He’s stroking my nape, and I’m stroking his tattoo, both of us staring, not with animosity, and not with lust. Okay, yes with lust. But also with a lot of curiosity. As though this getting to know each other again is proving far more interesting than either of us imagined.

I feel as though whatever is happening in the bar is secondary. I feel as though the world revolves around the impenetrable bubble of me and him. Nothing matters but his hand holding me by the neck, and his strong, muscled forearm under my palm and fingers.

He’s noticeably relaxed—I guess that happens when you have ten orgasms in two days—but I feel supermushy, and it’s very unlike me. It’s like I’ve been craving him, his contact, his affection, for so long, the intimacy of such a simple act is turning me to putty.

Worse is, he seems just as hungry for this. Edging his body closer, he suddenly presses a kiss into my hair, like he’s wild for coconut.

Gah. It’s one thing to fuck like we do, but this . . . oh god, he just groaned into my hair. He’s kissing the top of my ear and groaning like we’re doing something intensely sexual, rather than just sitting together. I hold back a sound as I feel his nose nuzzling my hair.

“Do you really want to know what that tattoo means?” he rasps, his breath shooting shivers from my ear to my shoes. He eases back, and his eyes feel like incoming bullets. “What will you tell me in exchange?”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me something that’s been bugging me,” he says, scraping a hand over his head.

“What?”

Using his thumb, he angles my head up higher so our eyes hold. “Tell me what made you so mad at everyone.”

“I’m not mad at everyone, I’m just mad at you,” I say. It’s part lie and part truth. But he’s walking straight into the past, and something frozen has just dropped into the pit of my stomach, leaving my veins as cold as icicles.

“Yet the person you’re most mad at is yourself. Isn’t it?” He rubs his silver ring along the bottom of my lip, and I hold on to everything I want to say. Holding it tightly, in an airlocked and lidded box, because once it’s out, I can never take it back.

I can never take it back.

“Dora, come with us!” Tit calls, just in time to save me.

I expel a breath, then take Mackenna’s hand and slowly lower it. “You’re going to have to let me out of the booth, Mackenna.”

“Why? Little girls’ room chat session?” he asks with a cocky lilt. Because I’m so grateful he’s scooting out to let me pass, I grin.

“That’s right. No boys allowed,” I warn.

As I stand, he drops back down. “All right, Pink. Just know I’ll be waiting here to pick up right where we left off.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Wolf. I can find out from the girls what your tattoo means.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” he says, laughing his it’s-so-sexy-it-should-be-illegal laugh.

“Hey, girls,” I greet as I join them.

That’s when my phone starts to ring and my heart stops when I see HER flashing on my phone screen.

My eyes widen. Glancing around for the quietest, most private space I can find, I peer into the men’s restroom, find it empty, and close the door, leaning against it so no guy can come in while I talk.

“Hello?” I answer.

God. I sound like a chicken shit. Like I’m guilty of something.

I’m guilty of lying and more. So much more.

“Pandora?”

“Mom. What’s up?”

“She misses you, she wanted to say hello.”

My eyes turn to the tiny window and a slice of moon outside. Hmm, looks high enough. “It’s past her bedtime.”

“I know, she couldn’t sleep because I’d promised she could talk to you today and I was caught up in a call, but we’re calling now.”

“Right,” I say, thinking, No, actually you’re letting her stay up late watching movies as an excuse to check up on me at this hour and make sure I’m not screwing up my life again.

“How are you?” she finally asks.

“Good, Mom,” I mumble, staring at the toes of my boots. They don’t look so badass anymore.

“You’re keeping busy with work? Staying smart about your choices?”

“Of course,” I lie, dragging the tip of my boot down a square tile.

“You know, it’s hard for me to give Magnolia the attention you’ve accustomed her to.”

“I’ll call more often.”

She sighs, clearly displeased but conceding. My stomach hurts. She’s the only one who knows exactly what I am and what I can do and how easily I get broken. I “gauge my value by her love,” according to Dr. Finley, the therapist who suggested I accept my mistakes, as well as the mistakes of the people in my past, and move forward.

I thought I did.

I thought I had.

Hell, I thought tomatoing Mackenna would be the last “fuck you” I had to say in terms of my past.

I was so, so wrong. Maybe I should consider saying something else instead.

“Are you all right? Where are you?” my mother presses.

“I’m in . . . Kentucky,” I lie.

“You’re decorating in Kentucky?”

I wonder if she’s onto me and worry my lip a little while I worry in my mind. “A bachelor’s apartment. I’m using my usual eclectic combination. Steel, dark woods. It kicks ass.”