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  I close my eyes. I could picture it all too easily. The young girl, desperate for a family and a place to fit in. A predator who just found his next victim.

  “I begged her to let me meet him, but she kept putting it off. Saying it wasn’t time. Then one day...she didn’t come home.” He sits down next to me, but he won’t meet my eyes. “I was so angry with her. I thought she’d left me for him, and I was furious she didn’t take me with her. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t write or call or let me know where she was. Eighteen months later, she was dead. She had a tattoo on her that marked her as the property of a sex trafficker in New York City.”

  I think about the tattoo on my left hip that Mike had put on me years ago. It’s been part of me for so long, I don’t think of it most days. But now that I am thinking about, I want it off. Immediately. Yesterday. Five years ago.

  “That’s when I decided I was going to be a cop and stop the guys who prey on young girls.”

  “And you did it.”

  “There are days I hate my job. I hate acting like I’m one of them.” He opens and closes his fist. “I always felt so dirty after I got home for the day. And discouraged because I knew I could never save all of them.”

  I don’t think he’s shared this part of himself with many people, and I’m honored he felt comfortable enough with me to do so. “Your sister would be proud.”

  He looks at me at those words, and I see traces of the lonely and lost boy he once was. “I watched you that day in the food court.”

  I wrinkle my eyebrows. “When I stalked Isaiah’s wife?”

  “The young girl you talked to.”

  “Probably didn’t do any good.”

  “You don't know that. If someone had talked to you when you were sixteen, would you maybe have made different choices?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “Then you did everything you could.”

  I’m suddenly hit with what he must feel everyday. “It never feels like it’s enough, though, does it?”

  “No,” he says. “That’s why we have to focus on what we know we can change and to try not to dwell on what we can’t. And what you need to focus on is starting fresh. Are you leaving Nevada?”

  “I don’t know. I thought about going back to the South, but part of me wants to stay here. Maybe not Vegas, but the Southwest.” It can be downright terrifying to have to make decisions. When I thought about where I wanted to live and knew I could go anywhere, I almost felt like burying my head in the sand. “Maybe I’ll become a hermit.”

  “Never do that. You have too much going for you.”

  I remember his words from when I was at his house and wonder if he really meant them. He’s not touching me at all today. In fact, it’s like he’s making a concentrated effort not to touch me. I want to say it feels like the only thing I have going for me is the ability to trust the wrong men. But I’m not ready to go there with him, so I’m quiet and hope there will be another day — some other time — for us to talk.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Five Months Later

  It doesn’t happen overnight, but I’m slowly learning who I am and how I fit into my new normal. Though I hadn’t planned on going to a therapist, one day not long after Harris came by, I found myself in line to purchase whiskey at one in the morning. Unable to sleep because of thoughts of Mike, and haunted by thoughts of Vicki, I came to the conclusion I could sort everything out if I just had a drink. Or maybe enough to numb my brain so I didn’t feel anymore.

  Before I made it to the front of the line, I clued into what I was doing, and I left the store without the bottle. The next morning, I called the first therapist on the list Harris gave me. He was right about her, of course; she’d worked with women in my position before, and with her help, I started on my way to rediscover myself.

  Within a few weeks, I started work at a local pet store and rented a small apartment on the other side of town from where I lived before. But I still jumped at loud noises, and sleep continued to be an issue.

  Harris keeps in contact, but it’s not like it was when we were at his house. I tell myself that those were stressful days for both of us, and our emotions were running high. That it was to be expected, shoved together the way we were.

  And yet, my stomach still does flip-flops whenever he comes to the pet store.

  About five months into my new start, he comes into the store unexpectedly on a Thursday. I’ve learned his routine, and he rarely deviates from it. Saturdays are when he buys cat food for Munchkin. He buys cans, which is funny because I remember a bag of dry food when I stayed with him.

  “Hey,” I say to him, and then raise my eyebrow because not only is it Thursday, he’s not stopping by the cat food aisle. For a minute, I think he’s heard about Mike or Vicki, but he’s smiling and too relaxed to be bringing me such news. He reaches the counter.

  “Can I help you with something?” I ask.

  “I came to ask you a question,” he says.

  “Go for it.”

  “Will you go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  The leash I’m holding falls to the counter. “What?”

  “Will you go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  “A date?”

  “Yes,” he answers.

  I’ve done a lot of new things since I’ve been on my own, and I’ve had some new experiences, but I’ve done nothing resembling a date.

  “Uh...I’m ... I should be.... I think....”

  “Athena, it’s just dinner. I promise.”

  I’m free the next night. I’m free most nights. And I’ve never been on a date.

  “I’d really like to go on a date with you.” My words come out in a rush, and I’m a bit embarrassed, but Harris doesn't act like he notices.

  “I’ll pick you up at your apartment at five?”

  I’m going on a date.

  My brain is still processing that information.

  “Athena?”

  “Yes. Five.”

  He smiles and says he’ll see me then.

  ***

  I’m a complete wreck the next day. Because I’m working the weekend, I have the day off. It really would have been better if I didn’t have the day off. By noon, all my clothes are on top of my bed, and by two, I’ve vetoed every outfit I own. At three, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and give myself a good talking to.

  It doesn’t work.

  Nothing can erase the fact that I’m twenty-six and I’ve never been on a date. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been with a lot of men. Not one of them stood before me and asked me to dinner. Not one of them wanted to spend the evening with me just because I’m me and not because I’d be naked at some point.

  I walk back into my bedroom and shuffle through my clothes once more. It’s another reason to hate Mike. The fact that I missed so much. For me, there had been no prom, no graduation, no first date. Nothing. But it’s a conscious decision I make not to let that anger rule my life. To do so is to give him even more power over me, and I refuse to do that anymore.

  When Harris rings the doorbell at five, I’m wearing jeans and a green silk top. It’s not too casual and not too dressy. I open the door, and he’s standing there, smiling and holding flowers.

  Flowers.

  “Hi,” he says.

  Flowers.

  “These are for you.” He holds them out. It’s a combination of blue and white violets and they’re the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen.

  I tentatively take hold of them, supporting the glass vase they came in with one hand. “Thank you. I’ve... I’ve never gotten flowers before.”

  I can’t stop looking at them.

  “The white means ‘take a chance on happiness,’ and the blue means ‘watchfulness.’”

  “Appropriate,” I say, catching his gaze and smiling. I step out of the way. “Would you like to come in while I put these down?”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll stay out here.”


  He’s being respectful, and I appreciate that. However, I can’t help but remember the way he kissed me and his promise after. My fingers remember the heat of his skin, and my body wants his hands on me again.

  I place the flowers in the middle of my two-person kitchen table and hurry back outside. He’s waiting with his hands in his pockets, and when he looks at me, there’s a heat in his eyes I know I’m not making up.

  “Ready?” He holds out a hand.

  I nod and place my hand in his, and as our fingers entwine, I’m shaken once more because I can’t remember the last time I simply held someone’s hand. He squeezes his fingers briefly around mine as if he knows what I’m thinking.

  “I made us reservations,” he says.

  We drive to a new restaurant not far from my apartment. It’s an intimate bistro, and nothing like anything I went to when I was working for Mike.

  In the last five months, I’ve gradually gotten over the fear that everyone who looks at me knows what I once did for a living. I remind myself I’m not the same person I was then and starting over means starting over.

  Hardest to take are the looks men give me, though those are different now as well. Harris pulls out my chair when we’re shown to our table, and I sit down with a sigh.

  He raises an eyebrow as he takes his own seat. “Are you okay?”

  I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Yes, first date jitters.”

  “We’ve had a few meals together. This one just happens to be out in public.”

  “Not just first date with you. First date ever.” I frown. “Well, if you don’t count Mike, and I don’t.”

  His eyes dim a bit at the mention of Mike, and I could slap myself for bringing his name up. I try to think of something — anything — to say to move the conversation in a different direction, but Harris beats me to it.

  “Green is definitely your color. You look lovely tonight.”

  I feel my cheeks heat, and I dip my head. Holy shit. I just blushed. And I’m lovely. He thinks I’m lovely. I wouldn’t have had the same reaction if he’d called me beautiful. Lots of men have called me beautiful, but he’s the first to say I’m lovely.

  “And the flush on your cheeks is charming,” he says.

  I look up. “Thank you.”

  The conversation could have gotten very uncomfortable after that, but he picks up the menu. “I have no idea what I want. What are you in the mood for?”

  Living on my own and doing work I want to do has completely changed my outlook on things. I no longer fear sharing my opinion or speaking up about what I want. And as I’ve moved further and further away from the me of years past, I’ve learned I like the me I’m becoming.

  I pick up my menu and scan it. “Know what I’d really like?”

  “What?”

  “A huge burger with lots of cheese and pickles and mayo. French fries. And any soda that’s not diet.”

  He laughs, and I forgot how his laugh made my insides warm. “I think that might be last thing I expected you to eat.”

  “How about you? What’s your favorite thing to eat?”

  He looks back over the menu. “Club sandwich. Extra bacon, cooked to where it’s almost burnt. Honey mustard to dip it in. French fries with pepper and a beer.”

  I wrinkle my nose at the mention of beer.

  “You don’t drink. I noticed that.” He places the menu down and folds his hands on top.

  “I did at one time, but then I didn’t. I found that while the alcohol deadens the pain, it messes with your mind too much. Or at least it did mine.”

  “Why not a diet soda?”

  “I don’t like artificial sweeteners.”

  The waitress stops by to take our orders, and after she writes down my burger and his sandwich, she steps back. “You look familiar,” she says to Harris.

  Harris had been in the news shortly after rescuing me. He wasn’t one to like being the center of attention, and he’d hated it.

  “I just have one of those faces,” he says.

  “The papers said you were rescuing a woman from a trafficker,” she replies, like he didn’t say anything.

  “I read that story, too.” He glances at me. To make sure I’m alright?

  “That poor woman. I hope she’s doing okay.”

  “Me, too,” he says and coughs.

  The cough reminds her of where she’s at and what she should be doing. “I’ll go put this order in.”

  He leans back in his seat, exhaling deeply.

  “You’re a hero,” I tease.

  “Nah. Just doing my job.”

  “I think they’re one and the same.”

  Our conversation over dinner is light and easy. Harris is easy to talk with and quick to joke and smile. It doesn’t take long before I don’t feel nervous at all. We finish eating, but we’re still talking. He tells me about growing up in foster care, and I tell him stories from my childhood in the South.

  He asks why I went to work at a pet store when I’d mentioned before I wanted to work in a bookstore, and in a soft voice, I share what happened with Mike and the books. And, I tell him that working around animals was a close second to owning one.

  We arrive back at my apartment hours later, and my heart is racing as we walk up to my door. I’m not sure how to end the date. I don’t want him to leave just yet.

  I don’t hesitate before saying, “Will you come inside?”

  I can see he’s conflicted about how to answer, and my heart plummets.

  “I want to,” he finally says. “But I think tonight’s not the time.”

  I know my face shows my disappointment, but I feel a bit better when he's asks if he can take me to dinner tomorrow night.

  “Really?” I ask, and at his nod I say, “Yes.”

  He leans his head toward mine, and my lips are hungry for his. I remember their taste and the way I felt when they touched mine. But all he does is lightly brush my cheek. I groan, and his lips tickle my cheek as he smiles.

  “Believe me,” he says in my ear. “I feel it too, but I want you to burn for me. To have you so needy that the merest hint of my touch sets you on fire.”

  “I’m there,” I beg.

  “Not yet. But soon.”

  The next evening, he brings a picnic and we eat outside at a nearby park. We sit on a bench for an hour afterwards watching people. It’s strange and odd and wonderful and fun, this sitting around and talking. I tell him I want to one day be in a position to help other women escape the sex market. He tells me I’m well on my way.

  I’m fairly certain he’ll kiss me after the picnic date, but he once again only brushes my cheek. I run my hand down his arm and he just whispers, “Soon.”

  I decide to switch things up, so on Monday I call him and ask him if he would like to come to my place for dinner on Wednesday. I can tell I’ve caught him off guard, but he agrees.

  It’s when I’m bustling around Wednesday evening, twenty minutes before he shows up, trying to make everything perfect that I realize this might have been his plan the entire time. I have never invited a man to my apartment for anything. Sure, Mike came by, but he owned the place. And yes, I asked Harris over when I was in the hotel and he stopped by to pick me up, but it’s not the same.

  Was that why he hesitated? Does he know how big of a step this is for me and wants to make sure I’m ready? I wear something causal: jeans and a tank top. I’m not going to seduce him. He apparently has this whole thing well planned out and I’m going to let him lead.

  But when he rings the doorbell and I let him in, there’s something different about him. He’s all heat and muscle, and the look in his eyes when he sees me is damn near flammable.

  We sit down and eat the lasagna I prepared earlier in the day. Harris is charming as always, making me laugh at Munchkin’s antics. He is somewhat reserved, though, like he’s studying me. Watching for something.

  “Thank you for inviting me over tonight,” he says, when we’re finished and the dishes are i
n the dishwasher.

  “I wanted you to see me in my element. I saw you in yours.”

  “I’m not sure that completely counted, since we were trying to outsmart people the entire time.”

  I shake my head. “Those nights we’d go out in your backyard. That was the real you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I like the real you.”

  “The real me likes you, too.”

  “That night when we were out there, those things you said? You meant them?” I don’t specify which things.

  His eyes grow dark. “Yes, I meant every word.”

  “When you kissed me,” I say, ready to talk about it that time in his backyard. “It was like nothing I ever felt before.”

  “For me, too.” He takes a step closer to me.

  I swallow. This is hard. This isn't me being paid or forced or in any way coerced. It’s me as a woman and the woman I am is so very unsure about herself. “Will you kiss me again?”

  “Now?”

  I nod. “Please.”

  He takes two more steps, and then he’s in front of me. Slowly, he lifts one hand to cup the side of my face, and I close my eyes when his thumb brushes my cheekbone.

  Gently, so gently, I barely feel them, his lips sweep across my own in a soft kiss. I clutch his forearms. I want more.

  “Please,” I whisper, but he doesn’t move. “Caden.”

  He takes a step back and brushes his thumb along the line of my lips. I part them and tease his fingertip with my tongue.

  “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, or anything that doesn’t feel good.” His eyes are dark, and the longing in them takes my breath away. “I have to be honest: I’m scared as hell to do anything physical with you. I don’t want to hurt you, and I want it to be good for you.”

  His honesty endears him to me even more “I’m scared, too. I keep thinking: what if I’m broken that way? What if I can’t enjoy it?”

  “Do you enjoy it when I kiss you?”

  I decide to throw the gauntlet down. “I don’t know; you only really kissed me that once.”

  His eyes flash with something, and he gives me a teasing smile before he frames my face with his hands. “Let’s remedy that, why don’t we?”