Anna & Gunner’s Prologue

Chapter 1

Almost Ten Years Ago

“Is now a good time to talk, Anna?” my doctor asks.

It’s not, I want to tell her. I’m driving and shouldn’t have even answered my cell. But I automatically accepted the call, and when I recognized Julia Wyndham’s voice everything inside me turned to churning molten rock, as if the small lump I found three weeks ago had just erupted through my chest.

It’s not a good time to talk about this. How could it ever be?

But I say, “Yes, of course,” as if grief and terror don’t have a grip on my throat, and add, “Just let me pull over,” as if I’m not about to puke all over my lap.

I knew this day might come. I’m only twenty-one but I survived leukemia when I was a kid, which means I’m at high risk for other cancers. So I’ve thought about this more times than most women my age ever have; I’ve pictured what I would do when I got the news. I hoped to be numb.

Instead I can barely see the road through my tears when I click on the blinker. This part of the highway is only two lanes, but the shoulder is wide enough to drive onto. Outside, the sun is bright and high and probably hot as hell, but my A/C is keeping me cold. Not cold enough.

I wanted to be numb. Eyes burning, I curl forward and brace my forehead against the steering wheel. “Okay. Hit me with it.”

“It’ll be a gentle blow,” Julia says and I don’t understand how she can sound so upbeat. By the tone of her voice, I can picture her smiling, her eyes bright, her gray hair in a tight roll at the base her neck. How can she smile? “The mass is benign.”

Benign? My mind goes blank. I know what the word means, but…that can’t be right. “It’s what?”

“It’s not cancerous, Anna. The biopsy showed it’s a fibroadenoma, which is relatively common for women of your age group. Sometimes there’s discomfort associated with the tumors but they’re usually painless, just as yours is. Has that changed?”

I shake my head then realize she can’t see me and choke out my answer. Fibroadenoma. Nothing to worry about. Except I haven’t worried about anything else since I found it. Didn’t worry about finals or my degree and I walked through my college graduation in a daze, because the only damn thing I could feel was panic and worry, thanks to a lump the size of a pea and with the weight of a boulder.

She begins to list options for treatment—and the first option is doing nothing, just letting the tumor stay put and monitoring it. So I jump ahead to the option I know I want.

“I need it gone.”

“For your peace of mind, Anna, that might be your best choice. And, given the size and location of the tumor, you would be a good candidate for cryoablation.”

Freezing the cells. Less invasive, less likely to scar, and the destroyed breast tissue would be gradually reabsorbed into my body. But I want it gone.

“I prefer a complete surgical excision,” I tell her. “For my peace of mind.”

“In that case, I’ll refer you to a breast surgeon. You should receive a call from Dr. Gorin’s office in the next few days.”

“Okay,” I say and now the numbness descends over me. After robotically answering her remaining questions, I snap my phone closed and toss it into the passenger seat.

Nothing to worry about. I should be dancing, laughing. Instead I stare through the windshield at the road ahead. Pine Valley lies a few miles on. Bend, a little farther than that. If I keep going, eventually Portland, then Seattle.

Today I’m only going as far as Pine Valley, where I’m staying with my mom and dad in the house where I spent most of my childhood. In about a month, I’ll be packing up and heading to med school.

Three weeks ago, that made a lot more sense than it does now.

From the moment I found the lump, I’ve been promising myself that I’ll get through this, that I’ll fight it, I’ll survive it. I vowed the tumor wouldn’t derail my future.

Now survival has been handed to me on a silver platter. But I think this stupid lump derailed my future, anyway—and right now I can’t see myself taking the road I intended to.

To Pine Valley, sure. My parents expect me to stay home for a little while. I want to be home. My brother will be there for the next month, too, on leave from the Marines. Then Aaron will return to base in North Carolina and I’ll be…

Doing something else. I don’t know what.

Something.

But the first thing is: Get home and tell my parents everything is okay. I could call them. For this, though, face-to-face is better.

Then I’ll figure out the rest.

I wait until a semi blows past me before pulling back onto the highway. As soon as I hit the asphalt, my steering wheel drags heavily to the right.

A flat tire. Just as I’m starting down a metaphorical new road.

It must be a sign. The universe, telling me that this new path isn’t going to be so easy to traverse.

Bring it on, universe.

I steer onto the shoulder again. And I was right—it’s a freaking scorcher outside. Holy crap. Thank god for sunscreen. I can practically feel the UV rays bombarding every skin cell exposed by my pink tank top and white jean shorts. I don’t burn easy, but I can’t be too careful, so SPF is my middle name.

Okay, no, actually it’s Marie. Anna Marie Wall. Childhood leukemia survivor. Anti-oxidant fanatic. New road taker.

Flat tire changer.

The right front wheel sits on a rubber pancake. Something must have punctured it when I pulled off the road.

I knew it wasn’t a good time to take that call. Finding out the lump is benign almost proved me wrong, but this tire proves me right.

Man, I just love being right.

I grab an elastic band out of my purse and gather up my hair in a long ponytail before popping open the trunk. Dang, I really need to clean it out. I wrestle the spare out from beneath a pile of notebooks, an extra blanket and an assortment of random paint cans and craft supplies—oooh, and my red Nerd Nation hoodie that went missing last winter! I love that one—and roll the spare over the rust-red cinder gravel covering the shoulder.

Time to tackle the flat. When I bought new tires this spring, the shop must have tightened the lug nuts with an impact wrench that had something to prove to the world. I’m straining against the tire iron, trying to crack the first nut loose as a car speeds by, followed by a motorcycle. I don’t even have to look up to know it was a Harley. Mistaking the sound of that engine is impossible.

The rumbling roar of that engine changes to a low growl. Slowing down.

No, he’s turning around.

Shit.

I look up. He’s a hundred yards away and coming in fast. Is he wearing a kutte? There’s a few motorcycle clubs in the area. God, if he is a patchholder, let him be a Steel Titan. My friend Jenny Erickson is the daughter of that club’s president and most of the members know me. Even a Hellfire Rider wouldn’t be so bad. My brother is friends with a few of those bikers and although I’ve heard some pretty crazy stories about the Riders, I’ve never heard of one hurting a woman. But if it’s a member of the Eighty-Eight Henchmen, that could be bad. Really bad.

But I don’t see a leather vest. Just a white T-shirt and tanned, heavily muscled arms. Eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses, hair concealed under a half helmet. Jeans on long legs and feet covered in big black boots.

Lug wrench in hand, I reach into the passenger seat for my cell and keep a vigilant eye on the biker as he pulls onto the shoulder in front of my car. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t able to see me when he rode by the first time—I was crouched out of sight beside the tire—which means he turned around without knowing if I was young or old, man or woman. So he’s probably just seeing if I need help.

He cuts the engine and it’s suddenly really freaking quiet. Though he couldn’t see me before, I guess he’s taking a long look now, though it’s hard to tell with his eyes hidden behind those lenses.

I’m not wearing sunglasses and I’m not going to pretend that I’m anything but wary.

Wary and not at all threatening. I run every day so I’m in good shape, but I’ve got no illusions about being some kickass heroine. So if he intends to hurt me, I’m in trouble.

The biker must see that worry, because he doesn’t get off his motorcycle yet, and when he speaks, his voice is a low, easy rumble. “You look like you can manage this by yourself.”

“I can, thanks.” As long as I can crack the lug nuts loose.

He nods but doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave. “It’s hot as hell out here. You want a little help so it goes faster?”

I do. But I don’t want to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. “Can I text your plate number to my mom first?”

Oh my god, his grin. I could tell he had a nice jaw and a firm mouth, but until this second I was thinking of his looks in terms of “Could I describe him to the police?” But now I’m thinking that I want to make him grin again.

And again and again.

I want to see the rest of him, too.

“Go ahead,” he says.

Send my mom his license plate. Right.

He doesn’t move as I make a wide circle around his motorcycle and quickly send the message. This guy is helping me change my tire. California plate. I copy the number. Two faded camo packs are strapped tightly to the seat behind him. Not just a day ride. He’s traveling. “What’s your name?”

“Zachary Cooper.” Amusement deepens his voice. “You want to see my driver’s license?”

“No.” I send his name, too, before adding that I’ll be home soon. “If you’re a roadside murderer you probably own a fake ID.”

His grin widens. Oh, my heart. “You’re the one with the tire iron.”

“Not for long.” I use the lug wrench to gesture at the flat. “I was having trouble loosening the nuts. If you can do that part, I can do the rest.”

“All right.” Long fingers unfasten the helmet’s chin strap. His hair’s dark brown, almost black, and cut military-short.

He’s tall, too. Probably a little over six feet, but considering that I only hit five-three in my dreams, when he gets up off his bike I suddenly feel a lot smaller.

He leaves the helmet on his seat and hooks his sunglasses into the V of his T-shirt’s neckline before facing me.

Holy shit.

Holy shit. I wouldn’t need to describe him to the police. I could just say, “Look for the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen” and any cop would be drawn straight to his location, then fall in love with him, and he probably could get away with murder just because he’d smile.

He can’t be real. Real people just don’t look like him. Real people don’t have eyes like that—so light blue that they’re almost crystalline. And I thought his jaw and lips were nice? Jesus. Put together with the whole package of dark slashing eyebrows and high set cheekbones, they’re just…just…

I don’t even know. Indescribable.

And now that I think about it, that was pretty mean. Taking off his sunglasses like that. He should prepare people.

Those light blue eyes are locked on my face as he comes closer. I’m staring at him. My jaw might be hanging open, I’m not sure. My panties are probably falling off. I can’t really tell because my brains have turned to jelly.

I bet this happens to him often. My voice sounds strange to my own ears when I ask, “Do you end up with a lot of bugs in your teeth?”

He grins again, and nope. No bugs. Just gorgeous, perfect white chompers. “You learn not to open your mouth while you ride.”

“Oh, I know that.” I’ve been around motorcycles my whole life. I don’t ride them, but I know plenty of people who do, including my brother. “But what you’ve got going on there”—I indicate his face with a twirl of my finger—“almost knocked me over, so it seems you’d have extra trouble keeping the bugs away. Especially at night. Like, you don’t even need a headlamp. You can just open your eyes and light up the world.”

He’s not even embarrassed. Just amused. His chuckle is low and deep and shivers right up my spine.

“Nights are rough,” he agrees. “All those insects throwing themselves at me.”

“I bet.” Insects, women.

“Good thing about accidentally ingesting bugs is, they’re packed full of protein.”

Ew. “That’s a good thing? That’s the downside of being beautiful.”

“I’m sure you’re well acquainted with any downsides.”

Did he just call me beautiful? Either that, or he’s suggesting I know what it’s like to eat bugs. So I’ll go with beautiful.

I grin up at him. “You’re my new favorite person.”

“Well, if I want to hold that spot, I better get started.”

He holds out his hand and I place the lug wrench in his callused palm. Thick veins trace tautly muscled forearms. Not just gorgeous, but strong. A sheen of perspiration glows over his tanned skin but the sweat isn’t why his T-shirt clings to his chest the way it does. His broad shoulders and pectoral muscles are doing all the work there.

God, the way that shirt is hugging him, I bet it never wants to let go.

He crouches beside the flat and I back up to the car’s rear passenger door—ostensibly to grab a water bottle from the six-pack in the back seat but really so I can get a good look at Zachary Cooper’s whole package again.

I’m not a bit sorry for my blatant ogling. A) Because not looking seems like some kind of cardinal sin—I mean, if there is a God and He put that face on this earth, then surely He meant for us to appreciate it—and B) I’m never going to see Zachary Cooper again anyway.

Oh, and C) is the way his biceps flex when he fits the lug wrench onto the first nut and gives it a good tug.

I wish all my tires were flat.

But my mom taught me better than this. Just staring at someone? So rude.

I slide a water bottle onto the hood in front of him. “It’s not cold, but the least I can do is offer a drink while I ogle you.”

He smiles so easily, but he doesn’t really look like someone who smiles a lot. He can’t be much older than me—maybe twenty-three or twenty-four—but there’s a rough edge to him that I recognize, because my brother has that edge, too. It lies in the calluses on his hands, the austere cut of his hair, and the chain around his neck.

Dog tags.

I crack open the cap of my own bottle. “Did you recently get out or are you on leave?”

He shoots me a sharp glance, as if he’s surprised I picked up on that. “On leave.”

“And passing through?” Maybe coming up from one of military bases in California.

“Visiting a friend.”

“Not family?” That’s usually the first place a guy goes on leave. Family, then to a bar, then to someone’s bed.

“I did that yesterday.” The response has a bite to it.

I don’t need to know him well to read that tone and the tightening of his jaw. His family is a sore spot. So I won’t touch it.

Anyway, his friend sounds more interesting. “Is she as pretty as you are?”

A huff of laughter shoots from between his teeth, clenched tight as he cracks the final nut loose. “He is all right.”

I should have known. Gorgeous, funny, helpful? He’s gay.

He’s also a mind reader. Despite the glacial blue of his eyes, the glance he shoots me then isn’t icy but hot and quick, a flickering blue flame, the kind of look a guy gives a girl just before he kisses her. But he doesn’t kiss me. He just says, “No.”

Not gay. Not that it matters one way or another. He’s passing through and I’m not. Looking is all I’m going to get.

“Oh, hey—wait.” I try to stop him when he reaches for the jack. “This is the part I’m supposed to do.”

“Were you?” he asks like he doesn’t remember agreeing to it and slides the jack under the car’s frame. “I’m just trying to stay on your list of favorite people.”

I snort. “If you want to do that, just look at my boobs and tell me they’re not very pretty.”

The jack’s lever slips in his grip. That pale blue gaze is suddenly all over me—sliding down to my chest but it’s my face he settles on. I try to smile but all the crap I swallowed down while I was waiting for my doctor to hand out my death sentence is rising up again.

Oh, shit. My throat thickens and burns; my eyes swim with tears. I sink onto the ground beside him but he doesn’t move. Just watches me.

“Since you’re my favorite person and I won’t see you again, can I tell you something?” My voice is thick. “You can say no.”

But he says, “Tell me.”

“I found a lump about three weeks ago.”

His gaze drops again when I cup my breast in my palm. He can’t mistake what kind of lump I’m talking about.

A gruff note roughens his voice. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one. But I was sick when I was a kid, and chances of it happening again are higher for me than most girls. So I had reason to think the worst.” My breath shudders. “And I did think the worst. I mean, I was determined to fight it. Mastectomy, chemo, whatever it took. And I kept on a brave face with my mom and dad when I told them. But deep down I was convinced that I’d cheated death once and now it had caught up to me. So for three weeks I’ve been thinking of all the things I haven’t done, haven’t seen, and how I was never going to get a chance to.”

He’s utterly still. “Are you asking me to get a room somewhere?”

A watery laugh bursts out of me. “Oh, god. No. I mean, not this second. The way you look that would definitely be something for the bucket list, but the reason this tire is flat is because I pulled over to take a call from my doctor. And she told me the lump is just a fibroadenoma—a benign mass. So I didn’t even cheat death this time. I just got a good scare. But I need to tell someone how terrified I was, and I’m not going to tell my family…” Jesus. I choke up again, thinking of it.

“Because you don’t want to lay that on them,” he finishes for me and I nod. “You’re all right, though?”

“Yeah. I’m going to have the tumor removed and there will be some scarring. But what’s scarring compared to dying? Nothing. My boobs just won’t be as pretty as they are now.”

His dark brows draw together over those pale, pale eyes. “And you want me to tell you they aren’t perfect to begin with…so it doesn’t seem like such a loss?”

God, that sounds stupid. “Is that stupid?”

He shakes his head. “Show me.”

My breath rushes out. Like him, I’m crouching behind the car, so it’s not as if I’ll be flashing the world. Still, I should be feeling embarrassment or something other than this relief when I curl my fingers around the bottom of my tank and strip it off.

I’m not wearing a bra. I don’t really need one. My body will never be anything near ‘curvy.’

“It’s this one,” I tell him, cupping my left breast and pushing against the lump with my thumb, just beside my hardening nipple. My body thinks I’m playing but I’ve never been more serious. “There’s not much tit here to start with, I know. When the surgery’s done, it’ll probably look like something took a bite out of it.”

Quietly, he takes a long look, his fingers white-knuckling the jack lever. “I won’t lie to you. They’re pretty as hell.” His gaze raises to mine with an intensity that makes me catch my breath. “But I bet they’ll be beautiful when you’re not scared. When you know you’re healthy. That’s when they’ll be perfect. And any man who looks at them and doesn’t see that isn’t worth having.”

Tears sting my eyes again. “Thank you.”

He nods. “You just keep me in mind, sixty or seventy years from now. Whenever you start filling out that bucket list.”

I can’t stop my laugh. “I will.”

Turning back to the jack, he starts pumping the lever. Though I’d love to drag him close and strip his shirt off, too, I drag my tank top over my head instead and watch the play of muscle in his arms. This won’t take him too long.

So there’s not much time left. Something in my chest pinches tight. I don’t want him to go yet. I need to know more about him. “Were you overseas?”

“I was.”

Right now, that probably means Afghanistan or Iraq. “Are you going back?”

“Most likely. After another training cycle.”

“Do you ever worry?” God knows I worry about my brother during his deployments.

He reaches up for the bottle of water and watches me while he takes a swig. “You mean, do I get scared?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes.” He starts in on the lug nuts again, spinning the wrench until they come off. “But I train and prepare for every contingency I can. I trust that the men on my team will have my back. I stay frosty. I figure anything beyond that is out of my control. And if shit happens, I’ll fight until I can’t.”

“Same here.” When he glances at me, I explain, “Exercising, eating the right foods, and only indulging a little when I’m out with family or friends. Anything else is beyond my control.”

“But you’ll fight the shit that is? Even if you’re scared?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then.” He pulls off the flat and rolls it to the side. “This scare isn’t going to make you stop doing that healthy stuff, is it?”

“No.”

“Good.” The spare goes on and he starts tightening the lug nuts. “You’ll need to take this into a shop, get them properly torqued.”

I’ll take it to Red Erickson, instead—my best friend’s dad. He’ll kick my ass if I pay money at Baxter’s Auto in town, because it’s owned by a Hellfire Rider. That won’t mean anything to Zachary Cooper, though, so I just nod.

“I’m glad you stopped to help,” I tell him.

“I am, too. You’re like breathing fresh air after—” His jaw tightens before he sighs and shakes his head. “What I just came from.”

His family. That sucks ass. Everyone should have a family as awesome as mine. My mom, my dad, Aaron. I don’t ever need fresh air when I’m with them.

“I’ll put that away,” I tell him when he reaches for the flat. “My trunk is messy. I’d rather leave you with a good impression.”

He grabs the tire anyway. “It’ll take more than a mess to knock you from the top of my list.”

Of new favorite people. God, that feels good. Smiling, I pop the trunk and open it with a flourish. “Behold the frightening disarray.”

“I’ve seen messier,” he says and makes a nest for the wheel in my extra blanket. “Stanford?”

Apparently he spotted my crimson hoodie. “Yes.”

“So you’re smart, too.”

Too? Smart in addition to what? But I don’t suppose it matters. He said that as if he actually admires smarts in a woman, then he looks at me like he admires me, too, but I’m thinking that I must be the stupidest idiot in the world because I’m about to let him ride away.

“Listen,” I tell him and start digging through my trunk. Finding paper in a notebook is easy but I need a pen or a marker or an eyeliner. “I don’t know how far you’re going or if you’re coming back this way, but I’ll give you my number and—”

“Don’t.” His abrupt reply stops me cold.

I blink and step back, startled by the sudden change. Everything about him that had been nice and easygoing just turned hard and rough, as if I’d tripped across the edge in him I’d seen earlier. But I don’t see anything in that sculpted profile to tell me what set him off. He’s not looking at me. His eyes are closed, and he stands rigidly, one raised hand clenched on the edge of the trunk lid as if he’s about to slam it.

But he doesn’t. Instead the strong muscles of his throat work before he says, “No name, no number.”

I nod, though it stings a little, because if he didn’t want that info there are ways to get rid of it without snapping at me. Like tossing my number into the trash a mile down the road. I’d never know.

With that face, he’s probably accustomed to getting numbers. And throwing them away.

God, and I hope he doesn’t glance at me now, because I can feel the heat in my cheeks. He probably does get a ton of numbers. Maybe that’s why he reacted like that. I mean, sure, someone tossing their digits at him is probably flattering, at first. Maybe after years of it, though, that kind of thing is just really fucking annoying.

Now I’m embarrassed—and pissed off, because I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I didn’t do anything wrong. But my face catches fire and I quickly move past him, heading for the jack. Going down on my heels, I wrestle the collapsed jack into its vinyl pouch and slide the lug wrench in beside it.

When I get to my feet, he’s still standing behind my car, and I can feel his pale blue gaze on my face. Keeping my expression blank, I do my best not to look up at him when I toss the jack into the trunk.

There. All done.

I wipe my palms against the sides of my shorts to get rid of any extra sweat and dirt, then stick out my hand.

“I guess the no-number and no-name thing means I won’t get a chance to thank you with a real drink,” I say, as if that’s all I intended to do after giving him my number, which makes me such a liar. But better a liar than a googly-eyed idiot. “So thanks for your help, and stay safe over there, and have a nice life after that.”

His big hand closes over mine. Broad, callused palms; lean, strong fingers. I know I’ll dream of them gliding over my skin later. I won’t be able to help it. Zachary Cooper is probably going to feature in my every sexual fantasy for years.

Then a low, liquid burn fills me when, instead of shaking my hand, he gently pulls me closer.

My gaze flies up. Focused on my mouth, his eyes are so pale, so blue, like the glare of the winter sun through glacial ice. He’s not dragging me. The pull on my hand is so subtle I could easily get away. He’s letting me decide whether to come nearer.

Of course I will. I’m on a new road. I refuse to look back on today with regret, and I would regret not taking this step.

So I do.

God, he’s tall. Or I’m short. I’m standing completely in his shadow, trying not to tremble when he lets go of my hand and cups my cheek in his palm, his heated gaze locked to mine.

His thumb slides over my bottom lip, a simple motion that stirs a torrent of desire inside me. “I’ll take this as my thank you.”

My mouth. Oh, yes.

Of course I can’t stop what comes tumbling out of it. “My lips don’t come off,” I tell him, my heart pounding. “And even if you could take them, they won’t travel well.”

His laugh is a deep rumble and, sweet Jesus, his grin—

Is all over mine. He swooped in so fast the heat of his lips stuns me for an instant. Then my brain kicks in or departs altogether, because my astonishment melts into a kiss. There’s too much teeth at first because I’m smiling and he’s smiling, then his fingers push into my hair and I lift up on my toes, my hands braced against the iron wall of his chest.

His mouth softens then, and I want to stay here forever. Right here, with his lips barely parted over mine, his breath so warm, and his tongue just lightly tasting, not devouring but taking over my mouth in little sips that consume my senses faster than a deep kiss ever has.

But I want deeper now. This sweet kiss is tearing open a needy ache centered between my legs. I push closer and love the sound he makes low in his throat, a possessive growl that echoes in the tightening of his grip, as if he’s not ready to let me go.

Then a horn bellows as a semi truck blasts past us on the highway, and he does let me go. His mouth lifts away from mine, and I’m too short to chase him up.

His hand slides from my hair to cradle my jaw in his palm. For a long moment we stare at each other, breath shuddering. His heart beats a rapid rhythm under my palm.

He’s the first to move. His thumb traces the moist curve of my lower lip. His voice is hoarse. “You’re wrong. That will travel well.”

He’s right. I’m going to carry the memory of that kiss with me for a long, long time.

But I don’t understand him at all. “You don’t make any sense,” I tell him. “You don’t want my number and the near-guaranteed hookup that comes with it, but you’ll kiss the hell out of me before you go.”

“I want your number,” he says, but his tone tells me he’s not asking for it. There’s regret there, but unlike me, he apparently would rather have the regret than spend a night in my bed. “The problem is that I will come looking for you.”

I don’t see how that’s a problem. Unless…

A sick knot starts to wind in my gut. “Do you have a wife? A girlfriend?”

The knot unwinds when he shakes his head. Good. I’d rather walk away thinking he’s a decent guy, not a dickhead who kisses other women even though he’s already taken.

Maybe he’s a really decent guy, though. I ask, “Do you not do one-night stands?”

A smile curves his mouth but this time there’s no amusement in it. Just something sad and weary. “I have. But I don’t think any man could settle for just a night with you.”

“Oh, they can,” I reassure him. “There’s a couple of guys at Stanford who could vouch for that. One night with me, then done.”

There’s some amusement in that smile now. “They sound like goddamn fools.”

How in the world is he doing this? I’m being rejected but he’s lifting me up instead of putting me down. Amazing.

“Okay, then.” Though I’d rather continue touching him, I force myself to step away, and keep my voice light. “Even though you’ve broken my heart, you’re still my new favorite person.”

“Good,” he says, as if the opinion of someone he’s walking away from might actually matter.

So this is it, then. The trunk’s still open. I slam it and suddenly I’m feeling awkward again.

“But, really, thank you,” I tell him for the millionth time.

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods, his jaw hard, his gaze all over my face as if he’s getting a good last look in.

Jesus, he needs to go. As soon as an idea gets into my head, I almost always follow it through to the bitter end. That kiss has given me too many ideas—about what I want to do to him, about what I want him to do to me—and I’m about to ask him to reconsider. Because his reasons for not wanting my number appear to boil down to “Gee, I like you so much I might want more than one night” and that’s just stupid.

But I’m also pretty sure he’s going to stick with his original answer and I’ll only end up humiliating myself.

Then it’s out of my hands. Slipping on his sunglasses, he hides those incredible eyes and starts toward his bike.

His gruff “Take care of yourself,” comes a split second before the ring of my cell phone. My mom, I bet, calling in response to my earlier text. And if I don’t answer, she’ll probably call the police next.

“You, too,” I say, as if there isn’t a dull ache forming in my chest.

I head for the passenger door, where the cell phone is lying on the seat beneath the open window. I was right. A call from home.

I answer it with a “Don’t worry, I’m still alive,” and watch Zachary Cooper swing his leg over his bike’s seat. “He wasn’t a serial killer. Or maybe he is, and just prefers to murder blondes, so I was spared.”

He must have heard me. A smile touches his mouth. Good. If he’s never going to see me again, that’s how I want him to go. Smiling.

“That’s great, pipsqueak.” My brother answers instead of my mom, and the dull ache is overwhelmed by a happy rush. “Is Cooper still there?”

“He’s just taking off,” I say and my heart does a happy little dance. “How are you? And how the hell did you and dad get back from the airport so early?”

“I drove. Dad fell asleep and couldn’t see how fast I was going. You need to tell Cooper to follow you home.”

“What? Why?” To thank him? To beat him up?

On his motorcycle, Zachary Cooper frowns at me—and I realize I’m frowning, too, but only because my brother might be crazy. Which, honestly, is something I already knew. But to a stranger, it must look as if I’ve just gotten upsetting news.

“Because I gave him directions but following you will be easier,” Aaron tells me. “Mom said you knew he was staying with us until next week.”

I knew someone might be staying with us—one of the guys in Aaron’s battalion. Someone he’d been deployed with and who was on leave at the same time. But that person wasn’t named Zachary Cooper. “You called him Zed.”

When I say “Zed,” Zachary Cooper goes utterly still. I can’t see his eyes through the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses, but I know he’s staring at me.

“Yeah, because there were two Coopers in our platoon when we went through the Force Recon pipeline, and he was the one whose first name started with Z. So ‘Zed’ stuck.”

Zed for Z? “What are you, Canadian marines?”

“Canada doesn’t have a marine corps, Annie. Give the phone to Cooper.”

Who is off his bike and coming this way. Who has been in combat with my brother. Who will be sleeping in the guest bedroom across the hall from me.

And who didn’t want to know my name.

Holy shit, that’s about to be blown right out of the water. I close my eyes and grip the phone tight. “Okay. But, remember, I didn’t know who he was. So just to warn you—”

“Oh, Jesus help me,” Aaron mutters before I even finish, because he knows me too well.

“—I flashed my boobs at your friend.” Eyes wide, I stick the cell out at arm’s length and try to ignore the groan coming through the phone’s speaker. “My brother would like to talk with you.”

His mouth flattens as he takes the phone. He answers with an abrupt, “Cooper.”

I can’t hear whatever my brother is telling him, so I just wait, with the sun beating down on my back and the cicadas buzzing in the trees.

With a short nod, he finally says, “I’ll do that,” and gives me the cell.

I flip it closed—probably hanging up on Aaron, but so what. I’ll see him again in about twenty minutes and I’m far more interested in what Zachary/Zed has to say.

He leans back against the side of my car and hooks his thumbs into his pockets. Still watching me, and still at an advantage because he’s wearing those sunglasses.

His deep voice is carefully even when he asks, “So you’re Annie.”

“Anna,” I tell him. “Aaron’s the only one who calls me Annie.”

Mostly because I hate it.

Slowly he nods. “I pictured someone younger. Red dress. Curly red hair.”

And that’s exactly the reason why I don’t like the name. It’s also exactly the reason Aaron keeps using it. “I don’t have a Daddy Warbucks.”

There’s his smile again. But it’s guarded now. Maybe uncertain.

Because he kissed his friend’s sister? Or because he really didn’t want to see me again? Or because this is so damn awkward now?

I don’t know. I’m not sure if I want to find out. Whatever happens, there’s still a good chance this is all going to end with me humiliating myself.

With a heavy sigh, I ask, “So you know my name. Should I call you Zachary or Zed?”

“Zach’s good.” His voice is still low, still careful.

“Zach.” I test it out and nod. “Okay. So you’re following me home?”

In an easy movement, he pushes away from the car. “Yes.”

“I hope your puny little bike can keep up.” That draws another smile from him—a warmer one. Good. “And about, you know, what I told you about the lump and being terrified—”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Thanks.” I bite my bottom lip, wondering if I should say more. But what is there to say?

Nothing, I guess.

In my car, I wait until he’s on his Harley and the engine is growling, then pull out onto the highway. This time, my tire isn’t flat and the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen rides right behind me. Seems like a good start.

But this new road already feels pretty damn lonely.

Chapter 2

“You can quit staring now,” my mom says.

“I could,” I agree. After she recruited me to peel potatoes for dinner, I set up my paring station on the kitchen counter overlooking the driveway—and overlooking Zach, who is outside checking out my brother’s motorcycle, which has been in storage since the last time he was on leave. “But why would I?”

“Because he’s our guest,” she reminds me but trails off when she glances out the window. “And…because…”

“Because?”

“Oh, my.”

“Uh-huh,” is all I say. Because my brother is crouching beside his Harley and pointing out something in the engine, and to get a look at it, our guest leans over the bike, arms braced on the seat. Zach’s T-shirt rides up just above his belt, exposing a tight oblique that could have made an anatomy instructor weep awestruck tears. His short sleeves hug sculpted triceps and can’t contain the bulge of his biceps, so the soft cotton edges have rolled up and snuggled in at the base of his deltoid.

And then there’s his face. It belongs in a magazine. In an underwear ad. Or just put him in a three-piece suit, turn that crystalline, heavy-lidded stare toward the camera, and let him sell a billion of whatever they’re trying to sell.

Except…that’s not right, either. I’ve never seen a fashion model capture the depth of expression in his face. That contagious grin. Those eyes, so serious and steady when he asked, “You’re all right, though?” And so blistering hot when his thumb slid over my bottom lip. “I’ll take this as my thank you.”

I’d love to thank him again.

That doesn’t seem likely, though. Not just because he already shot me down, but because shit got weird as soon as I realized he was my brother’s friend—and that he is our guest. He’s been painfully polite since arriving at my parents’ house. I’ve been the same with him, because I have zero interest in making anyone feel too uncomfortable to stay.

All ogling aside. Ogling doesn’t count, anyway. He can’t see me staring.

But I won’t tease him. That doesn’t mean I can’t tease my mom, though.

“You know what we should do?” I say without tearing my gaze away from Zach’s profile. “We should install hidden cameras in the guest room and sell the pictures.”

“Anna.” Tone sharp, my mom attempts a reprimand but the way her lips flatten after she says my name tells me how hard she’s trying not to laugh.

Seriously, though. “We’d be so rich.”

Her soft laugh breaks through and she shakes her head. “I’d rather keep my integrity.”

“Boooo. No fun.”

“Poor girl.” Mom’s reply doesn’t hold a lick of pity. A second later, she draws in a sharp breath as my dad emerges from the garage and joins the little motorcycle admiration society Aaron and Zach have started. “Oh, dear Lord.”

“What?”

“Your father.” Abruptly she pulls at the ties of her apron and stalks across the kitchen toward the garage door. “His wagon is about to die.”

His trusty old AMC Eagle, which has been on this Earth longer than I have been. Both Aaron and I learned to drive in the wagon. I can’t imagine my dad in anything else.

“There’s no hope for it?” I’m going to miss that car.

She shakes her head. “He said he hopes to stumble onto a vintage roadster to replace it.”

With a startled laugh, I glance outside. My dad, speeding along in a roadster? He’s like the racing tortoise: slow and steady. Also with a balding, shiny head—and more often than not, stuck in his cozy shell. “Really? Why?”

“Guess.”

“Midlife crisis?” is my first hunch. But I should have known that would be too easy.

She shoots me a narrowed look. “Can you imagine your father suffering from insecurity?”

Which is usually the underlying reason for a midlife crisis. And, no—I really can’t imagine it. My dad is on the quiet side and leans toward geeky, but he’s like a rock. Unshakeable. And it would take more than bald spot and a few wrinkles to chip away at his optimistic nature.

No, he wouldn’t want a roadster to recapture his youth or virility. Instead he’s probably imagining taking my mom out on weekend adventures—just like he used to do with our entire family when Aaron and I were growing up. He was always loading us up into the wagon and heading out to some new location.

A roadster would just be a zippier way of getting there. “It’s just for fun, isn’t it?”

My dad is simple that way.

Mom clicks her tongue, which means I hit the nail on the head. “I told him he’d be forced to buy a more sensible vehicle for the winters, anyway, but that didn’t change his mind. He says he wants to feel the wind in his hair while he has some left.” While I’m laughing, she gives a significant look toward the driveway, where my dad is lovingly running his hand over the Harley’s black leather seat. “Now I believe he’s about to stumble onto a motorcycle. But if I’m going to be riding with him…I’d rather have the sexy little roadster.”

With a wink, she heads out. Potato and knife in hand, I watch through the window as she emerges from the garage. My dad pretends to be absorbed by the motorcycle, not even glancing around when she appears, but I see the cheeky little smile he hides from her. He’s going to play stubborn about the bike to rile her up. Of course my mom won’t get riled—she never gets riled—but she’ll poke him right back.

They’re so cute together that it’s sick. They’re just perfect for each other, though they’re complete opposites. My dad, short and awkward and always a bit disheveled; my mom, tall and reserved and effortlessly elegant.

And here I am getting all weepy, watching them.

Shit. It’s so stupid. I’m not even cutting onions. It’s just…I’m so lucky to have them. She didn’t give birth to me. I was just fortunate enough to be adopted. So now I’m the only girl that tears up over potatoes, watching my dad tease my mom and seeing the moment Aaron realizes what’s going on, seeing his quick grin, and the way he jumps in, too—probably telling my dad that he should definitely go buy a bike and take Mom for a ride on it.

My mom narrows her eyes at my brother. God, he’s going to get it.

I’d love to hear it, but this window doesn’t open, so I settle for watching. I can read their faces well enough to guess who’s scoring the most points.

Zach’s watching them, too, and his posture wipes away my grin.

He’s standing apart from them, on the opposite side of Aaron’s bike. His thumbs are hooked in his jeans pockets, his boots planted at shoulder width. A casual stance, at first glance, but there’s something in the way he watches their byplay that looks…wary.

Not afraid. But as if, instead of watching a family toss a little shit at each other, he’s watching a time bomb and is preparing himself for the moment the clock hits zero.

It won’t. There’s no bomb, because we don’t like to hurt each other. Because we always know where we stand and try to not to pull each other’s triggers. So if something does hurt, we know it wasn’t on purpose.

An outsider wouldn’t know that dynamic is in play here. But an outsider who is close to his own family might guess.

Looking at Zach, I doubt that’s the case, and his wariness opens an aching little hole in my chest.

I’ve grown up with an amazing family. I don’t think Zachary Cooper has.

When his posture suddenly seems to ease, I glance at my parents. My mom is laughing, and my dad’s hands are lifted in surrender.

I knew she’d win. Now I can go back to ogling our guest.

I grab another potato and almost cut off the tip of my thumb instead of the peel, because at that moment Zach turns to look at the house, at me, as if aware of exactly where I’ve been standing all this time, and when his pale gaze locks with mine, I forget what my hands are doing until a slice of pain penetrates the heat racing through my skin.

Sweet Jesus, those eyes. He really needs to start warning people.

* * *

When I return to the kitchen, my mom is finishing up the potatoes. She’s already thrown away the one I bled over and cleaned the gore off the counter.

She gives my bandaged thumb a significant glance. “You did that just to get out of peeling these, didn’t you?”

“No,” I tell her. “I did it to get out of washing dishes later.”

“Clever girl,” she says, and we both look outside at the sound of a motorcycle pulling into the driveway.

Not Aaron’s or Zach’s. Their bikes are still sitting in front of the garage. This is someone else, a big dude with dark hair and wearing a Hellfire Riders kutte.

My breath catches a little when I recognize Saxon Gray. Holy shit. With wide eyes, I watch Aaron head over to greet the man, doing one of those fist bumps that guys do when shaking hands threatens their masculinity or something, so they say hello with a baby punch.

I didn’t realize Aaron knew Saxon. Well, I kind of knew, because they’re about the same age so they must have run into each other through junior high and high school. But I didn’t realize they knew each other well enough to grin at each other and bump fists.

There’s surprise on Aaron’s face along with his grin. Although I can’t hear him, I know exactly what he’s asking Saxon.

“When did you get out?”

Of prison. Where Saxon was supposed to be serving ten years. But it’s only been five.

God. Does Jenny know? She hasn’t said anything about it. Maybe she wouldn’t, though. She’s my best friend, but she’s always been a little tight-mouthed about Saxon Gray. Or maybe she hasn’t heard the news yet. Like me, she was away at college until a few days ago—and now she’s out at her dad’s ranch, where she wouldn’t hear all the gossip from town.

I don’t even know what to think. But I know I need to call her. Though I’m not sure what to say. Her dad is prez of the Steel Titans MC and they aren’t friends with the Hellfire Riders. So I’m not sure if telling her that Saxon’s back in town would just complicate things.

Teasing my mom is a little easier. “It looks like Aaron’s falling in with a bad crowd.”

Her chuckle is just a soft breath of air. She probably knows Saxon a lot better than I do—she was counselor when he went through high school. Not that she’d ever share anything she learned about him then. Confidentiality and all that.

Maybe she would consider him—and the Hellfire Riders—a bad crowd. I don’t know. It’s all fucked up, because Saxon killed the president of another rival MC, the Eighty-Eight Henchmen…but he killed that man to save Jenny from being raped.

So instead of being afraid, I kind of want to hug him, instead.

Zach obviously wouldn’t. He looked wary before but now he appears openly hostile. His jaw is set, his expression remote. When Aaron turns to introduce him, Zach responds with an abrupt nod.

But he doesn’t know Saxon. That look can’t be about the other man specifically.

Maybe the kutte, then? Or maybe he just doesn’t like motorcycle clubs in general. I don’t know.

God, I want to know. Zach’s outside is incredible to look at but I want to see deeper. I want to see past his beauty. I want to know why his lips have flattened into a thin line and why the corded muscles in his arms have tensed. I want to know why those blue eyes seem icy instead of warm—and when Saxon continues talking and Aaron turns, as if to ask Zach’s opinion, why he blinks so quickly, as if taken aback.

This time Zach’s nod is slow instead of abrupt. His forehead creases as he gives Saxon another look over, as if he’d made up his mind about the other man but is suddenly rethinking that conclusion.

I want to know what the conclusion was. But not just that. I want to know everything about Zachary Cooper.

And I can’t remember ever wanting to know so much about a man before. Probably because, in my experience, the more I know the more disappointing they are.

I don’t think Zach will be. Or I just really hope he won’t be.

Not that it matters. I mean, he didn’t want to know anything about me. Not even my name.

I need to keep reminding myself of that. It’s not my nature to give up easily. But this guy is a guest. And he’s only going to be here a week, then he’ll be gone forever. This isn’t his hometown and few people ever move to Pine Valley. Usually they’re trying to get out. Especially if they’re young.

So, really. For my heart’s sake, I should stop wanting to know so damn much.

“How’s Jenny?” my mom asks—a question that seems out of the blue, but with Saxon here, not really. When I saw him, my first thought was of Jenny, too.

“Good.” And much more certain of her path than I am. “Heading to Oregon State in the fall. She’s going for her masters in business.”

My mom frowns. “Business?”

“She decided against medical school. She plans to open a brewery, instead. She’s all gung-ho about it.”

Mom blinks a few times, digesting this info. Finally she says, “Well. Good for her.”

“Yeah,” I agree with all the things she left unsaid, because she didn’t need to say them. We both know Jenny is smart and ambitious and she’ll probably do a brilliant job.

“And you?” she asks, and although her tone is light the weight of the world seems to rest on the question.

My heart squeezes tight—as tight as she held me earlier when I quietly told her the tumor was benign. She didn’t say anything, just hugged me so hard and so close. Now my chest feels compressed again and suddenly I’m short of breath. I don’t need to be. I know she’ll support any decision I make.

But, God. This is a huge one.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is kind of true and kind of not. I don’t know exactly what I’ll be doing. But I know what I won’t be doing. “I think…I think I’m going to withdraw from the medical program.”

I feel her gaze on my face but I keep staring outside. Everything I want is out there. Somewhere. I just need to find it.

“Mmm-hmm,” is all she says. Waiting for the rest.

But she probably already knows it. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself. And maybe hearing her say it first would make this all easier.

So I tell her, “Guess.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “You intend to grab life by the balls.”

Yes. Relief rushes through me in a tension-dissolving wave. I don’t know how she does it. I haven’t even put my intentions in words yet. But that’s exactly what I want to do.

And I’m sure she knows why. “I just…when I first felt that lump—”

“I know, honey.”

Throat thick, I nod. Of course she does. And I don’t want to pursue that now. I don’t want to start bawling.

I want to look ahead to this new road. “I’ll get a job this summer. Something that’s easy to leave. I’ll work as a waitress or a cashier or flipping burgers. I don’t care. I’ll stay here at home so I can save up, and when I have enough, I’ll go somewhere.”

“Travelling?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Her expression is thoughtful as she opens a cabinet and reaches for a stack of plates. Time to set the table. I head for the silverware drawer. “I wonder what your father and I will do with all of the money we’ve put aside to help you through med school. You could probably take several long trips with it.”

I suck in a breath. I hadn’t been angling for that. Not even a bit. “Mom—”

“It’s still an education,” she interrupts my protest. “And will probably end up being a much cheaper one.”

A response won’t come. My throat is tied in a fat, burning knot.

She pats my shoulder and says mildly, “And your father and I have become used to an empty house. It will be well worth the money to get rid of you again.”

My laugh bursts through the knot in my throat. I tackle her with a hug and blubber into her shoulder—and that’s really not the way I want Zach to see me, but of course that’s what happens.

I hear heavy boots coming in from the garage and my brother says, “See? This is what I warned Zed about. One minute you’re minding your own business, and the next minute my mom’s got you in a therapy session. She’ll have you crying before you leave, Zed. Just wait.”

“Oh, Aaron, that’s so cute,” Mom says as she passes him, carrying plates to the dining room. “But making my children cry isn’t therapy. It’s my pleasure.”

“I’m glad you had your fun with Anna instead of me, then.”

Despite the teasing, I feel Aaron’s gaze on my face, making sure I’m all right. And I am.

I wipe my cheeks and start grabbing silverware. “They were tears of happiness. Mom just told me I’ve always been her favorite kid.”

“Oh, yeah?” Casually, he opens the fridge and pulls out a beer, then tosses a second bottle to Zach. Popping the cap, Aaron leans back against the counter. “Does Mom know her favorite kid flashed her tits at Zed?”

“Anna!” Mom’s shocked response comes from the dining room.

Aaron grins and tips his beer at me. “Not the favorite now, are you?”

“I was thanking him for changing my tire!” I call to my mom and glance at Zach, praying he’s not embarrassed by this.

If he is, I can’t tell. Instead he’s taking a swig of his beer, his gaze straight and steady down the length of the bottle…and if I follow the direction of that gaze, it’s aimed at my lips. As if he’s recalling how I really thanked him—with a kiss that melted my skin.

My skin feels like it’s melting now. Just from a look.

Damn it. I should have given him a blow job to remember, instead.

Mom returns to the kitchen, apparently determined to forget about me flashing anyone, because she doesn’t mention it. Instead she changes the subject to, “What did Saxon have to say?”

“He was checking up on Anna,” Aaron says, surprising me. “A few of the Riders saw Zed follow her through town so he was making sure she was all right.”

“That was kind of him,” Mom says, but her gentle frown says she isn’t really sure what to think of that.

I know what to think of it. Saxon hoped Jenny might be here, visiting me.

Aaron meets my eyes and the waggle of his blond eyebrows says he’s thinking the same thing. “And we’ll be riding out with him on Saturday, Mom, so if you have anything planned for us that day, better put it off for Sunday.”

“There’s nothing planned,” she says.

I’m nosier. “Where are you going?”

Zach answers me. “He told us that one of those fundamentalist groups plans to picket a soldier’s funeral up in Eugene,” he says, and you can tell he’s definitely not from around here because it’s actually over in Eugene. “The Hellfire Riders and a few other clubs will be forming a line to push the group back, so we’re joining them.”

“The Riders do things like that?” I know the Steel Titans do because I’ve heard Jenny’s dad talking about it. But I was under the impression that the Riders were mostly interested in drinking and fucking and revving their engines in the middle of town at two in the morning.

Of course, maybe that’s because almost everything I know about the Hellfire Riders is filtered through the Titans.

“It surprised me, too,” Zach says and his smile has a bitter, self-mocking edge to it.

What prompted that look? “You’ve heard of them before?”

That would be even more surprising. As far as I know, the Riders are just a local MC. They aren’t a big club with different chapters in different states.

He shakes his head. “Not the Riders. It’s just not in my experience.”

“What’s your experience?” I slide the question in casually, as if I’m not dying to know.

With another shake of his head, he just as casually slides away from the question. “Are you coming with us?”

If that means spending a day with him? God, yes. I’d love to go.

But I can’t.

Not that I get a chance to answer. Aaron chokes a little and says, “Not a chance in hell, Zed.”

“Why? You worried about her safety? I’ve got enough room behind me if you can’t ride well enough to pack double.”

Zach says it so smoothly that it takes a second for me to realize that he just poked fun at my brother. Almost like I would. And it hits me all at once that these guys have known each other at least two years, the length of a Force Recon loop. Maybe longer.

Along with that understanding comes a strange little pain. Not quite like the feeling I’ve lost something. It’s more like the realization that the percentage of overlap in the Venn diagram of mine and Aaron’s lives will keep decreasing from this point onward, because our personal circles will grow…and they won’t always include each other.

Of course I’ve known Aaron has been away and living a different life. Just like I’ve been away at college. Those friendships were always there, though, not here. And when we came home, it was just us again.

Not anymore. Aaron’s got himself a brother. Maybe not related by blood, but still a brother.

Blood never mattered much in this family, anyway.

“Think about after, man.” Aaron shoots a glance at my mom’s back to make sure she isn’t looking before jerking his hips back and forth and putting on an exaggerated leer. “You think that’ll happen for either of us with my sister around?”

That strange little pain suddenly swells into something bigger. God. That’s never hurt before. Aaron has said basically the same thing a hundred times since high school: Having a sister around is an automatic cock block. That gets no argument from me. I’d say the same about having a brother around.

But apparently the plan for Saturday is to hook up with whatever chicks they find. That shouldn’t matter. Zach is essentially a stranger to me. A stranger who didn’t want to know my name.

I wonder if he’ll ask the girl he screws on Saturday what her name is.

God, and he’s looking at me, his gaze searching my face. Wondering if that bothers me?

To give him an answer, I put on a smile. Of course I do. I’ll flash my boobs without thinking much of it. I’ll offer my number and an invite to my bed without feeling any shame.

But show my hurt to someone who isn’t family? To someone who isn’t Jenny? Fuck that all the way to hell.

“Calm your tits, Aaron.” I deserve a freaking Oscar for how completely unaffected my voice sounds. “Jenny and I already have plans for Saturday, since it’s the first time we can go out drinking together—”

Aaron coughs out a “Bullshit!” behind his fist. At the stove, Mom shakes her head. Either because she didn’t know what Jenny and I used to get up to—or because she did know, and she’s amazed that Aaron seems to think this is news to her.

Probably the second.

I narrow my eyes at him and finish, “It’s the first time we can do it legally. So I’m hardly going to throw her over to hang out at a smelly biker bar with you.”

“Maybe it won’t smell too bad,” Zach says, bringing my attention right back to him.

I stare at him in confusion. It won’t smell too bad. Is he trying to say I should come with them on Saturday? Does he want me to come? Or is he just being polite because my brother sounds like a dick and Zach doesn’t realize that my brother sounds like a dick all the time and that never bothers me, because I know Aaron doesn’t mean anything by it. There’s real security in knowing how much someone cares for you.

There’s no security with Zach. I don’t know what he means by that comment.

But I think I know. I remember how he lifted me up, making me feel smart and pretty even as he told me he didn’t want to spend the night with me.

Zachary Cooper is nice.

That’s a serious problem. Because if he were a jerk, it would be so easy to ignore him, no matter how beautiful he is. But he’s nice and I can’t stop myself from liking him.

And I’m afraid I won’t stop at liking.

Chapter 3

On Saturday night, I have no intention of going home early—or sober—but that’s what happens. Jenny’s just as disappointed as I am. Unlike me, though, she’s blaming herself for it.

“Sorry,” she says again. We’re in her truck and about five minutes from my house. This is her fourth ‘Sorry’ since we’ve left, but I’m glad to hear that, this time, there’s more frustration in her voice than apology. None of this is her fault. “I really thought the Corral would be okay.”

“It was okay. We got a few hours in.” And only a few drinks, but we danced so much my makeup sweated off. “Who could have guessed those assholes would show up?”

Because members of the Eighty-Eight don’t usually show their faces at that bar—or anywhere else in Pine Valley. At least not while wearing their club’s colors. The town is Hellfire Riders’ and Steel Titans’ territory.

More Hellfire Riders’ than Steel Titans’, in truth. If the town is a big circle, the Hellfire Riders call most of that circle theirs. Only a small slice of the east side is looked over by the Titans, along with everything from that slice to the county line.

The Corral sits in that slice of town, which is why Jenny felt safe enough to go there. The place isn’t one of the Steel Titans’ usual hangouts but it’s in her dad’s territory.

Her green eyes narrow a little as the headlights of a passing car catch her full in the face. “I can’t believe they had the balls.”

“I can’t believe this town doesn’t have more bars. I mean, it’s got more than enough churches. What’s the point of being forgiven if there’s nowhere to sin?”

A smile touches her mouth before disappearing into a sigh. I don’t need to guess what’s putting the worry on her face. She’s deciding whether to tell her dad about the two members of the Eighty-Eight who stepped through the Corral doors wearing their kuttes. She’s worried because it means those supremacist assholes are poking at the Titans, and if they poke hard enough they might start a war between the clubs. She’s worried because it can’t be coincidence those guys showed up when the Hellfire Riders were out of town.

Which means the Eighty-Eight is scared of the Riders, but they’re not so threatened by her dad’s club.

But I bite my lip and don’t say any of that. It’s one thing to know the Titans aren’t as strong as they once were. It’s another thing to speak it aloud.

Even if Jenny must know it, too.

My stomach clenches into a knot as she turns onto my street. This is partially why I didn’t want to come home early. From two blocks away, I can see a motorcycle in the driveway. But just one.

So it looks like our guest found somewhere else to stay for the night.

No big deal. In another few days, Zach will be gone every night. This is the same.

And if I tell myself that enough, it might actually feel true.

Pulling up to the curb, Jenny purses her lips and slides me a look. “Is this why you said we should call it a night instead of heading up to Bend?”

“Is what why?”

Eyebrows arched, she gestures toward the motorcycle. “Because he’s here.”

“Aaron?” Sure, I’m glad he’s here on leave. But I wouldn’t blow off Jenny just because he’s home tonight. He’ll be around for a month.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not Aaron’s bike.”

I look again. It’s black and has silver handlebars. Zach’s looks the same to me, so I suppose it could be his, but why would he be here without my brother? “How can you tell?”

“To start? Your brother’s bike has a soft tail frame with apehangers. This one doesn’t.”

“Huh,” I say as if that’s only mildly interesting, as if my heart isn’t suddenly pounding. Because I’m sure my parents are home, but the first floor windows are dark, which means they’ve gone to bed.

The light in the guest room is on, though.

Jenny’s still giving me that look.

“I didn’t know. I swear!” I raise my hands to ward off her narrowed stare. “But since I’m here, wish me luck. And pray my mom and dad don’t hear anything.”

“Oh, my God.” She covers her face with her hands. “You are why this town has so many churches.”

“I try.” I grin and hop out of the truck.

“Tell me how it goes,” she says. “And if he’s really that pretty all over.”

I’d bet anything he is. “I’ll take pictures.”

“Only of him, I hope.”

“Nope.” I palm my tits, give them a little heft beneath my shirt. “You’re gonna get shots of these babies.”

“You’ve already sent me pics of those.”

Shit. I have. “Yeah, well—” I’ve got nothing. Not a single comeback. I flip her the bird, instead.

She shoots a middle finger right back. God, I love her. The sister I never had.

Just before I close the truck door, her “Hey!” stops me. Her face is suddenly serious.

“Let me know how it goes on Monday,” she says.

My appointment with the breast surgeon. I nod and swing the door shut before hightailing it up to the porch. She waits at the curb until I’m inside.

I don’t bother with any lights. Partially because I don’t need them, partially because I don’t want to wake my parents. Not for the reason I led Jenny to believe—although if things with Zach started heading that way, I wouldn’t put on the brakes. But mostly I just want a little time alone with him.

Out on the road, when he was changing my tire, we got on so quick and so well. It was so easy to talk to him and we never really got that back. He’s nice here at the house—unfailingly polite—but I haven’t had a second with him when my brother wasn’t around. Which makes sense. Zach’s visiting with Aaron, not me. Still, I’d like to have him to myself again. Even for just a few minutes. To see if it’s still just as easy between us.

But maybe it’ll just be awkward again.

I don’t make much noise going up the carpeted stairs. The hallway is dark, except for a single yellow strip of light beneath the guest room door. My heart pounds double-time.

Maybe I should let him be. Sure, he’s here instead of out screwing some nameless girl he met at a bar, but that doesn’t mean he wants me to monopolize his time. Maybe he came home early because he thought I wouldn’t be here. After all, that was the plan before the Eighty-Eight messed it up.

I knock before I can talk myself out of it. A couple of greetings ready themselves at the tip of my tongue.

Each greeting takes a suicide dive into a pool of stunned silence when he opens the door.

Because he opens the door wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants—hanging low on his hips—and a paperback in his hand. I recognize the book. A futuristic mystery, it had been crammed into one of the overstuffed shelves in the family room. He must have grabbed it before coming upstairs.

So he was reading. Probably in bed. Inside the room, the only light comes from the lamp on the nightstand and it’s so easy to imagine him reclined back against the pillows, the yellow glow washing over his rippling stomach, his hard pectorals bare of everything except a dusting of coarse hair, his chin darkened by a day’s growth of beard.

And a book in his hand.

I didn’t think he could be more attractive. I really didn’t. But, holy shit. He was reading. All he needs is a pair of glasses and he’d be Superman.

“Anna,” he says and I force my gaze up, because my attention had gotten stuck on the index finger he inserted between the pages to mark his spot.

Lucky book.

“Hi,” I finally say, but it sounds more like a croak than a word, so I add a stupid little wave. “I saw your light.”

He nods and his gaze slides from my head to my pink-painted toenails. God, why didn’t I stop by the bathroom to freshen up? All the dancing left my hair a crazy mess and my mascara smudged into shadows around my eyes.

But it’s too late now. There’s no way to go but forward. “You’re home early,” I say. “You didn’t get lucky?”

That crystalline gaze snaps back to mine. “I could have,” he drawls. “But I left because being there was ruining your brother’s chances.”

My eyebrows shoot up. He might be right. I know a lot of girls in town think my brother is hot but I’m not sure how many would look at him with Zach in the same bar.

But still.

A grimace pulls his mouth tight. “I sounded less like a dick when I said that to him.”

I have to laugh. At least he admits it. “You probably did.”

Expression abashed, he shakes his head. “Then let me start over. I didn’t feel like being there, so I bailed and tossed a few friendly insults at Stone on my way out.”

Stone. Aaron’s nickname from high school football, when they called him Stone Wall. I guess the name must have stuck, even in the Marines.

“Don’t sweat it.” I wave his worry off. “I suppose the past couple of days you’ve heard plenty of things that would sound dickish if they were directed at anyone outside my family.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile. “I’m becoming used to it.”

Getting more comfortable around us. His being here still surprises me, though. “So you came back alone?”

His expression hardens, freezing that smile. When he moves out of the doorway—as if to show me the empty bed behind him—I realize how that sounded.

In a rush, I amend, “No, I mean, obviously you don’t have company. But you came back without Aaron? Were my parents still up?”

Some of his tension eases. “Yes.”

“Awk-ward.”

“Yes.” Now the humor returns. “On the porch, it took me almost a full minute to decide whether to knock or just walk in.”

Because no one around here keeps their front door locked, unless they’ve gone to bed. “What did you do?”

“Walked in. And they were right there in the living room.”

I laugh, picturing it. No way did my parents let him go without comment. “What did they say?”

“Your mom told your dad, ‘So this is what it’s like to have a responsible child. One who comes home at a reasonable hour.’” His grin flashes when I snort. “Then your dad offered to adopt me.”

“They probably really would.”

“I’d probably let them.” Shoulder braced against the doorframe, he looks down at me. “They’re pretty great.”

I know. “I got lucky.”

“You did,” he agrees.

“So your parents wouldn’t have reacted the same way if I showed up at their door?”

I almost regret being so nosy when his smile dims. He doesn’t even answer, just steps back from the door and farther into the room.

Smoothly, he says, “Your mom says you’re the one who painted this wall.”

I’m sorry he changed the subject, but I’m not passing up this excuse to get into his room.

“I did,” I tell him, walking in and turning to study the mural—an antique-style world map, with major landmarks drawn in an exaggerated hand. It’s not bad, considering that I painted it in a week. But it’s not good, either. “Our cousin Aspen stayed with us last summer. My mom thought this was appropriately educational for a preteen, but still fun.”

He moves closer to it. Oh, Lord help me. Considering how gorgeous his front is, can’t he at least have an unimpressive back? But, no. Instead he possesses a swimmer’s broad shoulders and tight waist. Muscles move smoothly under acres of tanned skin when he presses his finger to a spot on the map.

My spot. Where Pine Valley would be, I painted a simple message—

“‘Anna was here,’” he reads, then looks back at me. “Your signature?”

“Kind of. I write it on a lot of things.” And have since I was a kid. “It’s a coping-with-fear-of-recurring-cancer mechanism my mom taught me. It reminds me that I’m here and I can’t be erased so easily.”

Although, the truth is, I don’t do it solely as a coping mechanism anymore. Not consciously, anyway. Instead I’ve internalized it so well that “Anna was here” really has become my signature.

His crystalline gaze holds mine for a long beat. Then he nods and looks to the map again. “Have you decided where you’re going first?”

Because the topic of my upcoming travels has been raised several times in the past few days—with everyone in my family chiming in with their opinion of where I should go first. Zach hasn’t offered his opinion, though.

“Where would you go?”

Immediately he points to the far eastern side of China. “Somewhere here.”

That’s…not specific. “Why there?”

“Because it’s as far as someone could get from home without coming back around again.”

Someone? Or him? Maybe Zach doesn’t care where he is, as long as he’s not home. But I’m not going to ask about his family again, not if it pushes him away like it did before. Instead I wait.

He’s silent for a long second, then he shrugs those ridiculously broad shoulders. “Maybe the Great Wall,” he finally says. “Hiking along it would really be something.”

Yes, it would. “That’s on my list of things to do.”

So is Zach. He’s right at the top of my every to-do list. And I shouldn’t say what I’m about to say. I really shouldn’t. But I just don’t know when to quit.

And I really, really want to write ‘Anna was here’ right across that magnificent chest.

“So, I was thinking…it’s Saturday night and still kind of early,” I tell him and my heart is pounding so hard, I can feel the pulse beating in my neck. “What do you think about heading out for a drink or a bite to eat?”

His body stiffens, every muscle snapping into sharp relief. His gaze shoots to mine, and I can’t read his expression, I don’t know him well enough yet, but I could swear that’s longing I see in his pale blue stare.

Please, God, please—let it be longing.

And his silence is killing me. But I’m already throwing myself at his feet, so I’ve got nothing to lose when I add, “Or maybe we could do something else now and have breakfast together, instead.”

His eyes close. His hands are clenched so tight, his long fingers between the pages are warping the book’s spine.

“Anna.” My name seems scraped from his chest, like he has to forcibly drag out the word and every one that follows. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Oh. Okay. Well.

I need to get the hell out of here, then. “All right,” I say and head for the door, all at once feeling cold and tired and so damn disappointed. “I’m sure you’ll have a better time with the book, anyway. It’s a good one. The congressman killed the first victim but his aide tried to throw the detective off his boss’s scent by using the same MO to kill other women.”

A sharp breath sounds behind me. I don’t hear him coming, don’t realize he’s after me until I’m at my bedroom door and his palm hits the wall beside me just as I’m reaching for the knob. His hand closes over it before mine does, preventing my escape.

Heart thundering, I spin around, my back against the door. Oh, God. He’s so tall and gorgeous and his eyes glitter like diamonds in the dim hallway. And he’s so big, his body so taut as he looms over me, I should be scared.

But I’m so turned on. Turned on and holding my breath as his head lowers. Not to kiss me.

Instead he gets into my face, his nose almost touching mine, his eyes narrowed. “That was mean, Anna Wall.”

It was. But spoiling the end of the book must not have truly upset him, because he’s grinning.

He continues, “Your brother was right about you. He said you were a terror. I thought you were sweet.”

Not even close. “People always think that. It’s my face.”

His gaze drops to my lips. “It was something else that made me think so. But you do have a sweet pixie look going on—with those big, golden-brown eyes and that cute pointed chin.”

“They’re a lie,” I tell him.

“I guess so.” His thumb slips along my jaw, then he freezes when I shudder beneath his touch. Abruptly he steps back, leaving me feeling cold all over again. “There’s no doubt I’d love having breakfast with you, Anna. And I wish…”

He wishes…? I really want to know the rest of that. “What?”

His jaw tightens and he gives his head a hard shake. “Nothing. The thing is, you’re Stone’s sister, and I’m his friend—and your parents’ guest. So it’s best to keep things simple between us.”

Screwing each other’s brains out seems pretty simple, too. Life at its most basic. But I’m guessing that’s not what Zach’s suggesting.

“You mean, ‘let’s just be friends’ simple?”

He nods solemnly but some conflicting emotion flickers in his eyes again. If that emotion resembles longing, however, he beats the feeling back, and determination rings like steel through his voice when he says again, “You’re his sister. I’m his friend. Simple.”

It doesn’t feel simple. But maybe he’s right. And it is probably for the best. He’s only here a few days more. If I like him this much now, and sleep with him, God knows how I’ll feel about him by the end.

And after he leaves, it’s not like I’m going to see him again.

That thought hurts more than it should. But I refuse to let Zach see the pain. Instead I shrug and smile.

“All right,” I agree lightly. “We’ll keep it simple.”

“Good,” he says, then seems to take an extraordinarily long time before he tears his gaze from mine and heads back to his room.

My shoulders slump as soon as his door closes. Simple. Sure. I can do that until he leaves. And then—even though I never seem to know when to quit—I’ll quit thinking about him. I’ll just forget him.

That will be simple. I’ve only known Zachary Cooper a couple of days.

So forgetting him shouldn’t take too long.

* * *

Kati here—so that’s what I cut! Almost ten years later, their real story begins…and it definitely doesn’t stay simple.

I hope you enjoyed this little preview into Gunner & Anna’s romance. Their relationship continues in Breaking It All, which is out now! And if you’re wondering about the little mention of Anna’s cousin, she has her own story in Going Nowhere Fast!