“Just like in our college dorm room,” I state nodding at our meal, laughing at the memory of two frightened freshman thrown together away from home.

She was my freshman roommate. I could have never of guessed that first week of college orientation that the Barbie Doll I was roomed with would turn out to be the person closest to me in the whole world. She had waltzed in our dorm room, a model out of a Ralph Lauren ad campaign, so confident and sure of herself, her ad-worthy family following behind her, taking in the meager surroundings of the painted brick walls and small closet space. My gawky self watched her, cringing inwardly at the thought of having to be reminded every morning I woke up at how inferior I was to a beautiful creature such as her.

I sat picking at the hem of my dress as her parents left for good. She shut the door, turned to me, a huge grin on her heart-shaped lips, and said, “Thank God they’re finally gone!” I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she sagged against the door in relief. She angled her head, studying me, sizing me up. “I think it’s time to celebrate!” She said hurrying over to her suitcase.

Within moments, she produced a bottle of tequila, hidden deep in her belongings. She came back toward me, flopping on my bed next to me. She unscrewed the cap and held the bottle up in the air between us, “To Freshman year!” she toasted, “To friendship, freedom, cute boys, and having each other’s backs.” She winced as she took a swig of the strong liquid and then handed the bottle over to me. I looked nervously back and forth between her and the bottle, and then wanting desperately to be liked by her, took a swallow, the burn bringing tears to my eyes.

“My God, we were so naïve back then. And young!” she joins in my reminiscence. “We’ve been through so much since freshman orientation!”

“All we need is that cheap tequila to bring us back.” I laugh and then fall into silence as the impending night starts to eat the sun’s rays. “Eight years is a long time, Had,” I admit, taking a deep drink of the tart wine, letting it soothe the anxiety gnawing at the edges of my mind.

“Long enough,” she says taking a seat, looking at me over her own, “that I know something is bugging you. What’s going on, Ry?”

I smile softly, so grateful to have a friend like her and cursed at the same time because she knows my every nuance. I feel tears burn in my throat, the sudden force of my emotions surprising me.

Haddie leans forward, her perfectly tanned legs bending beneath her as she reaches out and places a hand on my leg. “What is it, Rylee? What has you so twisted up?”

I take a moment to find my voice, wanting to tell her everything, to get her opinion on whether I’m being obtuse in my confliction over Colton. Maybe I know what she is going to tell me if I confess, and that’s why I find myself holding back. Not wanting to hear that it’s okay after all this time to let go and feel again. That being with someone else does nothing to tarnish Max, his memory, or what we had together.

“There’s too many things, I don’t even know where to start,” I confess, trying to sift through my mental baggage. “I’m exhausted from work—worried about Zander’s lack of progress, wrapping up all of the details from the benefit last Saturday night,” I say running my hands through my hair, “and the fact that I’m back to the house tomorrow to cover Josie’s shift because she’s sick … ”

“Can’t someone else cover it?” She asks taking a bite of pizza. “You’ve worked way too many hours this week. I’ve barely seen you.”

“No one can. Not this week. Everyone’s hours are maxed out because all of the extra time I had them put in for the benefit … and since I’m on salary … it’s left to me,” I explain.

“I understand why you do it, Ry—why you love it—but don’t let it kill you, sweetie.”

“I know. I know. You sound like my mother!” I take a bite of my pizza and chew it slowly. “The good news though, is that I think we secured the rest of the funding for the facility.”

“What?” she sputters, sitting up quickly. “Why didn’t you tell me? This calls for a celebration,” she says, clinking her glass with mine. “What happened? How? Details!”

“We’re still ironing out the final details before making anything public,” I say, trying to hide my contempt for how we secured the funding from my voice, “and then we’ll make an announcement.” I hope that my answer will be enough to keep her questions at bay.

“Okay,” she says slowly, eyeing me—wondering why I’m not being more forthcoming. “So then what’s up with your auction date thing that Dane was telling me about?”

I look down, twisting the ring that sits on my right hand ring finger. I worry it around and around out of habit. “Not sure yet,” I say, looking up, noticing her watching my twisting of my ring.

She looks up, tears in her eyes. “It’s because the anniversary is coming up soon isn’t it? That’s why you seem so overwhelmed?” She scoots out of her chair and sits next to me, wrapping her arms around me.

For a brief moment, I allow myself to give in to the memories and to the thoughts that surround the approaching date. I haven’t really put the two together, my sudden sentimentality and my scattered emotional state over the possibility of acting on the nonexistent connection with Colton. It’s ironic to me that someone else has noticed it. I guess I’m subconsciously ignoring the traumatic date, wanting to close my eyes to the grief that will forever smolder in the depths of my soul.

I wipe a tear from my cheek and withdraw from the warmth of Haddie’s embrace. “Yeah,” I shrug, “just too much all at once.” This is the truth, but I feel guilty in not telling Haddie the whole of it.

“Well, sister,” she says reaching out and handing me back my glass of wine. “Let’s drink a bunch more wine, wallow in pity, and laugh at our stupid selves.” Her sincere smile permeates my mood.

I clink my glass to hers, thankful for her friendship. “Cheers, my dear!”


CHAPTER 7


I glance at the clock as I finish helping Ricky with his spelling words and shoo him off to play with the others. I have thirty more minutes on shift and then I’m off for a whole glorious two days. I actually have the elusive, rare weekend off, and despite letting Haddie talk me into being her date for a launch party for the newest rum product her company is promoting, I’m excited to have time to myself.

It’s been quite a day to say the least.

Earlier in the day, the school called for me to pick up Aiden because he’d been in yet another fight. I received a lecture from the principal that if this keeps up, other measures might need to be taken for his education. I questioned him about whether the other boys, the ones who keep bullying Aiden, were getting the same reprimand. If they were getting the same threat of being kicked out of school. He gave me a non-committal answer in the form of a grunt.

I was happy that I was able to work one on one with Zander while the rest of the boys were in school. Our counseling staff thought it was best to home school him until he started communicating verbally. Trying to teach someone who for the most part is unresponsive is a frustrating endeavor to say the least. All I want is for some kind of break through with him. Something tells me he knows how much I care for him. That I wish he still had his mother to soothe him. To hug him. To tell him she loves him.

The boys are in their various afterschool modes and I’m at the table finishing my review of Shane’s paper for school. Jackson’s shift ended and hour ago and his replacement, Mike, is at a routine counseling appointment with Connor.

I resume looking over Shane’s paper, thoroughly impressed with how well he is improving in school, a result of our numerous one-on-one sessions with him. I glance over to the family room area where Kyle and Ricky have entered with their box of baseball cards. They sit down on the floor next to the coffee table and turn their attention to the basketball game that is playing on the television. Zander is in his usual place, stuffed animal held to his chest, and eyes staring unfocused into space. Scooter is laying on the carpet, coloring in one of his Spiderman coloring books. I listen for the telltale sign of music in the back bedrooms to tell me that Shane is in his room. I finish making comments on Shane’s paper and shift my attention over to start reviewing the meal and afterschool activity schedules for the next week.

I hear a knock at the front door and before I can even put my pen down, I hear Shane yell, “I got it!” from his bedroom. I smirk because I know he’s hoping it’s his “girl that is a friend,” as he puts it. She came over last week, and I think that Shane is still on cloud nine.

“Look before you open,” I tell him as I rise from the table and walk toward the hall. As I reach the corner of the hall that leads to the foyer, Shane breezes past me, disappointment on his face. “It’s for you,” he says plopping on the couch.

I turn the corner, figuring that there’s a delivery of some sort as The House is always receiving legal documents via courier in regards to our kids’ situations. I look up and see the foot of someone standing outside the doorway. I reach the doorway and when I step out I come face to face with Colton. Despite his sunglasses, I know he’s looking me up and down. A lazy, lopsided grin on his face that causes his dimple to deepen is the only show of emotion on his face.

Damn my breath for catching at the sight of him. As much as I don’t want him here, don’t want the complication of what he has to offer in my life—a quick fuck that’s easily discarded—I am giddy at the sight of him. And this turn of events is not looking good for me.

I stop in the doorway, a smile spreading on my face despite my resolve that he’s bad news for me. We stand, looking at each other, taking each other in for several moments. He’s in a well-worn pair of jeans and a black t-shirt clings over his muscular torso. The simplicity of his clothing only adds to his devastating looks. His dark hair is windblown, wild and sexy as hell.

Everything about him screams here comes trouble. And I’m standing right in his path like a deer in the headlights. Unable to move and drawn to his light. Willpower is only going to last me so long. I’m seriously screwed.

“Hello, Rylee.” The simple rasp of his voice saying my name has me flashing back to his mouth on mine. His hands on me. Has vibrations propelling shockwaves through my body.

I cock my head to the side regarding him. “Hi, Ace,” I say guardedly. “Since when did you add stalker to your repertoire of talents?”

I slip my hands into the rear pockets of my jeans as I lean against the doorjamb. He removes his sunglasses, his emerald eyes blazing into mine, and then folds them to hang in the neck of his shirt. Their weight pulls the neckline down so several dark hairs curl out over the edge. I drag my eyes from the sight back up to his.

He flashes me a lightening fast grin. “I’d be more than happy to show you my talents, sweetheart.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Womanizing is not a talent.”

“True,” he draws the word out and nods his head in a slow acknowledgement, “but you’ve yet to see the true depths of my many others.” He arches an eyebrow, a roguish smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “And since you keep running, I can’t show you and we can’t solve our little problem about that date you owe me.” He takes a step closer to me, a playful look dancing in his eyes. I retreat a step into the foyer, leery of this dance we are engaging in. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, Ryles?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Donavan. I’ve been warned about guys like you.”

He smirks at me, finding my comment amusing. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine and the patronizing manner of his smile irks me. He takes another step closer, causing my pulse to quicken.

“What do you want? Why are you here?” I huff.

“Because I want my date with you,” he says annunciating every word, “and I always get what I want.” He places both hands on the doorjamb, leaning into it, his silhouette blocking the afternoon sun. His dark features haloed by the bright light.

I shake my head at his nerve and boundless conceit. “Not this time,” I disagree. I push the front door to shut and turn on my heel back down the hallway.

In less than a heartbeat, Colton grabs my upper arm, whirls me around, and has me pressed up against the doorjamb. “Keep fightin’ me, sweetheart. The feistier you are, the harder you make me.” There is a dangerous amusement to his tone that scrapes over me and prickles my senses.