragedy and suffering?”

“So our lives are prefixed? We can do nothing to stop the outcome?”

“We have free will. We choose the path. That’s why it keeps happening over and over.” She chews on her bottom lip. “I’m just a dreamer, Tuck. I’m not a Buddhist or Hinduist or a Christian. I’m not anything; I’m still figuring that out. But I keep asking questions. Why did I feel driven to live in Manhattan? My dreams? Why did Wickham accept foster kids and I get in? Why did I meet Darden and Cece and Brogan? Why do I have this locket? Why have I seen you for years? Why did you buy my sketch? Why did we feel drawn to each other at the club? I bet if you made a map of Manhattan and took yarn and traced your steps and mine, they’d overlap over and over. It all piles up, layer by layer. Little pushes. Nudges. Leading us in a certain direction. Sometimes there are too many coincidences to call it a coincidence, yes?”

“Am I your fate?” I frown. I’m not good enough for her. I’m flawed. Ugly on the inside.

“Maybe.” She rests her cheek on my chest as the sun slowly peeks over the horizon. Her finger traces my bicep. “How did you grow up in Virginia?”

“Normal. Typical. Lots of football.” I card my fingers through her hair.

“But not perfect, right?”

I pause. “No.”

“If there’s a perfect family out there, then they’re aliens masquerading as humans to take over the world, or they’re robots. I like the robot idea. It reminds me of that book, what was it . . .”

“Stepford Wives? I watched one of the movies or TV shows.”

Her nose scrunches. “That’s it. Murdering husbands who replace their Connecticut feminist wives with docile, perfect robots.” Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. “In spite of how I was in and out of foster homes, I want my own family. Not just Darden and Cece and Brogan.”

A chill washes over me. “Not anytime soon, yeah?”

She’s quiet, and my hands still. “Francesca?”

“Maybe sooner than I realized.”

My throat tightens. “Shit.” I ease her off me, stand, and pace around the room, my head tumbling. Why is she talking about fate, then family?

She hasn’t moved from the bed, not an inch, her body strangely still as she looks at me. “You’ve always had this air about you, carefree and happy go lucky. I can see you as a dad—”

“Stop,” I say sharply, adrenaline rushing through my veins as she hits a nerve.

She plucks at the comforter. “Ah, yes. I presume too much, and it’s too soon for such talk. You were all I thought about in California.” Her chest rises. “There’s something I should tell you—”

“No, don’t,” I say, interrupting her. “Don’t bring emotions into this.”

She gets a puzzled look. “That’s not—”

“I’ve been honest with you, Francesca. I don’t want . . . ,” I say, cutting her off, then trailing off, unsure how to continue. How do I say that I can love but I’m also a monster with sharp teeth?

Emotionally, I’m broken.

And physically? Jesus. What if I am my dad?

Part of me doesn’t trust Francesca—not about the stalking; that’s long gone.

She’s hammering on the steel walls around my heart.

I can’t let her in.

Can’t.

Can’t.

Jesus, there’s such a long list of why I can’t commit!

I rake both hands through my hair. “Don’t you think this is a conversation for down the road?” Most girls wait months before poking at the idea of family.

“I guess when I know what I want . . .” Her shoulders shrug. “I kissed you. That means something . . .” Blue-green eyes flash up at me. “It’s a big fucking deal.”

“I’m not sure where we’re going, okay? Let’s date, yeah—I really like you. You’re different. Beautiful. Special. I’d like it if I’m the only guy you’re fucking, and I’ll do the same. That’s what I offer. Is that enough?”

The air crackles with tension.

She nudges her head at the door, and I see my hand on the knob. My knuckles are white. “Are you sure about that?” A wan smile flits over her face. “If you want to leave, go. I’m familiar with the experience.”

Exasperation, mixed with uncertainty, surges over me.

I want light. Fun. Easy.

Not serious.

“You have me, okay? You played hard to get and won. I haven’t been with anyone since Decadence. I want you, Francesca; I’ve never made that a secret. When I came to your door, when I saw you in the bookstore . . .” Pressure tightens in my chest. “I fucking need you, okay? I’m sorry I don’t dig this fate thing.”

“I didn’t play any games. There was no ‘hard to get’ going on. I had doubts about you. I still do.” She looks down at her hands. “As far as fate is concerned, you didn’t have to agree with me or believe in it; I didn’t expect that, but it bugs you—which I find telling. I don’t understand our coincidences, but that isn’t what this is about. I want to know who you really are. I want to know about your normal childhood. It only seems fair since you had someone look into my life.”

There’s an edge to that last sentence.

“I won’t ever do that again,” I tell her. “I swear.”

“Too late now.”

I let go of the doorknob and stalk to the window. My head dips as I ponder.

She’s here, the most real thing I’ve had in years. So why can’t I open up to her?

My fists clench. Self-preservation.

Because my mother taught me that love can be yanked away at any moment.

I learned to protect myself, to hide parts of myself.

I hear the shuffle of the sheets as she stands. “Tuck, I need to tell you—”

“Wait.” I whip around and rush to her before she can say something that ends us. It’s what I let my past girlfriends do. They get fed up; then finally, they give up and walk out.

“You’re the only girl I’ve brought here; I want you to know that. This is me trying, but I’m fucked up, okay?” My teeth tug on my bottom lip; then out rush my words. “You want to know why I was alone over the holidays? My mother hates me because my dad killed himself on my birthday. He got in his car and drove it straight into a tree. He’d been drinking, and they’d argued. Maybe he’d given up on her. Maybe he was disgusted with himself, his life, her—I don’t know.”

I yank out the bottom drawer of the nightstand and pull out photos.

She takes one. “Your parents?”

“At a society thing they were at.” I sit on the bed with her as we gaze at the picture. It’s like art, capturing a moment in time, a slice of emotion from my parents. Wearing a slinky gold evening gown with her hair swirled up, my mother stares up at my dad with adoration, maybe desperation. Dressed in a tux, he clasps her hand in his. His jaw is clenched as he glares at the photographer.

“You look like him,” she murmurs.

I grunt. “Fuck that.”

“Okay, you do, but he seems cold.” She traces her fingers over his face.

“Never to her. He was mad with love. They didn’t intend to have me. I was a mistake. I made things worse.”

“Tuck . . . I’m so sorry.”

I exhale long and hard. “He hit her, she hit him, and he hit me when I got between them. She covered her bruises with makeup and kept telling me to smile. Her love for me depended on that smile.” My teeth grit at the emotion clawing at my chest. “And yeah, I still pretend like none of that happened. It’s easier than dwelling on shit I should be over.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Tuck. Scars on the inside are still there.”

“Her love had conditions; he never showed any. The thought of family terrifies me. I can only be responsible for myself. At least then, I’m not hurting anyone. Maybe I’ll inherit her issues. It’s genetic. You want to know me? Really? You want the stuff that’s underneath?”

“Tuck—”

I can’t stop. “I didn’t grow up normal. I grew up tense and scared. With chaos all around me. I didn’t know what would set him off—or her. I crept around our house on eggshells. Football was my only reprieve. The summers in high school when I went to Texas for football camp were the best months of my life. I’ve spent the last few years thinking I was good, you know, but now I’m dealing with open aggression issues. That’s from my therapist. I rage. I fly off the handle at shit that wouldn’t have bothered me five years ago. I’m worried about my future in football. I’m worried my mother will never forgive me. I’m worried I am my father deep down. I pick fights. I drive too fast. I’m so worn down and desperate that I take walks and give out coats to lower my stress.”

“You do it for other reasons too.”

“Do I? Maybe I’m just a real asshole and the only reason I’m doing it is to feel better about myself. Maybe I don’t care about homeless people. Oh, and here’s a tidbit for you. I take meds for depression and anxiety. Mash all that together, and what you get is a man on a razor’s edge. Is that the guy you want to be with?”

She swallows. “Yes.”

“Well, shit. Baby. That’s not what I expected you to say.” I brush a tear off her face. “Then stay. Just don’t go, okay? People leave us, Francesca. Give me, us, a chance. Please.”

Her breath hitches. “I will. I am.”

“Patience?”

She nods. “Kiss me.”

Relief soars in my chest, and I take her in my arms.

We fall back down to the bed and kiss until our lips are swollen. I keep my hands above her waist. Sweet. Gentle. Her face rests next to mine on the pillow, and I trace my fingers over her widow’s peak, the curve of her cheek. “This is crazy. I should be exhausted, but you’re here, and I’m not.”

Her lashes drop, her voice fading. “Hmm, you’re not sleepy?”

“I’m half-afraid you might disappear.” The words are barely a whisper, and I’m not sure she hears.

I watch the slow rise of her chest as she drifts off. I’m in deep with her, and I’ve got no idea where we’re going.

My fear?

This is gonna hurt when it’s over.