I held my breath when I saw his face up close.

“Honey –” I whispered then stopped speaking when his hand came up abruptly.

I tensed as it came to me but, whisper-soft and unbelievably sweet, his fingertips skimmed my cheek on their way to glide into my hair where his hand curled around the back of my head and he pulled me closer.

I went because I didn’t have a choice and because I wanted to. When I got near, I put my hands to his abs.

“Mood’s broke, sweetness,” he muttered. “And I need to make some calls. If you’re tired, go get ready for bed or, if not, give your girl a call. I’ll be in in a minute and we’ll get some shuteye. Yeah?”

“Is he gone?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I swallowed.

His hand gave me a squeeze and I watched his eyes flare.

Then he asked, “He won’t stay gone, will he?”

I shook my head.

His mouth got tight.

Then he said gently, “Give me a minute to make some calls, baby.”

I nodded. His hand gave me another squeeze then sifted through my hair until it was gone.

Then I moved to my bedroom.

Okay, it was safe to say I wasn’t tittering with excitement nine months ago when my abusive ex-husband who raped me contacted me for the first time in over four years, shattering the illusion I’d built that I was safe in a life that no longer contained him. And it was also safe to say I deliberated at length going to lunch with him.

But I loved his Dad.

Donald Heller was a good man, he adored me openly and it cut to the quick when, to erase Damian from my life, I had to break ties with anything that had anything to do with Damian, including his Dad. Donald tried to keep up a relationship with me but I did not encourage this and he finally quit trying. News that he was unwell broke my heart, gave me guilt and, just as Damian knew it would, spurred me to show at lunch.

It was a mistake that I would pay for quite a bit, it would turn out. And this settled in my soul the troubling fact that I’d allowed myself to be played, again, by Damian.

I left him the day after he raped me. My dog and I lived with Martha for the year and a half it took finally to get a divorce then I moved to my own apartment. And for that year and a half, Damian stopped at nothing to “win me back”.

I couldn’t take another year and a half.

Unfortunately, this current scenario wasn’t conducive to me finding that perfect nightgown to wear the first time I slept the night with Brock Lucas. We had slept together, twice, both times me falling asleep with him on my couch while watching a movie. No, strike that, three times adding last night.

But, except for last night, he’d always been gone before I woke and we had never slept together in a bed.

This was a momentous occasion which I should mentally and, arguably more importantly, fashionably prepare for but at that moment, I didn’t have it in me.

I sorted through my nightgown drawer with trembling hands and luckily my inherent girl power kicked in and my fingers honed in on my cotton candy purplish pink, embroidered eyelet nightie with its empire waist, spaghetti straps and teensy weensy ruffle at hem and bodice. Cute, girlie, comfortable therefore it seemed a casual choice like it was any other night but it bared lots of skin, showed serious leg and a hint of cle**age all of which stated plainly I was making an effort for my man.

Freaking perfect.

I grabbed it and my glasses, took them to the bathroom and did my nighttime gig, contacts out, face washed, teeth brushed and flossed then I changed clothes, slid my glasses on and walked out.

I heard Brock’s rumble when I did.

And this was what it said, “No shit, Calhoun.”

I pressed my lips together at that name, scurried into the bedroom, dropped my clothes in the hamper then scurried out.

I knew he wanted to protect me but I was forty-three years old. I was in a situation. This situation was unlike the last. Now people knew. People who cared about me. People who had my back and people willing to take my front and act as a shield.

But it was high time I got my head out of the sand.

Somehow, I’d managed to be a survivor. But I was thinking that was pure luck and it only had to happen because I’d left my head in the sand too long with a husband who was no good for me from the start and I knew it, I just didn’t do a thing about it.

I needed to get my shit together.

So I stopped in the kitchen doorway and leaned against it, doing this with my eyes on a Brock Lucas who had his fist to his waist and his eyes on me.

Then he did something beautiful.

He trusted in me and the strength I was building inside enough to keep talking.

“You call the DA and you tell him to tell that ass**le’s attorneys that if he doesn’t desist in harassing Tess, his boatload of legal problems will become a shitload. He already forged her f**king signature on bank documents. And we already got taped testimony and phone records that show for six months he’s been dicking with her. So, when the DA talks to his legal team, he needs to use the words stalking, harassment, assault and sexual assault.”

I felt my chest rise with my indrawn breath and I knew Brock saw it but he kept trusting me and thus talking.

“Statute of limitations is not out on that. No way in f**k that Tessa O’Hara who runs a bakery and sprinkles f**kin’ confetti on her cakes will take the stand, describe her nightmare and he won’t go down, I don’t give a f**k if we have no physical evidence. She’ll have any jury eating out of her hand. His lawyers will know that. Now, I smell that guy’s f**kin’

cologne, Calhoun, she’s pressing charges. This ends for her tonight. Make the f**kin’ call.”

He listened for about two seconds then grunted, “Yeah,” and flipped his phone shut.

I waited for him to shove it back in his pocket before I asked softly, “Are you okay?”

“No,” he answered harshly. “I had my tongue in my woman’s mouth and my hand on her ass for the first time in three months. I like your ass. For three months, I spent a good deal of time thinkin’ about havin’ my hand back on your ass. What I didn’t spend time thinkin’ about is havin’ my hand on your ass and someone knockin’ on the front door and that someone being your slimeball motherfucking ex.”

Well, there you go.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Kentucky is becoming more attractive.”

He stared at me.

Then he grinned.

Then his eyes swept the length of me and back again before he said low, “Great nightie, babe.”