He drops my hand and pops the pen into my purse. “Eight AM.”

“Um… eight, that… good. I’ll uh…” I struggle to get the words out, but he’s already turned and disappeared behind a row of steel lockers.

What the hell was that? One minute the guy treats me like a friend and the next a burden. And the almost kiss behind his Jeep today is the whipped topping on this mind-fuck sundae.

I shake off the awkward exchange. Whatever is or isn’t happening between us isn’t worth my overthinking. His actions prove he’s a friend. That’s enough for me.

Blake

It’s late, and I’m still up. I read the text that came in a few hours ago one more time.

237 N. Tulum Dr. #290 See you in the a.m. Layla

Shortly after I added her number to my contact list, right below Lanette and above Leah, I punched her address into MapQuest. She’s in one of the worst neighborhoods in Vegas.

If I was a good guy, I’d drive over there right now, pack up all their shit, and take them to a hotel until they find somewhere safer. I groan and rub my forehead, my brain feeling like a party mix of compulsion and annoyance.

Something ain’t right. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to tune this girl out. I’ve done it countless times in the past. All I have to do is decide not to care. But no matter how many times I make that decision, Layla Moorehead continues to grate against my determination.

Fuck. I push up from the lounger on my patio and head back inside. My back is completely numb now from the good doc’s cortisone injections, but I don’t want to take any chances. I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and throw back a handful of Doc’s prescription holistic crap.

Standing in the kitchen, I look around my condo. The lights of the Las Vegas strip blaze in the distance. The floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows do nothing to ease the feeling of being shrink-wrapped in my own skin. I’m edgy, ticking, and on the verge of explosion.

Just like my dad. Pissed off, irritable, ready to take on the world with my bare knuckles.

Maybe it’s the fight coming up. That has to be it. I can’t stand to entertain the alternative. But the possibility lingers.

And for whatever reason, Layla’s presence in my life seems to aggravate the situation. Holding her in my arms, her fragile little body pressed in close from chest to hip. Vanilla spice curling through my senses and practically dropping me to my knees. Fuck. I was a half a second away from pushing her back against a wall and tasting that sweet mouth.

My words from the night before come flooding back. Good for him for getting the fuck away from you.

She’s too fragile. Broken in a way that makes a guy like me Riddex to my emotionally fractured Mouse.

Attacking Layla’s weak spot at the club, reeling her in just to kick her in the gut, was a typical Duke Daniels move. And as desperate as I am to avoid becoming even a shadow of a man like that, it’s out of my control. I’m furious at how easily I become what I hate the most.

And I’m bitter as hell that there was someone in my life who should’ve protected us, but didn’t. If only my mom would’ve done her job as a parent and left his ass in order to protect us from the verbal abuse. But no, it was me who protected her. Always. She was so damn weak.

My head pounds. This feeling-sorry-for-myself shit has got to stop. I move through my living room and down the hallway. Stopping at the only locked door in the house, I reach up and pull down the single key hidden on top of the doorframe.

I unlock the door and push into the dark room. It’s windowless and soundproof. Without turning on a single light, I know where everything is. My mind has memorized it. I move deeper inside, allowing the scent of maple, rosewood, and mahogany to soothe my damning thoughts. Ready to purge the negative shit coursing through my veins, I take a seat and let the tension melt into the floor.

There in the dark, hidden from even myself, I drown in the one indulgence that has never let me down.

Layla

“Ouch, shit.” I shove my finger in my mouth, cooling the burn from the toaster that I just stuck my finger in to fish out my breakfast. That’s what I get for being in a hurry.

Blake will be here to pick me up at eight, and I want to make sure I’m ready. He’s going out of his way to help me out, and the least I can do is be waiting when he gets here.

After the way he acted in the locker room yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised if he comes up with an excuse to get out of taking me to work. Flat tire. Out of gas. Sleepover guest he’s not ready to kick from his bed. Lucky girl.

The thought brings me back to our talk at his Jeep, his big body hovered over mine. How the smell of his skin seemed to heighten my senses. I was acutely aware of the heat rolling off his body and the muscles balled up tight beneath his tan skin. And so close… so, so close to—I shake free the images of what being with him would be like.

It’ll never happen, not even for one night. Why would a young, handsome guy like Blake go for a woman like me when he has his pick from all the available girls in Vegas? What I’d assumed was flirting was probably nothing more than a bad boy with a hero complex. Maybe doing a good deed for a person down on their luck helps him justify his less-than-respectable lifestyle.

“Hey everyone, it’s take the poor single mom to work day,” I say in an affected voice while slathering peanut butter on my half-burnt toast.

Why he’s helping me out is irrelevant. He’s doing me a huge favor, and rather than dissect his motives, I’ll focus on being grateful.

I shuffle back to my room, dragging my sock-clad feet against the linoleum. Damn nightmares kept me up most the night, and the lack of sleep is doing nothing for my hustle. If Elle hadn’t popped in to say goodbye before she left for school, I’d probably still be asleep.

Back in my room, my phone is lit up with a new text.

Leaving now. Be there in ten. BD ;)

“B.D. and a winkie face. Look who’s back to being Mr. Funny.” I place my phone on the bathroom counter. I’m still smiling at his silly text when the first part of it sinks in. Crap. Ten minutes?

I race around my room, throwing work clothes on the bed and doing my best to keep a steady hand while doing my face. Running a brush through my semi-dry hair, I snag a bra and pair of panties from my drawer and toss them on the bed to join my work outfit. “Shoes.” I whirl around to my closet and—the doorbell rings.

Shit! Has it been ten minutes?

Even though I’m no longer in a hurry, I fly down the hall and fling the door open like there’s a Publisher’s Clearing House check the size of a small car waiting on the other side.

Nope. Not that. What’s waiting on the other side of my door is way better.

Blake. He’s wearing a black, zip-up hoodie and a pair of worn-out denim jeans that hug his muscular thighs just right.

“Mornin’, Mouse.” He holds up one of two insulated cups. “Thought you could use a coffee.”

I blink at his words. Then, remembering my manners, I step back to hold the door open. “Thank you. Come on in.”

He stares at my feet, and I realize I’ve been so concerned with what he’s wearing, I didn’t think about what I’m wearing. Shit.

Suddenly my threadbare T-shirt and fleece shorts feel indecent. But that’s not where he’s looking. He’s studying my feet, or rather my oversized, very pink, scrunched-up socks.

“What the hell you got on your feet, Mouse?” A crooked smile plays at his lips.

“Socks.” I tuck one foot behind my calf.

“Yeah, I got that. But you’re in Vegas. Those things were made for a snowstorm.”

“My feet get cold.” I step back, trying to hide my feet behind the open door.

His eyes swing up to mine, his near-smile wiped clean. “Huh.”

“Come in.”

He steps past me, his scent dragging by in a brutal tease.

I take a deep breath of the cool air from outside before I shut the door, locking myself inside with him and his mouthwatering smell. “I’ll be out in a minute. Let me finish getting dress—”

“Mouse, sit.”

I turn to see Blake in my kitchen, motioning for me to sit at the table. “We should probably get—”

“We have time.”

“O-Kay.” I sit down at the tiny two-seat table, across from him. The room seems to shrink to half its size with a man like Blake in the room. I pick up the coffee in front of me and take a sip. Mmm, so good. It’s been so long since I’ve indulged in the expensive coffee shop stuff.

Blake leans back in his seat, his head tilted to the side, observing. I sip my drink, the uncomfortable silence tingling my skin.

“So this is where you live.” His casual statement matches his body language.

I look around, ashamed of our meager home. “Yeah. For now. I’m hoping to get some money saved to move to a better place.”

He looks around the space, then back at me, his expression blank. “How long?”

“Until we move?”

He nods.

“Six months? Nine? Depends.”

He drums his fingers against the tabletop. “On what?”

“My paychecks.”

The beat of his fingers gets louder. “What about Axelle’s dad? You’ve got to be getting some child support or—”

I shake my head, silencing him. “No. I’m getting nothing from him. That was the deal.” My shoulders are tight, my lower back pushed off the seat back, as my false self-confidence works to hide my unease.

No longer relaxed, he leans forward, his forearm resting on the table. “What was the deal?”

“Blake, you don’t want to sit here and listen to my sob story.” Clearing my throat, I try to imitate the confident tone Blake uses when he talks. “I’m sure you can figure it out. Let’s just say Elle and I are on our own. Completely.”

“What about your parents? Axelle’s grandparents? Don’t they—”

“No. They don’t.” I stab my fingers into my hair and flex.

“I’m trying to understand why in the motherfucking hell you and your girl are out here alone and not one person gives a shit. Can you explain that to me? I wish you would. ’Cause then I wouldn’t be sittin’ up all night trying to figure out what the hell makes you, you.”

I lean back and slouch down in my seat. As much of a cocky asshole Blake can be, he sounds genuinely concerned. And thanks to him, my car is in the shop and my daughter’s driving the most amazing piece of American Hot Rod around. I suppose I could let him in.

I trace the logo on my coffee cup with my thumb. “My parents were in their forties when they had me. Their only child got pregnant at sixteen, didn’t do much for their stress levels. Dad had a heart attack about five years ago, and they moved to a retirement home in Florida. I told myself I’d never burden them with my problems again. They deserve better.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks. He crosses his arms, sandwiching his hands between his ribs and his biceps.

“They think Stewart and I parted on good terms and I moved to Las Vegas with his consent. I called to let them know we got here okay, haven’t heard from them since.” I count back. That was three weeks ago. “Growing old is doing a number on their memory. Probably forgot they have a daughter and a grandkid.” I laugh, but it’s not funny.

Blake drops his chin to his chest, a low rumble rolling from his throat.

“It’s okay. I’m happy to live here, work hard, and start over. I just want to give Elle the kind of life she deserves.”

Emotion swirls behind his bright, moss-colored eyes as they stare deeply into mine. He tilts his head. “You left… for her?”

My breath catches at the shift in his questions, from curious to super personal. But the desperate look in his eyes, the way his brows are pulled in, like he needs my answer more than air, tugs at my heart. “We had a horrible, loveless marriage. Those are painful for everyone involved, but it’s the kids who suffer the—”

“You left to protect her. He hurt you?” he whispers.

Without permission to do so, my head bobs slowly. “Yeah, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Fuck me.” The fierce curse shoots from his lips in a hiss. He drops his head into his hands, kneading his eyes with the heel of his palms.

Strong reaction from a guy I hardly know. He probably thinks Stewart slapped us around. “It’s not like he hit us or anything.” The abuse I suffered at the hands of my husband wasn’t the kind that left physical scars.