
## **Contents**

Title Page

Copyright

Books by Ember

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

More Books by Ember

About the Author
The Sweet Taste of Sin

THE FONTAINES

Book One

EMBER CASEY
Copyright ©2015 Ember Casey

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Images used under license from Depositphotos Inc.

Top photo: © simbiothy

Bottom photo: © DmitryRukhlenko

You can contact Ember at ember.casey@gmail.com.

Website: http://embercasey.com.
BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

THE FONTAINES

The Secret to Seduction

The Sweet Taste of Sin

The Lies Between the Lines

The Mystery of You

The Thrill of Temptation

THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

His Wicked Games

Truth or Dare

Sweet Victory

Her Wicked Heart

Take You Away

Lost and Found

Completely (short story)

Their Wicked Wedding

A Cunningham Christmas

Their Wicked Forever

ROYAL HEARTBREAKERS

Royal Heartbreaker  
Royal Mistake

Royal Arrangement

Royal Disaster

Royal Escape

THE DEVIL'S SET

Jackson

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Billionaire Escape Plan

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CHAPTER ONE

In my opinion, there's no greater pleasure in the world than the buttery, slightly nutty flavor of a classic caramel sauce. The secret is, of course, to add a pinch of salt—just enough to stimulate the taste buds but not so much that you overpower the sauce's warm, buttery sweetness. For such a simple recipe, even the smallest change can make a huge difference—using brown sugar instead of white, for example—and after hours of experimenting, I think I've gotten my version just right. I've finally created a mouthwatering, toe-curling, devilishly perfect caramel sauce.

Who needs sex when the world holds pleasures like this?

I'm still licking bits of it off my spoon when I hear the jingle of the bell hanging on my bakery's front door.

"I'm coming!" I call around my mouthful of caramel. I toss my spoon aside and wipe my hands on my apron as I jog out of the kitchen.

Jack Teegan, my best friend, is standing at the counter with a large to-go bag in his hand. His eyes are roaming over the refrigerated cases of sweets on display. Ashlyn's Bakeshop sells a little bit of everything—tarts, éclairs, sweet buns, and a number of classic French desserts that no one here in Los Angeles seems to know how to pronounce—but I do the bulk of my business in specialty cakes, sculpted creations so wild that some of them hardly resemble cake at all.

Jack is looking at one of my latest creations in the case right now, a dummy cake sculpted to look like a man's chest—complete with bulging pecs and washboard abs.

"Classy, Ashlyn," he says with a laugh.

"It's the latest trend in bachelorette party cakes," I reply, propping my elbows on the counter.

"What happened to penis cakes?"

I grin. "I can't exactly put one of those in the front case." Sometimes I can't believe my business has come to this—carving men's body parts out of cake. But I'll take whatever work I can get.

Jack grins. "If you ever need a model..."

"Got it, perv. What did you bring me for dinner?"

He holds up the bag so I can see the GoGo's Drive-In logo on the side. "Chili cheese fries, extra cheese."

I squeal and grab the bag. "You're the best."

I practically skip over to the small table in the corner of the shop. On most days, this table is where I hold cake tastings. But it's Monday, the one day a week my shop is closed, so Jack and I decided to meet up for dinner. I pull my box of fries out of the bag and push the rest of the food back towards Jack.

"They're probably soggy," he warns me as he unwraps his burger.

"They're best when they're soggy," I reply. I shove a handful of fries in my mouth and close my eyes in ecstasy. "God, I love you. In a platonic way, of course." I grab a second handful before the first is even down my throat. "And I've got a surprise for you for dessert. I just perfected my caramel recipe."

"I've got a surprise for you, too. A big one."

My fist of fries freezes halfway to my mouth.

"You mean..." I lean across the table, my eyes searching his. "Ohmygod, did you ask Evan? You asked Evan, didn't you?"

Jack opens his mouth to respond, but I'm still trying to process this monumental news.

"You bastard! Why didn't you tell me last night was the night? I would have made you a special engagement dessert or something! Tell me everything. How did you do it? What did he say? I wasn't going to bring this up yet, but I've been working on designs for the cake—"

Jack catches my arm as I'm rising out of my chair.

"Stop. Breathe," he orders. "I haven't asked Evan anything yet."

"Oh." I sink back down in my seat. Jack's been thinking about popping the question to his partner for a while now, and ever since he's told me, I've spent my free time dreaming up designs for their cake. Wedding cakes are my favorite—I live for sugar paste roses, for royal icing, for cornelli lace—and the thought of making one for my best friend is even more appealing.

But apparently I've gotten ahead of myself. Or maybe all of those naked man-chest cakes have made me crazy.

"You still get to make a cake, though," Jack says. "And if you play your cards right, you might get to make a bigger, more important cake very soon."

I lean forward, intrigued. "Okay, spill it."

"You actually have my predecessor to thank for this."

I frown. "Who?"

"Cory Westers. You know—Brockman's former assistant?"

Jack recently wrangled his way into the coveted position of personal assistant to Matthias Brockman, one of the higher-ups at Fairlake Films. For someone like Jack, who's spent his entire life dreaming of working in Hollywood, it's the opportunity of a lifetime. A few years ago, it would have been exactly the sort of job I thought I wanted, too—but a lot has changed since then.

"I don't understand," I say. "Where does the cake come in?"

"Well, Cory dropped the ball on a lot of shit there at the end, including some details for several upcoming events. I spent most of the day dealing with the mess." He grins at me. "But that's not the important part. The important part is that I convinced Brockman we should do something extra special for the party on Thursday. And that includes getting an awesome themed cake for the occasion."

"A cake?"

"For three hundred people. The more elaborate, the better."

I shove more fries into my mouth as I let that sink in. "This Thursday?"

"Now, I know it's not a lot of notice," Jack says, "but I think—"

"Are you kidding? You're fucking amazing!" I leap up and practically throw myself at him. Who cares if I only have three days? Who needs sleep when I have an opportunity like this? If I can make a name for my bakery among the bigwigs in Hollywood... "What kind of party is it?"

"Only the after-party for the biggest premiere of the year."

My blood goes cold and I abruptly release him. "Wait—what?"

"And I haven't even told you the best part," Jack continues, apparently too excited to notice my reaction. "Remember how I said this might snag you an even bigger cake? Well, it just so happens that the two stars of this movie recently announced their engagement. So if your cake this Thursday is a hit, then maybe—"

"Wait, which movie is it?" I demand, unable to process anything else. Please, don't let it be what I think it is.

Jack's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "God, Ash. What—"

"Which movie?"

I know he can't possibly understand why I'm suddenly so upset, but before this conversation goes any further, I need to know. I have to be certain there's absolutely no chance of seeing him. The man I've spent the last three years trying to forget.

Three long, sexless years.

Jack is looking at me like I've suddenly gone crazy. And maybe I have. But I have a very bad feeling in my gut.

He shakes his head. "I'm almost afraid to tell you now. But trust me—anyone else in this city would be dying for this chance."

"I'm sorry," I say, trying to shake off my fear. Trying to sound eager. "Tell me. I'm dying for it. I promise."

A little bit of the excitement creeps back into his face. In spite of my reaction, he still looks like he's bursting to tell me.

"I know you've been avoiding all the big movie news," he says, "but even you have to have heard of this one. It's—"

"Cataclysm: Earth," I whisper under my breath at the same time he announces the same name out loud.

Shit. The bottom drops out of my stomach as he confirms my worst fears.

Cataclysm: Earth has generated a huge amount of buzz. In part because of its enormous budget—the largest in Hollywood history, if we're to believe the rumors—and in part because the production of this futuristic disaster epic has involved several members of the notorious Fontaine family, the freaking royal family of the film industry. The Fontaines have cracked the ultimate key to Hollywood success, balancing the ability to find infamy in the tabloids with the talent to craft one cinematic masterpiece after another. Charles and Giovanna Fontaine have been featured on magazine covers for decades—since they first hit the red carpet with their high-profile romance—and now their four grown sons are making their own headlines. Hardly a week goes by without one of them—Dante, Luca, Raphael, or Orlando—dominating the celebrity news media.

And I want absolutely nothing to do with them. Well, at least one of them.

I've done everything in my power to pretend the entire family doesn't exist. But that's next to impossible in this town, especially with Cataclysm: Earth coming out. The Fontaines are everywhere. On magazines. On every television channel. All over the internet. I can't even walk down the street without seeing one of their faces plastered on the side of a bus. You can't escape them.

Meanwhile, Jack is looking at me expectantly.

"Well...?" he says, spreading his arms. "This is huge, right?"

I want to be excited. I want to squeal and jump up and down and proclaim my undying love for Jack for getting me this opportunity. But even if I thought he'd buy my bullshit—which he won't—I can't lie to him.

And Jack, as usual, is two steps ahead of me. He crosses his arms.

"What?" he demands. "What could possibly be wrong with the greatest opportunity you've ever had?" He snatches my chili fries out of my reach before I can stuff any more of them in my mouth to avoid answering his question. "Ashlyn, we're talking about getting your cake in front of Luca Fontaine and Emilia Torres. Do you even understand what that means? If you do this right, you could be the one to make their wedding cake. And you're an idiot if you think that cake won't be in every magazine at every checkout stand in the country."

He's right. If my bakery got that kind of press, I'd be booked solid for the next year. Screw that—the next five years. And with gorgeous, multi-tiered wedding cakes covered in rolled fondant and beautiful lacework, not more phallus-shaped monstrosities. The first dozen or so penis cakes were fun, but the subsequent dozen... not so much. That's not why I opened this bakery.

But taking this job means I might run into him, and in spite of everything, I'm not sure it's worth the risk.

Jack is giving me a look. "Seriously. What?"

After everything I'm sure he's done to get me this opportunity, I owe him an explanation.

"I know someone involved with Cataclysm: Earth," I say. But that's not enough. "And he's the last person in the world I ever want to see." I risk a glance up at my friend. He's frowning, and I can tell he's trying to figure out the part I didn't say.

Suddenly, his eyebrows shoot up. "You mean..."

"Yes. Him." I grab the box of fries back from him. I'm sure my cheeks are nearly as red as my hair. "So you can imagine why I'm hesitating."

"The Devil Himself got a job on Cataclysm: Earth?"

Three years ago, I spent many a drunken night crying to Jack about the Devil Himself. In fact, I met Jack only a few weeks after everything with the Devil Himself exploded so dramatically, back when we were all students in the same film studies grad program—back when I still thought I wanted to follow my parents into the movie industry. So he knows everything—except the Devil Himself's real name. In fact, Jack was the one who came up with that charming nickname after I refused to name the bastard out loud.

But I can't hide that name from Jack now.

My friend's nose is wrinkled. "I thought you said he was a screenwriter. You said he had some fancy-schmancy project waiting for him when he graduated."

Another few chili fries disappear in my mouth. "He did. He is a screenwriter."

"Well, maybe you've got your films mixed up, because this is Dante Fontaine's big project."

I look at him pointedly.

Jack's eyes almost bug out of his head. He nearly chokes.

"The Devil Himself is Dante Fontaine?" he manages between his coughs. "The Dante Fontaine?"

"Yes." Suddenly, I'm having trouble looking at my friend. This is not a conversation I was expecting to have today. The last thing I want to do is drag up those memories.

But Jack is not about to let me off the hook.

"Wait," he says. "Are you really telling me that you dated Dante Fontaine and lied to me about it? You lost your virginity to Dante-Fucking-Fontaine?"

"I never lied," I said. "I just never told you his name. There's a difference."

"If Dante Fontaine so much as looked at me, you can bet your ass that you and everyone else in this town would know every little detail. If he and I—"

"I know. It was just... complicated," I say. "But it doesn't matter why. I can't risk running into him again."

"Fuck. Dante Fontaine."

"You don't have to keep saying his name."

"Forgive me. I just found out my best friend lost her virginity to one of the hottest guys in Hollywood history."

"You mean one of the hottest guys in Hollywood history turned her off men forever."

"Well, you still admit that he's hot, so you haven't completely abandoned the cock."

I groan. "This isn't about cock. This is about me staying as far away from him as possible."

"First of all," Jack says, leaning across the table and pointing a finger at me, "you can't let your fear of some dickwad dictate what you do. Grow some balls. Secondly, this is still an amazing opportunity, and you know it. Thirdly, he'll still be at the film screening when you're setting up. And he's never been a big partier. He might not even show up to the after-party at all. You two probably won't even cross paths."

Jack does have a point, but in spite of his challenge to 'grow some balls,' I still find myself hesitating.

"Oh, come on," Jack says. "Do you really want to be making cakes of male body parts for the rest of your life? This could be your big break."

"I'm not sure bakers get 'big breaks' like people in the film industry."

"You know what I mean."

I do. And honestly, I have no more excuses.

"Fine," I say finally. "But I swear, if I see him I won't be held responsible for what I do."

"Fair enough. Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

Jack grins at me. "Don't mess up his face. They don't make them like that often."

* * *

I have to admit—it's one of the most impressive cakes I've ever made. I started with a classic tiered cake, then used the Cataclysm: Earth movie poster for inspiration as I decorated the layers, creating an apocalyptic scene in sugar and icing. There aren't many bakers in this world who can make a cake that's both elegant and captures the essence of a disaster film, but I'm pretty sure I've managed it. This cake could get me work for months—maybe even years.

For luck, I wear my favorite dress—a knee-length plum garment that sets off my red hair to perfection—and I pay one of my pastry assistants overtime to help me transport the cake to the events facility where they're holding the after-party. I don't have enough money to have a full-time driver, and so usually I end up doing the deliveries myself.

Which is why there's absolutely no excuse when I end up getting caught in traffic and showing up at the facility almost forty-five minutes after our designated delivery time.

I'm panicking by the time we roll up behind the facility's service entrance, and my stomach is in knots as Jilly and I grab the pieces of our cake and dash inside. I'm not sure which scares me most—the possibility of screwing up this amazing opportunity Jack got me, or the possibility of still being here when Dante shows up.

Don't think about him, I tell myself. The party doesn't officially start for another half hour. You can be in and out before then. Chances are, I'm getting myself worked up over nothing. Even if he shows up early, Dante's going to be far too busy talking to the press and celebrating the premiere of his big movie to notice the cake, let alone the girl who brought it in.

The ballroom is in chaos when Jilly and I get inside. People are rushing around, getting everything set up for what is sure to be the party of the summer. The place looks spectacular—it's draped in golds and browns and shimmery taupes, decorated with fake ruins that somehow manage to evoke the bleak setting of the movie and look beautiful at the same time. Looks like my cake will fit right in.

We get a glare and a few sharp words from the event planner for our tardiness, but fortunately he doesn't appear to have the time or patience to give us a full lecture—or to try and kick us out. We're quickly directed to the far end of the room, and we make our way through the decorators and waitstaff and security personnel to the large round table set aside for the cake. I glance around for Jack, but he doesn't appear to be here yet. When I was going over delivery details with him yesterday, he mentioned that he was hoping to sit in on the screening, but I'm not sure if he managed it. We've both been too crazy today to talk.

I always transport my tiered cakes in pieces and assemble them on-site. Jilly and I each have two tiers, and there's a box of additional sugar décor still in the van.

"Start assembling," I tell Jilly. "I'll go get the rest." I'm starting to shift into business mode, and thankfully that helps calm my nerves a little. I'm already thinking through my attack plan for getting all of the decorations on the cake quickly.

So I'm feeling a little better as I return to the van and grab the bin of sugar paste décor. And when I open the container and check on the tiny sculptures, I grow even more confident. I've made replicas of each of the film's major characters, and these tiny figurines are sure to be the stars of the cake. I slide the lid back on the bin and return inside.

On the way back to Jilly, however, I decide to swing by a kitchen or bathroom and grab some water. It's not unusual for the delicate sugar paste pieces to break in the process of assembling, so I always like to have a little edible adhesive on hand. A few bits of sugar paste dissolved in water make a quick and effective glue. I always make up a batch when I assemble a cake, just in case.

I don't know my way around this particular facility, but it shouldn't be too hard to find a sink. When I return through the service door, I glance around for a bathroom. Then I set off quickly down a hallway to the left, away from the main ballroom.

Normally I'd stop and ask someone for directions, but most of the staff are busy in the ballroom, it would seem. I push open a few doors and glance down a couple of other hallways, but there's mostly just storage back here.

How can it be this hard to find a bathroom? I twist the bin in my arms so I can glance down at my watch. Twenty-three minutes until the party. Maybe I should just forgo the glue this time and cross my fingers that I don't need to make any last-minute repairs.

But just when I'm about to head back to the ballroom, I hear a voice. Good. Someone who might be able to point me in the right direction.

I follow the voice down the hall to a door that's slightly ajar. My arms are full with the bin of decorations, so rather than knock, I give the door a soft nudge with my hip. It swings open.

And immediately, I realize I've made a terrible mistake.

I didn't stumble across a member of the staff, no—I stumbled across a couple. And I don't mean a couple having a nice friendly chat about their relationship—I mean a couple deep in the throes of something that, if this were a movie, would most definitely be rated R. And moving quickly into NC-17 territory.

We're in a storage room, and most of the room is taken up by stacks of fancy rental chairs. The man is sitting in one of these chairs, leaning back against the pearly white plastic while the woman straddles him. Her beaded gown is pushed up around her hips, and her dark, glossy hair is falling from its elaborate updo as she throws her head back and moans. She writhes against him, her hips shifting in a dance I haven't experienced in far, far too long. His hands grip her waist, digging into the fabric of her gown as if he wants to tear those thousands of little beads right off the fabric. Her hands are closed around his broad shoulders, and her fingers tighten as she quickens the undulations of her body. Another soft moan escapes her lips.

And I'm frozen in place. Stunned. I know I should move, should run out of here before these two people realize that I've walked in on them, but I'm too shocked to do anything. My feet are rooted to the floor.

The woman makes another sound of pleasure, and this time her head tilts a little further back, giving me a glimpse of the side of her face. A gasp catches in my throat as I recognize her—Emilia Torres. Star of Cataclysm: Earth. One half of Hollywood's hottest—and recently engaged—couple. I can't believe I walked in on her and Luca Fontaine going at it. The premiere must have gone very well.

But as Emilia shifts again, I catch a glimpse of the man between her thighs and suddenly my world goes cold.

It's not Luca's fingers digging into her waist. Not Luca's hips rising to meet her. Not Luca's golden-blond hair beneath her hands, not his lips hungrily devouring hers. This isn't her fiancé. But it's not some random guy either. It's Luca's brother, the last man on earth I want to see.

Dante Fontaine, the Devil Himself.
CHAPTER TWO

The box of sugar decorations slips from my hands, crashing to the floor.

Immediately the couple freezes. Emilia's head jerks around, her dark eyes widening in shock, but it's Dante's gaze that locks on mine. The emotions flash quickly across his expression: surprise, annoyance, and then recognition. By the time he gets to that last one, my feet have come unglued from the floor, and I stumble backwards through the doorway.

But I only make it two steps before I remember the sugar decorations. I curse and hurl myself back into the room, falling immediately to the floor and gathering them up as quickly as I can. I don't dare look at the other two, but I hear the shifting of bodies and clothes as they rise and cover themselves.

Thank God, I think. Half of me was afraid they'd just start going at it again, ignoring the crazy baker girl who interrupted them, and the very thought makes me want to be sick. I'm still in shock. Emilia and Dante. Emilia. And Dante.

My Dante.

Three years ago, he was everything to me. He woke things in me I'd never felt before. Just being near him made my body come alive, set all of my senses on fire. He captured my full attention.

And he still does. He's across the room and I feel like I'm suffocating. Like my body is on overload. I can't breathe. My heart is pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else. Even my fingers feel stiff and clumsy as I grab the broken sugar paste figures and shove them back into their box.

He's here. Having sex with his brother's fiancée. It's bad enough running into him. But to catch him like this, catch him writhing against her...

I wait for him to say my name. To acknowledge that he recognizes me. But there's only silence—and the neck-tingling awareness of their eyes on me. There are a few bits of sugar paste still scattered around, but I don't care. I clamber to my feet and escape as fast as I can. Their gazes burn into my back, and it's a wonder my body hasn't burst into flames.

My whole body is shaking as I dash down the hall, and I'm surprised I even make it back to the ballroom. I can't stop seeing it. Can't stop hearing her moans. His heavy breathing. The sound of their bodies moving together. The image of the two of them together plays over and over again in my head like a horror movie on repeat. I was afraid of running into him, but this... This is far worse than anything I could've imagined.

We made love like that once, with him leaning back in a chair and me moving in his lap. Usually, he liked to be on top, but I was feeling naughty that night—and he was always eager to teach me new positions, inexperienced as I was. It took me a while to get the motion just right, to find my rhythm, but the memory of that night still makes me shiver. I still remember the hard pressure of his grip on my hips. Still remember the ache in the muscles of my inner thighs from straddling him. Still remember the feel of his lips against my neck.

I'm shaking harder now, and my skin is too warm. I feel like I've been punched in the gut. But this is ridiculous—it's been three years. Three years, and I'm falling apart at the sight of him with another woman. In fact, I think I'm going to be sick right into this box of decorations.

Jilly frowns when she sees me. "What's wrong?" Her eyes drop to the box in my hands. "Oh my God, what happened?"

I'm so shaken that it takes me a moment to find my voice. "They fell."

She's around the table in two steps. "Is anything salvageable?"

I force myself to take a deep breath. We still have a job to do, I remind myself. I'm not going to ruin this opportunity for myself just because I walked into my own personal nightmare.

"We'll make it work," I say.

And we do. We find the unbroken pieces and stick the others together with royal icing. It's not quite as strong as my usual sugar paste glue, but it will have to do. And I always make a few extra pieces of décor, so the situation isn't completely dire. The result might not be the perfect cake that I planned, but it's still pretty damn good.

But even though the professional side of me has taken over again, my fingers still tremble as I put the final sugar figurine in its place. My mind is still flooded with images—of his gripping hands, of his eyes glazed with lust, of the two of them moving together—but I try to blink them away and focus on my cake. My entire body is on edge, and my eyes keep wandering toward the door. If he and Emilia walk in here before I can escape, I don't know what I'll do.

"Looks amazing," comes a low, familiar voice from behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin. I didn't hear Jack come up.

"It's almost done," I say.

"They're going to love it," he says. His eyes flick from the cake up to my face, and a small furrow appears between his brows. "Don't look so terrified, Ashlyn. It's awesome."

I try to force a smile, but Jack knows me well enough to see right through it.

"What's going on?" he says. "You're looking kind of green."

Jilly's on the far side of the table, putting some final details on the cake with royal icing. I step closer to Jack and lower my voice so that only he can hear. "I saw him."

I don't have to specify who he is. Jack's eyes widen.

"Really? I thought he'd still be at the screening. I rushed out of there the moment the credits started rolling."

"He must have sneaked out even earlier than that, because he's here. Emilia too." I start collecting the unused bits of sugar décor. My entire body feels hot again. I know this isn't the place to discuss this—I know that I should be trying to push it out of my mind completely—but the next words pour out of my lips. "I saw them together."

It takes a moment for that to sink in. "You mean like..."

"Together," I repeat. "Having sex."

"Holy shit," Jack says under his breath. "Where? What did you do?"

"I dropped my decorations."

I didn't think it was possible for Jack's eyes to get any bigger, but I was wrong. "Did he see you?"

I nod, too embarrassed to even speak. It's too soon to be reliving this. I just want to crawl into a hole and die of humiliation.

But Jack is not about to let me off the hook.

"What did he say? What did he do? Did he recognize you?" His eyebrows snap together as a thought occurs to him. "Did they even stop?"

"Yes, they stopped," I hiss at him. "And I'm pretty sure he recognized me. But he didn't say anything. Neither did she. They both just stood there while I scrambled to pick everything up." I can only imagine what Dante must be thinking of me right now.

"Shit," Jack says again.

Shit is right. And I can still see him kissing her, still see him thrusting...

"You need a drink," Jack says. "Do you want me to steal you something from the bar?"

I shake my head. "I just need to get out of here."

Jack nods. "I don't blame you." He glances toward the far side of the room. "Brockman is beckoning me. Call me later."

I nod, but I know if I contact him later he'll only want to continue this conversation, and I'm not sure I can relive this again. No, the only thing to do is to go home, drown myself in a bottle of tequila, and try to wipe every last trace of the Devil Himself from my mind.

The Devil, though, is not so easily forgotten.

No matter how much I drink that night, or how much I pour myself into my work the next day, I can't get him out of my mind. Get them out of my mind. For Emilia is every bit a part of the images that haunt me as he is. Waking or sleeping, I can't close my eyes without seeing the pair of them writhing together. Without their groans of pleasure ringing in my ears. Without the heat of humiliation flooding my skin yet again.

It's wrong, how much this hurts. How much it stings like betrayal—but that's unfair, because it's not like I expected him to be celibate all this time, even if I've been more or less a nun. But it brings up feelings that are a little too familiar, feelings that crept in slowly during those last few weeks of our relationship. Very pathetic feelings, I'll be the first to admit. But I loved him so deeply, so intensely, and I always wondered why a huge celebrity like Dante Fontaine—a guy who could have any woman in the world—would choose me instead of some starlet or supermodel.

In the end, he did choose a supermodel over me, which is why I walked away. Why in the weeks afterward, my heart stopped seeing him as the man of my dreams and instead saw him as the demon of my nightmares. Why catching him with Emilia, a gorgeous up-and-coming actress, hurts so damn much.

I have every reason to hate him. So why does he still have the same overwhelming effect on me? Why did I spend half the night remembering the many nights we spent together, teaching and exploring each other beneath the sheets? Why did I wake up this morning expecting to see him in the armchair across from my bed, working on his latest script as the light of dawn crept in through the window? It's been a long time since I awoke to that sight, and yet I can imagine every detail of it perfectly—his dark hair hanging across his brow as he bends his head over his notebook, his pen moving in a steady rhythm across the page, his gold-flecked chocolate eyes gleaming bright behind the dark-rimmed glasses he wears when he's working.

Just forget about him, I tell myself as I start the day's tasks. Maybe the after-party incident is God's way of telling me that it's long past time to get on with my life. If this isn't the closure I needed to remind me that Dante and I are over, then I'm not sure what is.

But why did I have to see them? And why did I have to drop my decorations and then fumble around like an idiot on the floor? And why did it have to be Emilia?

I think that's part of what's bothering me so much about this whole thing. I didn't stumble across Dante hooking up with some random girl—I stumbled across him hooking up with his brother's fiancée. Fiancée. Even years ago, when the pain was freshest and deepest and I hated him with every fiber of my being, I never would have expected this of him. While I never met his brother Luca, I know they are close—know the entire Fontaine family is close—and this is the worst sort of betrayal. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it in graphic detail with my own eyes.

At least I can comfort myself with the knowledge that I was right to dump him. I might be pathetic in many ways, but I was strong enough to trust my gut.

And I'm also fortunate to have a job that allows me to take out my emotions through my work. No one has ever accused me of being cool-headed or unfeeling. But it helps to have therapy built right into my daily tasks. There's nothing like working through angst with a batch of dough.

Today, my therapist is puff pastry—carefully folded layers of dough and butter that have to be reworked every couple of hours. I throw it down on my workstation, enjoying the slap of the dough against the metal surface of my table. And then my fists get to work, pummeling all of my anger and confusion over Dante into the puff pastry.

My movements are violent enough that they catch the attention of Mama Pat. Patricia DeCosta—or Mama Pat, as we call her—was the first person I hired when I opened the bakery. She is an empty nester who applied for the job after the last of her three children went off to college, and although she'd never worked in a bakery before, she showed more skill during the interview process than any of the bright-eyed, fresh-from-culinary-school applicants. And she's been a miracle in the kitchen, able to conquer any recipe I throw at her. She's also the oldest of all of us here at Ashlyn's Bakeshop—about the age my mother would have been, if she and my father hadn't died in a car wreck when I was nineteen—and over the past few years, she's evolved into the "mother hen" of our little team.

"Everything all right?" she asks, her eyebrow raised.

"I'm fine," I assure her, even though I'm anything but. My fingers shake as I fold the dough, and honestly, I want nothing more than to throw this puff pastry against the wall. Anything to make the images of Dante and Emilia go away.

Mama Pat is watching me in a way that says, I'm shutting up, but I don't believe you. My mom used to have a look like that. But my mom wasn't around long enough to see me get upset over any guys. And I'm not sure it's appropriate to ask a coworker what to do when you catch the man who broke your heart in the middle of a grind session.

I press my lips together and fold the puff pastry one last time. But I've been working it too hard, too long, and the layer of butter inside has gotten too warm and soft. It starts to squeeze out of the dough.

"Damn it," I mutter, stepping back and wiping the back of my hand across my brow. I've made puff pastry a hundred times. I shouldn't be screwing it up, even if I am upset.

But Mama Pat's already at my workstation.

"You're distracted," she says, peeling the dough up from the table. "Why don't you go work up front for a while? I've got everything under control back here."

I want to argue, but I know she's right. Working in the kitchen is just giving me too much time to think. So I wash my hands and head to the front of my shop.

Karen Sevelle is behind the counter today. She's fresh out of college, and though I initially hired her to work the register and answer phones, she's definitely stepped up—becoming more or less the front-of-house manager, and even joining us in the kitchen a couple of times when we've been in a pinch. My bakery might be small and still relatively young, but Karen, Mama Pat, Jilly, and I have become something of a little family.

Watching her work—and watching the line of customers walk away with smiles on their faces—calms me a little. Running a bakery isn't as glamorous as I expected—you spend horrendously long hours on your feet and the bulk of the work centers on mundane, business-running tasks rather than playtime in the kitchen—but I wouldn't trade it for anything. I love running a business. Love creating delectable treats out of flour and sugar. There's nothing like watching a child's eyes light up when I hand him a cupcake the size of his face, or hearing a bride squeal when she sees her wedding cake.

Yes, I love my job—even if I sometimes find flour in places I didn't even know existed.

I remind myself of this as I watch Karen. When I dated Dante, I was a completely different person. Back then, I still thought I wanted to work in the film industry. But I've come a long way in the past three years. Look at the life you've built for yourself, I think. Forget Dante. This is what matters. This is what makes you happy.

And just as I'm starting to feel normal and content again, my cell buzzes in my pocket. It's Jack.

"Hey," I say as I shove the phone beneath my ear. "Recover from last night yet?"

Jack sent me a handful of texts last night after I made my escape—and judging by the number of spelling errors, I suspected he'd been taking advantage of the party's open bar.

"Ask me tomorrow," Jack groans. "I'm already on my third coffee and I still feel like I was hit with a steamroller."

I smile. "I'm surprised you let yourself drink in front of Brockman." A couple of weeks ago, he was agonizing daily over which tie he should wear to work, convinced that one misstep would send him back to his old job making copies and getting coffee.

"Are you kidding?" he says. "Brockman was the one who kept shoving martinis into my hand. He was so impressed with what I'd pulled together that he said I deserved a break. And a raise."

My grin gets bigger. "You got a raise? That's awesome, Jack."

"And he loved the cake," Jack goes on, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Loved it. I mean, he was four Moscow mules in at that point, but I'm pretty sure you're going to have some repeat business."

I stifle a squeal. "Really?"

"Yes, really. And your check's in the mail, by the way."

It takes all of my self-control not to leap into the air. The money for that cake alone covers my bakery's rent for the next month. If the studio is regularly ordering cakes from me... I don't even want to think about it out of fear I'll jinx it.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," I say into the phone. "I owe you big time, Jack. Let me take you out to dinner."

He laughs. "We're good. You helped me get a raise. I call that even. Frankly, I'm just happy to hear you in such a good mood. I was afraid you might want to strangle me instead."

"Strangle you? Why—" And then it all comes back. Dante and Emilia, entwined together, moaning in unison...

"Fuck, I shouldn't have said anything," Jack says, apparently realizing he reminded me of the thing I've been trying very hard to forget.

"It's fine," I say quickly, hoping I sound casual. "And it's not your fault."

"I promised you he wouldn't be there that early. I still can't believe that he and Emilia are—"

"I know," I cut him off, not prepared to talk about it yet. "I just want to pretend it never happened." Behind me, the bell on the front door jingles as someone enters.

"Got it. Lips are zipped."

"Thank you," I say, turning to make sure Karen has the customers managed. "I'll—" My words dry up when I see who just walked through the door.

"Ashlyn?" says Jack.

I know I should respond, but I'm too stunned by the sight of the figure in front of me. Even though it's summer, he's wearing a light jacket, and between the sunglasses and the hat, half of his face is hidden. But I'd know him anywhere. Clothed or unclothed. Dante Fontaine has just walked into my bakery.

"Ashlyn?" Jack says again.

"I'll have to call you back," I mumble as I pull the phone away from my ear. I'm not sure whether I'm more shocked or anxious or pissed, but my stomach is suddenly in knots.

This isn't an accident. He didn't just get an urge for a muffin and stumble into the nearest bakery. He's looking right at me, and even though I can't see his eyes behind his dark shades, that gaze still makes me shiver. He came here looking for me. I know it.

But he doesn't say a word. Doesn't even come over to me. Instead, he walks right up to the register, where Karen is waiting.

"Good morning," she says cheerfully. "What can I get you today?"

She hasn't recognized him yet. Understandably, since he's gone above and beyond to cover himself up. If he hadn't, no doubt the paparazzi would be pressed against our window right now. Dante might not spend as much time on screen as his brother Luca—who's a bona fide movie star—or even his brother Raphael, but he's every bit as famous a celebrity.

Dante makes a show of studying the bakery case. I can tell exactly when he notices the man-chest cake because the corners of his mouth tilt up just a touch.

"Actually," he says to Karen, his voice as dark and velvety as I remember, "I'm interested in ordering a cake for an event."

"Oh, you'll need to talk to Ashlyn for that," Karen chirps with a smile. She glances over her shoulder and beckons to me, unaware that I've been watching this entire exchange. "Ash, we've got a cake."

I nod, but my whole body feels numb. Part of me wants to run into the kitchen and hide, but I have my dignity, after all. Another, wickeder part of me is tempted to reach into the bakery case and grab a whole handful of cupcakes to throw right at his head. That would be very satisfying, but expressing any anger would give him the upper hand, and I refuse to do that. No, the best course of action is to show him that I don't care at all.

"Of course," I say, forcing myself to sound friendly. "Right over here, Mr. ...?"

He knows I know exactly who he is, and the corner of his mouth creeps higher. "Ford. Mr. Ford is fine."

Apparently he's not ready to announce himself to the rest of my staff, but I'm fine with that. I'll play along with his little game. I grab my clipboard and lead him over to the tasting and consultation table, doing everything in my power to pretend that he's just another customer and not the ridiculously famous celebrity who took my virginity and broke my heart.

That's hard, after last night. That little scene is still trying to replay itself in my head. Dante and Emilia, grabbing at each other, kissing and moaning and—

No. Stop it.

It doesn't help that he's every bit as sexy now as he was when we were together. Maybe even more so. Or maybe I just forced myself to forget how tall he was, or how broad his shoulders are. Even the way he moves is sexy—like a panther. This man oozes sexuality without even trying, and just being near him again takes my breath away.

But all I have to do is think about last night and the anger quickly replaces my momentary insanity.

The tasting table gives us a small amount of privacy, but I'm not ready to out him just yet.

"So, Mr. Ford," I say, gripping my clipboard. "You're looking for a cake?"

"Yes," he says in that intoxicating rumble of his. "And I've heard you're the best."

I don't know what he's hoping to accomplish with his flattery, but it isn't going to work. I'm all business right now, and I don't even look up at him as my pen moves down to the next line on my form.

"What's the occasion for the cake?" I ask.

"A birthday party," he replies.

"For you?"

"For my brother."

"Mm." I make a note. "And what's your brother's name?"

This time, I can't help but steal a peek at him. He smiles a little more broadly, apparently amused that I'm still playing this game.

"His name is Luca," he says. "His birthday's in a few weeks."

Any chance I had of keeping up this little charade crumbles with that answer. He's brought a real name into this—and not just any name, but Luca's. Luca, the brother whose fiancée he was screwing last night.

I'm pressing the tip of my pen so hard into the paper that the ink has started to bleed out, but I don't care. Dante is still wearing those damn sunglasses, but I look him dead in the eyes.

"You said you wanted a birthday cake for him?" I say, my voice icy. "Wouldn't an apology cake be more appropriate?"

He frowns slightly. "An apology cake? For Luca?"

Good God, this bastard doesn't even think he's done anything wrong. Does he feel no remorse?

"Maybe you do things differently in your family," I say, and though my voice is still even I can feel the color rising in my cheeks with my anger. "But most people would feel bad about fucking their brother's fiancée." I know the Fontaines follow a completely different set of rules than the rest of us, but this is too much. Realizing I'm starting to get more visibly upset, I look quickly back down at my clipboard—but not before I see a flash of understanding in Dante's face.

"It's not like that," he says.

"I'm pretty sure it's like that," I say. "You can lie to other people, but you can't lie to someone who saw the two of you together."

"No," he says, glancing over his shoulder and lowering his voice. "I mean that it isn't like that between Emilia and Luca."

I shake my head, disgusted that he thinks I'm such an idiot. "You can't lie about that, either. Not with the paparazzi following them everywhere." What the hell is he trying to pull? I've done everything in my power to avoid the Fontaines these past few years, and even I couldn't miss the photos of Luca and Emilia snuggled up together—they're everywhere. These days, the tabloids can't seem to get enough of Emilia's enormous two-carat engagement ring.

But Dante sits back calmly in his chair. "It's a sham, Ashlyn."

It's so shocking to hear my name on his lips after all this time that it takes a moment for his words to sink in. "What's a sham?"

"Their engagement. Their whole relationship. It isn't real and it never was. It's just for the cameras." He throws another quick glance over his shoulder. "Frankly, I shouldn't even be talking about it. I'd appreciate it if you kept this bit of information between us."

I don't know why this news is so shocking, but it is. Luca was the first of the Fontaine brothers to get engaged, but it never occurred to me that the whole thing might be a lie.

"It's done wonders for the publicity of Cataclysm: Earth," he continues casually. "And it's helped both Luca and Emilia tremendously."

"And you," I point out. It's his movie too, after all. He wrote the damn thing.

But he takes my words a different way.

"Emilia and I, we—"

"I don't need to know," I say quickly. "That's your business." I pull my pen away from the paper. "Now, about this cake—how large were you thinking?"

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were jealous." Even though he's still wearing his sunglasses, I can feel his piercing gaze.

I refuse to dignify his comment with a response. "How many people will be at this party? I can't give you an estimate for the cake until I know."

"You're awfully upset about Emilia, considering we haven't seen each other in several years now. How long has it been? Two years? Three?"

Since he won't answer my question about the size of the cake, I move on to the next line on my form. "What flavor were you thinking? Or would you prefer to do several flavors? If we go with a tiered cake, you can have a different flavor per tier."

"Ashlyn."

"Please answer my question, Mr. Ford," I say. "I have a lot of work to do today."

There's that little smirk again, and I don't even have to see his eyes for my neck to prickle under his amused and far-too-perceptive gaze.

"Of all people to walk back into my life, I wasn't expecting you," he says. "Frankly, if I'd known to expect you, I might have arranged for a slightly different—"

"It doesn't matter," I say. "As I pointed out before, it's none of my business. We're not dating, Mr. Ford. I felt bad for your brother, I'll admit, but now that everything has been cleared up, there's nothing else to discuss. People have sex. It's well within your rights to do so. And who you choose to have sex with doesn't affect me at all." I'm impressed by how calm, how emotionless I sound.

Dante is still watching me closely. "It doesn't affect you at all, you say?"

"Certainly not."

"You always were a terrible liar, Ash."

"I'm not lying—"

I'm cut off by the blare of his cell phone in his pocket. It's a fortuitous interruption—even though he doesn't move to answer the call, it still dissolves a bit of the tension between us.

"Let's get back to the cake," I say when the sound dies away. "I would suggest dark chocolate for you, I think. With a ganache filling. On the next tier we might do a citrus sponge with some lemon buttercream."

"I'm not going to let you ignore the matter at hand, Ashlyn."

And I'm not going to let him bully me into talking about yesterday's incident. He said he was here for a cake, so that's what we're going to discuss.

"Strawberry is also popular this time of year," I continue. "But I'm not sure it will be refined enough for this event. Maybe something flavored with rosewater? That's very trendy right now."

Suddenly, Dante leans forward across the table. "It didn't mean anything."

I ignore him. "I think three tiers will be plenty. Do you prefer buttercream or fondant on the outside? Most people prefer the look of fondant, but it will never live up to buttercream in taste or texture."

"Ash—"

His cell phone goes off again, and with a curse, he sits back and fishes the device out of his pocket. He gives the screen a quick glance before raising the phone to his ear.

"Yes?" he says gruffly. "I'm in an important meeting."

I almost snort at the idea of this being a meeting of any importance, but in spite of myself, I find myself curious about this call. Even back when we were together, Dante kept large parts of his life private—he never introduced me to any of his family, and he liked to keep his career separate, too, in spite of the fact that we were in film school together. So where does this call fall—family or business? Or, God forbid, is it Emilia?

"Look," he says, rubbing his brow. "I'm writing it as fast as I can. You're the one who keeps sending me on these damn press tours."

Business, then. Maybe his manager? Agent?

"I'll have you the next ten pages by the end of the week," he continues, still frowning. "I can't promise you more than that."

Whoever's on the other end says something else, and Dante gives a short nod. "Fine." And then he hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket. His brow is still furrowed as he looks back at me. "Where were we?"

I was getting a glimpse into the side of your life you always tried to hide from me, I think. But I don't want to reopen those old wounds any more than I already have.

"We were discussing cake flavors," I say.

"Mm. As I recall, you were refusing to answer my questions."

"You said you wanted a cake, Dante. So if you've changed your mind, I ask that you stop wasting my time."

He's smiling again, a very wicked smile that makes me nervous.

"I like hearing my name on your lips," he says, leaning toward me again. He's close enough now that I can smell him. His scent is spicier than I remember, but still familiar enough that my body starts to respond. "I'll order a cake if that's what it takes to talk to you," he says in that velvety undertone, "but you and I both know that's not why I'm here."

I keep my eyes carefully trained on the form in my hands. "It's the only thing I'm interested in speaking to you about."

"God, you're even more beautiful than I remember." His voice is low, rough. "But just as feisty."

Something flutters in my stomach at those words, but anger quickly suppresses the sensation.

"What do you want?" I demand. "Why the hell are you here?"

"I should think that would be obvious," he says. "I'm here to see you. To convince myself that you weren't just a figment of my imagination."

For the love of God, I wish he would take off those damn sunglasses and let me read his expression.

"Well, you've seen me," I say. "And I have a business to run, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to work."

He glances around the shop. "You've got a charming little place here. You always did make amazing desserts. You seem to have done very well for yourself since the last time we spoke."

"A lot has changed since we were together," I admit.

His chin dips slightly, and I realize too late that he's looking at the ring finger of my left hand. I quickly tuck my hands under the table, but he's already seen what he needed to see.

"You aren't married yet," he observes.

My face is burning. "No." Suddenly I'm all too aware of my three years of celibacy, and I refuse to lose face in front of Dante, especially when he's put me in this position. "But I have a boyfriend."

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, but I still can't read him through his sunglasses.

"That's good to hear," he says. "You deserve someone special." I don't miss the hint of condescension in his tone. Annoyance flares in my chest.

"He's very special," I say before I can stop myself. "The best man I've ever dated."

His mouth twitches again, and this time there's no doubt that he's trying to hide a frown. "Have you been together long?"

The last thing I want to do is get into a conversation about my nonexistent boyfriend with the man who broke my heart. But I'm in too deep now, and Dante's blasé attitude is infuriating me more with every passing second.

"A year," I say. That's a safe enough number.

"Do you think you'll marry him?"

His tone is still casual, but the question throws me.

"That's personal," I say. "And I don't see why you care."

He shrugs. "Believe it or not, Ashlyn, I do want the best for you."

I scoff. "Forgive me for not believing you, based on our history."

His frown is unmistakable this time. "I know things ended poorly between us, but I never—"

"You don't need to bother. It's in the past. We've both moved on."

"Ah, you see, that's where I beg to differ. For someone who claims she's indifferent toward me, you seem to be very upset."

"I'm not upset!" I blurt, feeling my cheeks get even hotter. I want to kick myself. I've done nothing but snap at him since the moment he walked in here—I might as well have told him outright that he still has the ability to get under my skin. And I can tell by the set of his mouth that he's very aware of that fact.

"I deserve your anger," he says. "I'll never deny that."

"I'm not angry," I say, still refusing to admit the truth out loud to him. I've never been able to hide my emotions, so stubbornness is all I have. "But that doesn't mean I have to like you."

"You liked me once," he observes. "More than that, even. A man doesn't forget the way a woman cries out his name when he's buried inside of her."

"Things change," I counter, trying to ignore the feelings and images his words bring to mind.

"Now you scream this man's name instead, is that it? What did you say he's called?"

Fuck, I think, my mind scrambling. I need to get my details straight before making up lies. I grab the first name that pops into my head.

"Jack," I tell him. Better to build my make-believe boyfriend out of someone I know than make up a guy from scratch.

"And Jack knows how to pleasure you properly?"

"My relationship with Jack is personal. And I'm still not sure why it matters to you."

"Oh, it matters," he says, tilting his head. "Are you saying it doesn't matter to you how I feel about Emilia?"

"It doesn't matter a bit," I say. "And it shouldn't. We've moved on with our lives."

"There you go, lying again." There's something in his voice—something that suddenly makes me grateful that I can't see his eyes.

"I have moved on," I say. "But I guess I can't speak for you."

He opens his mouth as if to respond, but then he seems to think the better of it. His lips remain slightly parted, and my gaze can't help but fall to them. I still remember how his kisses taste. Still remember the way his mouth felt against my throat and breasts and the tender skin around my belly button. God, what is wrong with me?

"Well, if there's no remaining awkwardness between us, then I suppose we should get back to business," he says.

"Business?"

"The cake." He gestures at my clipboard. "You said you recommended the chocolate?"

It takes me a moment to catch up. "Uh, yes—yes, the dark chocolate is very popular."

"And what did you say for the other tiers?"

I have to skim my messy, half-scribbled notes. "Citrus sponge. And maybe strawberry."

He nods. "I'll need that for the twenty-eighth."

"Okay," I say, still a little stunned. He's actually going to buy a cake? "What sort of look were you thinking? Do you want a themed cake or something a little more classic?"

"Surprise me."

"Any guidance—"

"I trust you, Ash. Just make it spectacular."

That's still not helpful, and his "trust" is frankly making me a little uncomfortable. We haven't spoken in years. I doubt he was even aware I owned a bakery until last night. What is he trying to do? His motives aren't innocent, that's for damn sure.

"I won't be able to give you an estimate of the cost until I know how it will be decorated," I say. "The labor—"

"I don't care how much it costs. I'll pay it."

With anyone else, I'd press the issue more, but let's be real—Dante Fontaine can afford whatever cake I make for him. And I'm ready for this conversation to be over. If he's content to let me make all of the important decisions myself, then there's no reason we need to continue this meeting.

"Well, that's everything I need from you," I say, skimming my form. "Except a contact email—"

"My cell number hasn't changed."

I bite down on my lip. "I'm afraid I don't have your number anymore."

Without a word, Dante reaches over and plucks both the clipboard and pen out of my hands. His fingers brush against mine as he does, and I ignore the jolt that shoots up my arm at the contact.

If he has a similar reaction to our brief touch, he doesn't show it. Instead, he silently scribbles his number down on the form before returning it to me. I rise.

"Thank you for your business," I say. "I'll have Karen contact you when we have the other details settled."

He stands. "I'd prefer to hear from you."

"Your movie has just debuted," I remind him. "No doubt you won't have time to talk about a cake."

"I'll make the time."

"You don't need to, really, I think—"

"We've both moved on. That means there's room for us to be friends, doesn't it?" He smooths his hands down the front of his shirt and glances around. "I like seeing what you've built for yourself. And I'd like to catch up more."

I'm not sure what else there is to catch up on, and I'm about to tell him so, but he continues on.

"I'm holding a small gathering at my place on Sunday night," he says. "You should come. And bring this Jack of yours."

I shake my head. "Sunday won't work for me. I've got a lot of work—"

"You close at six on Sundays. I saw that on the door when I came in. My party won't begin until eight."

"That doesn't mean I don't have work. I—"

"I insist." Somehow he's grabbed my hand, but I'm not sure how or when. His fingers wrap around mine, and I fight back a little gasp of shock. "I'd hate to think you were avoiding me. And I'd very much like to meet this man of yours."

"Jack is very busy," I say, trying to figure out how to extricate my fingers from his without revealing how shaken I am.

"No doubt." A smile plays at the edges of his mouth. "But how else am I going to make sure he deserves you?"

Annoyance sweeps through me. "Who made you the expert on what I deserve?" I give my fingers a good tug, but he holds them tight. Not only that, but he leans toward me until his mouth is right next to my ear. My heart nearly stops as his breath tickles my skin.

"I know better than anyone else," he murmurs. "Never forget that."

My pulse is hammering as he pulls back, and I swear I don't take another breath until he finally drops my fingers.

"I'm still in the same house," he says. "But I'll text you the address again."

"I didn't say I was going," I snap, pissed that he's managed to make me this breathless.

"Just in case, then." He smiles. "Have a good day, Ashlyn."

I have plenty more to say to him, but my tongue is in a tangle as he turns and walks back outside. I'm not sure what just happened, much less how I feel about it. Dante came here. To see me. To grill me about my nonexistent boyfriend. To invite me to his house. What the hell does that mean? How the hell am I supposed to respond if I want to emerge from this with my pride intact?

The best thing to do is to pretend this never happened. Make his damn cake and get on with my life. One thing's for certain: it would take all of the forces of hell to drag me to a party at that Devil's den.
CHAPTER THREE

"We have to go," Jack says.

"Why?" I'm working on a batch of lemon tarts, but my cell is jammed beneath my ear. I've spent the last ten minutes going over every last detail of the Dante encounter with Jack, including the invitation to his house on Sunday.

"Because how often do we get invited to the home of one of the Fontaines? Or any celebrity, for that matter?"

I don't bother pointing out that I've been to Dante's place before. Attending Dante's little get-together means continuing to engage him, and I refuse to do that.

"You work for Brockman now," I remind Jack. "I'm sure you'll have plenty of chances to hang out with celebrities."

"Not at their homes. Or at their private parties. Come on, Ash, how bad could it be?"

"Very bad. Very, very bad. I don't think he believed me when I told him I had a boyfriend."

"All the more reason you should show up with me and we should rub it in his face."

"I'm not sure we could pull that off."

"Are you kidding? People always think we're a couple when we go out together."

He's right—Jack and I have been mistaken for a couple more than once while hanging out in public. But it's one thing to fool a stranger or a random waitress at a restaurant and another to deceive an ex-boyfriend. Especially one as observant as Dante.

"There's no way Evan would go for this," I say, trying another tactic.

"Screw Evan. I want to hang out at Dante Fontaine's house," he says. "Besides, if Evan gets pissed, I know how to make it up to him after."

I roll my eyes. Evan's never had a problem with my friendship with Jack, but Jack's never pretended to be my boyfriend before.

"I'm not going to do it," I say. "It'll be too awkward."

"Will Emilia be there?"

I hadn't even thought about that possibility, but it makes me sick to my stomach. "It'll be awkward either way. Showing up there won't accomplish anything."

"The way I see it, it accomplishes several things," Jack counters. "First of all, it shows Dante Fontaine that you aren't afraid of him. If you don't show, he'll always think that he managed to get to you."

"You don't know that."

"Secondly," he continues, "it gives you the chance to rub your new relationship in his face."

"My new fake relationship."

"He doesn't know that. It should still make him jealous. That's what you want, isn't it? Or would you prefer that he knew your lady bits are as dry as the Sahara?"

"Ew, Jack."

"Well, I think getting out of your shell will make you feel better. But it's still not the most important reason for you to go."

"What is, then?"

"Your best friend just got one of your cakes in front of hundreds of very rich, very important people and now you owe him."

I set my pastry bag of lemon curd aside. "Going for the guilt trip, I see."

"Is it working?"

"I'll have to get back to you."

"Don't worry. I'll be bugging you mercilessly until then."

"Goodbye, Jack."

I hang up before he can plant more dangerous ideas in my head. Because the more he talks, the more sense he seems to make. That's definitely not good.

It's not until I shove my phone in my pocket that I realize Mama Pat is back from her break. I didn't hear her come in, but from the look she gives me, I know she heard more than a little of my conversation with Jack. I can tell from the look in her kind brown eyes that she has some opinions on what she just heard, but in spite of her motherly instincts, she's not the sort of woman to start lecturing me outright.

"All right," I say, carrying my tray of tarts to the fridge. "Let's hear it."

Mama Pat is tying up her thick, gray-streaked hair beneath her hairnet. "You've been out of sorts all day. Want to talk about it?"

I grab the puff pastry out of the fridge. It's been chilling for the last couple of hours, and it's time to fold the dough again.

"I'm not sure if talking will help," I say honestly.

Mama Pat nods as she washes her hands, taking me at my word. "Who was that man out there earlier? He was quite the looker."

My head snaps up. "You saw him?"

"Honey, Karen came running back here the moment you had your back turned. We don't get eye candy like that in here often. You can't blame us for looking."

My ears burn. But if she recognized that our visitor was Dante Fontaine, she doesn't say so.

"You seemed awfully familiar with each other," she continues, a knowing expression brightening her features. "Is he a friend of yours?"

Anyone who'd been paying any attention to my conversation with Dante could have easily guessed we have some history.

"He's someone I used to date," I admit.

Mama Pat's eyebrows rise. "Ah. He's that one."

I blink. As far as I can remember, I've never mentioned anything about Dante to anyone here at the bakery. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that a lovely, charming, intelligent girl of your age should have a very active dating life. And if she doesn't, usually it's because she's had her heart broken at some point. I've never heard you talk about a guy in all the time I've been working here. And you've avoided every attempt of mine to set you up with my neighbor. Who, by the way, was mowing his lawn without his shirt last night."

I'm not sure whether to laugh or sigh. But nothing gets past Mama Pat.

"He's the one," I admit softly. "I ran into him last night. And today he showed up here and wanted to order a cake."

"And invited you to a party?" she prompts, confirming that she heard a good bit of my call with Jack.

"I'm not going to go, of course."

"Do you still have feelings for him?"

I slam my fist into the puff pastry dough. "Of course not."

"He hurt you very badly."

It's not a question. And the fact that she's said it saves me the pain of having to admit it out loud.

"Which is why it's better to get on with my life," I say. "I'll make his damn cake, but there's no reason to do anything beyond that."

Mama Pat is silent as she gets a batch of buttercream going in the tabletop mixer. Finally she says, "Are you ready to get on with your life?"

I frown and flip the dough again. "Of course I am. It's been three years. I'm not so pathetic that I'm still pining for him or anything." Having fantasies about keying his car doesn't count as pining, right?

Mama Pat looks thoughtful. "When was the last time you had a date, Ashlyn?"

My frown deepens. "I've been busy running this place. I don't have time to date."

"You could make time if you wanted."

I don't respond. Just strike my dough a few extra times.

"You're a lovely girl, Ashlyn. You could have your pick of men. But you've been alone all this time. Haven't even tried to find love again. In my mind, that means one of two things."

My fingers throb from folding and punching the dough. "What?"

"Either you're afraid to put yourself back out there again, to be vulnerable and trust your heart to someone else, or else you're still in love with him."

My hands freeze. "I'm not still in love with him."

"Then you're afraid. And there's only one way to get over a fear. You have to face it."

"I can face it without going to his house."

"Maybe. You could go out with someone else. Allow yourself to fall in love again. But it might be quicker to face the demon right in front of you."

Damn it—she's making even more sense than Jack.

"I've been through my share of heartache in my day," she continues. "But it was worth it in the end—it led me to William. You deserve that kind of love, Ashlyn. And you'll find it. You just need some closure. You shouldn't resign yourself to dying alone just because you dated an asshole."

Mama Pat rarely curses, so I can't help but smile when I hear her call Dante that.

"I'll do what I can," I say.

She nods. "You should. You've had a long time to get a little perspective. Now you just have to prove to your heart how strong you've become in the meantime."

* * *

I feel anything but strong as I stare up at Dante's house.

The first time I came here, years ago, I had no idea what I was in for. Dante and I were working together on a project for film school, and though obviously I was well aware of who he was—you had to have been living under a rock to not know about the Fontaines—I was less than thrilled to have to cooperate with him on a project. He already had the career, the connections, the esteem—I'd have preferred to work with someone more like me, who had to rely on hard work and talent rather than family or money.

He'd insisted on meeting here, at his home, rather than the much-more-convenient library or coffee shop near campus. It had annoyed me to no end, and the first time I stomped up the steps, I hardly gave his house—his mansion—a second glance.

I noticed it later, of course, for I returned to his house many times, at all times of day—but it never seemed quite as big, quite as impressive, as it does tonight.

Jack seems to be even more stunned than I am. He lets out a low whistle as we stare up at the enormous house in front of us. It's contemporary in style, with white walls and huge windows. On a normal night, you can see straight through to the other side, where the beach runs right down to the Pacific. Tonight, though, the house is full of party guests.

"Evan is going to be so jealous," Jack says.

"He's still okay with this?"

"As long as I give him all the sordid details later. And sneak a few pictures. We have a bet running about how many bathrooms there are."

I can't help but laugh as he hooks his arm through mine. Jack and I arranged ahead of time exactly how we were going to handle this situation tonight. All of this falls apart if we can't convince Dante that we're intensely attracted to each other, so we needed a game plan—and something that will keep both Jack and me comfortable. We might be good friends, but I don't think either of us is interested in making out just for show.

We've both agreed that we should hold hands—or hook arms—whenever possible. When we're sitting, his arm should be around my shoulder, and when we're standing, my arm might go around his waist. Small touches or adjustments—the brush of a strand of hair out of the face, the straightening of a collar, a light touch on the arm—should occur throughout the night. Kissing will be kept to small pecks on the cheek, which I think is more than acceptable. No one expects us to stick our tongues down each other's throats at a party of strangers—or so I hope.

"You ready?" Jack asks.

I can feel his excitement in the grip on my arm. "As I'll ever be."

It took me hours to decide what to wear tonight. I ended up in a cocktail dress of sky blue. And Jack looks impeccable. He probably spent as much time as I did stressing about tonight. Getting in with Dante Fontaine and his celebrity connections will drastically help my friend's career.

We both agreed that there's no reason for Jack to lie about his job—or for either of us to lie about anything except our relationship. The fewer tales we have to spin, the easier it will be to keep everything straight. And I'm not blind to the fact that Jack is doing me a huge favor by going along with this—however much I'd like to tell myself he talked me into it—and if he can make a few useful connections along the way, all the better.

But even my best friend's reassuring hand on my arm doesn't help my nerves as we knock on the door.

It's answered by a man in a white tuxedo jacket. The man politely informs us that refreshments are available on the back patio, but that we should avail ourselves of the entire first floor while we're here.

"Don't mind if I do," Jack says quietly to me as we make our way into the crowd. And crowd is definitely right—when Dante said this would be a small gathering, I expected a couple dozen people at most. But there are at least twice that number here already, and I suspect more will arrive as the night unfolds.

I scan the other guests as Jack and I move toward the patio. I recognize a number of them—actors, pop stars, supermodels, and other celebrities—but my eye doesn't find the one person I'm looking for.

It's strange being back in this house. Stranger still to be here under these circumstances. I've walked through these rooms dozens of times before, but now it feels like I'm a stranger here.

Jack is just as alert as I am, and more than once he squeezes my arm and points out someone famous. I can already see his mind working, planning out how he's going to approach them later. I wonder what they'd say if they knew I once dated Dante—that we'd made love on that sofa by the fireplace, or that he'd taught me delicious things with his tongue on top of that glass table in the dining room? Even now, I hardly believe it happened. Our relationship was so far removed from the outside world that it feels like a dream.

We've reached the patio now, and as we step outside, Jack drops my arm and instead places his hand against my lower back. It's awkward to have my best friend touching me in such a subtle, intimate way, and it's all I can do not to giggle, in spite of the tightness in my stomach.

"You're a terrible actress," Jack mutters, but he's smiling too.

"I never claimed to be a good one," I respond. I've never been good at hiding my emotions, which is probably why it's next to impossible for me to keep any secrets from Jack or Mama Pat or anyone else who's around me regularly. But I'm going to have to do better tonight—at least if I want to keep my dignity.

But a quick scan of the patio reveals that Dante isn't anywhere to be seen. Part of me relaxes, and another part is even tenser than before—I think I'd almost prefer to know exactly where he is. I don't want any surprises.

"How about a drink?" Jack says.

"I've never wanted a drink more in my life."

Dante's patio looks more like something you'd see at a resort than at someone's house. There's a large glass-tiled pool that's lit in shades of violet and red, and twinkling lights hang from the palm trees overhead. Not far from us, there's a large cabana-like structure sheltering a full bar. Only at the home of one of the Fontaines.

Before long, Jack and I are armed with liquid courage—him with a scotch on the rocks and me with a chocolate martini.

"Let's stay out here," I suggest. There's a lovely breeze rolling off the ocean, and my head feels a little clearer away from the crowd inside. Plus, thanks to the huge windows, we have a great view of the party both inside and out. Whenever Dante makes an appearance, I plan on spotting him before he spots me.

"Any sign of him?" Jack says.

"Not yet."

"What about one of his brothers? Or Emilia?"

"Nope." I've been looking for them too, but there's no sign of any of the Fontaines—or the woman caught up in their drama.

And as the night rolls on, I'm beginning to wonder why we bothered showing up at all. Dante is still nowhere to be seen. Jack, to his credit, is a great sport, and he keeps up our little act quite well. We take turns touching each other—I've adjusted his tie so many times that I'm surprised I haven't accidentally pulled it off his neck—and when that gets dull, we start a game where we point out the different celebrities we'd try to hit on under different circumstances.

But I can tell that even Jack is getting a little restless after an hour, and I know that he's anxious to do a bit of real mingling. This is his chance to get his face in front of people he might be working with someday.

"Why don't you go circulate," I say finally. "Make some connections."

He cocks his head. "And leave you alone?"

I take a sip of my martini—a vanilla bean one this time. "I'll be fine. Dante obviously isn't here." I'm beginning to wonder why he insisted that I come.

"You can come with me," Jack says. "Don't you want to meet Stacia Fischer?"

"I'm fine," I insist. "I don't want you to worry about flirting with me while you're trying to network."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm a big girl. I can handle a few minutes on my own." I take another drink. "Just get your butt over here as fast as you can if you see me in trouble."

"Of course." He puts his empty glass on a nearby table. "Text me if you need me." With that, he's off through the crowd, and I'm alone by myself in a quiet corner of the patio.

And I manage to stay that way for some time, tucked away in the shadows at the far side of the pool, sipping at my drink and watching the party unfold around me. I'm glad to be alone, but now that Jack isn't here to distract me, it's hard to keep my memories at bay.

Dante and I spent quite a bit of time by this pool. We often studied out here—there was something about the sun on my skin and the ocean breeze in my hair that made me feel both calm and energized at once. And Dante always claimed that he did his best work outside. He used to sit in that lounge chair beneath the cabana and scribble away at his latest script. He always preferred to write his first drafts by hand—he said that the words flowed better through a pen than through a keyboard.

I think that might have been when I realized I was in love with him—the first time I saw him bent over his notebook, his eyes bright as they followed his pen across the paper. It was like I was watching him pour his soul onto the page.

I'll admit it—it took a while for me to recognize his brilliance, to get past my preconceptions about him. I'd worked my butt off to get into that film program, and in waltzed Dante, the crown prince of Hollywood. Everyone in his family is in the business. He never needed film school to build connections or get his foot in the door like the rest of us. All he had to do was use his name and his money.

Dante was older than the rest of us, most of whom started the program right out of college. But that didn't seem to bother him. Nothing did—and he got a lot of attention during his time there. Some students blatantly flirted with him, others saw him as a networking opportunity, and still others seemed to harbor a fair bit of jealousy and resentment for him. I guess I fell into the "resentment" category, but at least I was quiet about it. Mostly I just pretended he didn't exist—until we were partnered up for that short film project.

I was furious. But no matter how much I begged, our instructor refused to assign me a different partner. I was convinced I'd be settled with twice the share of the work—after all, Dante hadn't had to lift a finger for anything in his career before—or worse, be steamrolled into doing things his way. He wasn't used to people telling him no.

Instead, Dante surprised me. His passion for the craft was breathtaking, and after I opened my eyes to the truth, it was really no surprise why someone like him would be in the program. He lived for his art. Soaked up every bit of knowledge he could. And as my judgments melted away, I wasn't even remotely prepared for what came next.

My eyes fall closed, and I shiver. I'm not prepared for this, either. My martini is empty, but rather than head back to the bar for another one, I find myself turning toward the ocean behind me. There's no reason for me to be here if Dante isn't. This was a stupid idea, either way. What did I expect would happen? That Dante would see me with Jack and explode with jealousy? What then? Mama Pat said I might find closure, but I should have known this was the wrong way to go about it.

I slip out of my heels and head down the stone steps to the beach below. A soft halo of light from the house and patio spreads across the sand, but the ocean is in near darkness. The moon is only a sliver tonight, but for some reason, I find that calming. I leave my shoes by the steps and make my way toward the water.

I was expecting to find some other people down here, but it looks like I'm the only one trying to escape the company and noise above—or maybe the only one not wearing designer clothes that might get ruined by surf or sand. Maybe later, after the alcohol has been flowing a little longer and it's creeping into the early morning hours, couples will venture down here looking for a little privacy. But for now, I appear to have this stretch of beach to myself.

The water is warm around my ankles. The foam tickles. The breeze is stronger out here, and it sweeps the loose strands of my hair away from my face. I can feel it tugging at my carefully constructed bun of curls, and I suspect I'll have to make a trip to the ladies room to fix it when I head back up.

But for now, I'm content to just be with the ocean and the wind and that little crescent of moon. I step in a little further, letting the water come up around my calves. Out here, my anxiety about coming here tonight seems almost silly. Dante's just a man. It doesn't matter what happened between us—I survived, and I'll continue to survive, and convincing myself otherwise is ridiculous.

Another step. The water's almost to my knees now, and I have to tug up the hem of my dress when the next wave comes in.

"Are you trying to reenact The Awakening?" comes a deep, velvety voice from behind me.

I jump half a foot in the air—and at the same time, try to spin and see who managed to sneak up on me. The result is that I land funny with my legs twisted partway around, and I lose my balance immediately, falling ass-first into the next wave.

Water rushes over my head. Up my nose. Down my throat. A pair of hands grabs at me, but I wrench myself out of their grasp and climb to my feet, coughing and sputtering. Ocean water pours down my body, sliding over the satin of my dress. My bun has come partially undone, and my hair clings to my neck and cheeks. I push it out of my eyes and spin again, trying to find the asshole who scared the crap out of me.

As I cough up the last of the seawater, those hands are on me again—strong, steady hands. Familiar hands.

"Are you all right?" comes that deep voice—a voice I'd know anywhere, even if I can't make out the features of the figure standing in front of me in the darkness.

Dante.

Dante, who couldn't be bothered to show up at his own damn party. This is who sneaked up behind me when I thought I'd finally found a moment of privacy. Immediately, rage boils up in me.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" I say, ignoring the jolt of pain in my ankle as I shift my weight. "You scared the crap out of me!"

"I'm sorry," he says, and there's a hint of wicked amusement in his voice. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's not polite to sneak up on people," I snap. Beneath the anger, I feel something else—a sudden panic that threatens to drown out everything else. I wasn't prepared to run into Dante out here. Without Jack. With my hair sopping wet and my dress sticking to my skin. My anger is all I have, so I cling to it.

"Why aren't you at your party?" I demand. "Why are you skulking around out here by yourself?" It's not until the words leave my mouth that I realize he might not be by himself. Oh, God—please don't let him be down here with Emilia. I glance back at the house, but I don't see any other dark figures on the beach. And Dante doesn't contradict me.

"I could ask the same of you," he says. "Why are you down here by yourself?"

"It's not my party," I say. "I just needed some air."

"By yourself?" His voice drops as his fingers tighten on my waist. "What happened to that boyfriend of yours?"

My chest tightens, and I pull myself out of his grasp, wincing again when my weight comes down on my ankle.

"Jack's mingling," I say quickly, ignoring the pain in my leg. "He enjoys these big parties more than I do. He's probably wondering where I've run off to." Not that I can go running back in there like this, looking like I was just dragged along the ocean floor.

"I'm surprised he left you by yourself."

There's something in his voice that I don't want to examine too closely.

"Why?" I demand. "Because I can't handle myself on my own? Just because we're a couple doesn't mean we have to be glued at the hip all night." But it definitely would've helped convince Dante that I'm in love with someone else. I'm glad he can't see my blazing cheeks in the darkness. "And you didn't answer my question. Why haven't you been at your own party?"

"Because I don't care for parties."

"Then why did you throw one?"

The dark figure in front of me steps closer. "Because it was expected of me. A necessary evil in this business."

"My heart aches for you in your time of hardship."

He laughs. It's a rich, deep sound that shivers right through me, and I wrap my arms around myself.

"You haven't changed, Ash," he says, stepping toward me again.

I tense, thinking he's going to reach out for me, but he doesn't. I'm not sure whether I'm relieved or not. My stomach is twisting and turning.

"I should get back," I say. "Jack will be worried."

I don't wait for his response. I turn and take off toward the shore—or at least I try. One step and that twinge of pain I felt in my ankle explodes into something sharper, something I can no longer ignore. I gasp as my leg gives out beneath me, and I would be taking my second plunge of the night if Dante's hands weren't suddenly on me, catching me beneath the arms. He lifts me and settles me back on my feet as if I weigh nothing at all.

"Are you all right?" he says, his voice too low, too near. His hands are still beneath my arms, and though there's nothing overtly sexual about that touch, my entire body goes hot.

"I'm fine," I say, wrenching away from him. "I just twisted my ankle." I take a few steps to prove that I'm capable of walking, but in the end I just prove that my ankle is hurt far more than I want to admit. Each step sends a sharp, fiery pain up my leg, and in an instant, Dante is behind me again—only this time he doesn't just catch me. He scoops me up in his arms.

"What are you doing?" I say. "I'm fine! Put me down!"

"No, you haven't changed at all," he murmurs again, more to himself than to me.

"Neither have you," I throw right back at him. I'm tempted to wiggle out of his arms, but I know that any stubbornness right now will only make me look more foolish. My ankle is throbbing, and limping my way back to the party won't save me any pride.

Dante's chest feels so hot against my damp skin—too hot. His grip is firm, but I feel anything but secure in his arms—I'm all too aware of his hand against my waist, and of the other against the bare skin of my leg. I wish I'd worn a longer dress. Or that my dress weren't sopping wet and clinging to my skin, making my nerves that much more aware of his heat. A quiver runs through me.

"Are you cold?" he asks, his voice rough, intimate. I don't care about the pain in my ankle—it's far more dangerous to stay in his arms.

"I'm okay," I say. "You can put me down." We're halfway up the beach now, and I can only imagine how the scene will play out if we go back into his party like this, with me wet in his arms.

"I'm not letting you hurt yourself," he says, clearly amused. "What, are you afraid your boyfriend's going to be upset?" There's a dark edge to his voice.

Annoyance flares through me, sharp and bright. "Won't Emilia be upset?"

"Emilia isn't here. And if she were, it wouldn't matter. I've already told you that what happened between us meant nothing."

"Would she say the same thing?"

"Yes, actually. She would."

I don't believe him—though a small, traitorous part of me wishes I could.

"Just put me down," I say, pushing at his chest, suddenly desperate to be away from him. "I just need to sit for a while and my ankle will be fine. I'm not ready to go back."

He slows, then stops. "Well, I certainly won't force you to return." But I can sense his displeasure as he sets me gingerly on my feet.

"Thank you," I say, trying to hide a wince as I accidentally put a little too much weight on my ankle. "Goodnight." I don't wait for him to leave before settling down on the sand—the pain shooting up my leg leaves me little choice. On another night, I might have worried about the sand ruining my dress, but it's too late for such concerns now.

A moment later, Dante settles himself down beside me.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm not ready to go back to the party either," he says.

"It's your party," I remind him again.

"And most of the people in there are used to my parties by now. They know not to expect to see much of me."

I stare out at the dark surface of the sea as I consider this, tightening my arms around myself. And then I feel a weight coming down on my shoulders—his suit jacket.

"Don't argue," he says when I start to do just that. "You need it more than I do."

He's right, and I'm too cold and wet and miserable to argue. I pull the jacket closer, covering myself. I dig my toes into the sand and wait for him to speak. He's the one who insisted on staying with me—let him come up with something to say. I'm too busy trying to figure out how to extricate myself from this interaction gracefully.

"It's been a long time since we sat out here together," he muses finally.

The comment is casual enough on the surface, but I know better. He's thinking of the first night he brought me down here. The first night anything happened between us. We were two weeks into our project. We still hardly knew each other, and I was only just starting to realize that he wasn't the man I'd assumed him to be. But that day was the anniversary of my parents' death—something I never speak about with anyone ever—and I was still dealing with the lingering threads of my grief. Combine that with the stress of going through the most intense film studies program in the country, and I was on the verge of falling apart.

Dante didn't know much about me, not then. But he must have seen something in my expression that night, because halfway through our study session, he abruptly stood up and held out his hand.

"I think it's time for a break," he said. "Come with me."

I didn't hesitate. I hardly knew him, but something about the look in those dark eyes made me trust him. Made me want to open myself to him. I gripped his fingers without a second thought. Suddenly, he wasn't just Dante Fontaine, the celebrity, or the privileged partner I had to endure for a project. He was my lifeline.

He led me down to the beach behind his house. It was just after sunset, and the sky was dark red over the waters of the Pacific. Twilight was coming on fast, and there were only a few lingering gulls in the sky overhead as we walked down toward the water. The tide was rolling in, but the waves weren't particularly rough on that small stretch of beach.

My fingers were still caught in his. It should have felt strange and too intimate—after all, I hardly knew him—but instead it felt natural. Safe.

"I know people who pay hundreds of dollars to sit in a spa and listen to recordings of ocean sounds," he said. "But the real thing is much better."

His house was close enough to the ocean that you could hear the waves through the open windows, but he was right—it was different, better, to be standing there with the sand beneath my feet and the breeze tickling my face and the endless water stretching in front of me, reminding me of how great and wide the world was.

We didn't say another word to each other as we walked down to the waves. I was wearing shorts, and he was wearing light-colored pants that he rolled up to his knees. We sat next to each other right where the surf met the sand, and every time a wave rolled in, the water would rush around our feet and calves.

My heart was heavy, my head and throat aching. As the tide came in and the water swept higher and higher up our legs, I knew I should say something. Knew I should explain to this near stranger why I was behaving so oddly, why we were sitting fully clothed in the waves. The twilight was stretching on, the sky getting darker, and I watched the lights of ships blink across the miles of water in front of us.

The next wave came in all the way to my hips, completely soaking my shorts. Dante's pants were wet, too—and they probably cost ten times more than anything I was wearing. The guilt that came with that thought was the final straw—I couldn't stay silent any longer.

"My parents died five years ago on this day," I blurted. And though I'd managed to keep myself calm all afternoon, saying it out loud finally broke my restraint. The tears spilled down my cheeks—silent tears, but that didn't make them any less embarrassing. And once the floodgates were open, I couldn't keep the rest of my emotions from rushing out, either.

"I know I should be past this," I said, "but I'm not. And the older I get, the more I'm afraid I'll never be. They were all I had. I don't have any extended family. They were it. And now I'm alone, and I'm not supposed to be alone this young. I'm not supposed to be alone."

I knew I was saying too much, dumping my problems on a stranger who couldn't understand—who probably didn't even care—but I couldn't help myself. Embarrassed, I fell back against the sand, not even caring that my shirt and hair would probably end up as wet as my shorts.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, closing my eyes. "I think I just needed to get that out." The tears were still falling, but it was dark and I prayed that he couldn't see.

I didn't hear him move—the crash of the surf drowned out everything else. But suddenly his fingers touched my cheek, and I jumped at the contact.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he said. His thumb moved slightly, and the pads of his fingers brushed against my tears. "And you're not alone. Not right now."

My chest tightened. "We hardly know each other. We're just project partners." We'd never spoken a word to each other before we started working together.

"We all have to start somewhere," he replied—though his words were almost lost beneath the sound of the next wave rushing in. This one came up all the way to my ears, and I gasped as the foam tickled them.

Dante's hand was still curled around my cheek, and it felt warm and unbearably tender.

"You're going to drown if you stay like that," he murmured, but there was a touch of amusement in his voice.

"It would be a very peaceful way to go," I answered. "Or maybe I've just read The Awakening too many times."

"I haven't read that one," he replied.

"You should. It's by Kate Chopin."

"I'll give it a try."

Another wave came in, but it only made it as far as my shoulders before rolling out again. I spread my hand against the sand beside me.

"Don't worry," I told him. "When the water comes in I'll just float."

"I'll have to take your word for that."

"You were right," I said, matching the lightness of his tone. "The ocean is very calming."

I could feel him smile in the darkness. Suddenly he lifted his hand away from my face—and the shock of losing that touch was almost too much. I'd scoffed when he'd suggested that I wasn't alone—that his presence, the presence of a man who I'd only so recently met, could even remotely compare to what I'd lost—but the rush of loneliness I felt when we were no longer touching was startling..

But the loneliness didn't last long. Dante stretched out in the sand next to me, lying down in the surf at my side. When the next wave came in, rushing in up to the base of my neck, he let out a laugh.

It was the first time I ever heard him laugh—one of the few times I'd ever hear him laugh—and though I didn't realize then how rare that sound was, it still shook me to my very core. And then his hand found mine beneath the water, his fingers threading through mine as the foam ran back down our bodies. Dante had everything I didn't—all the money he could ever need, a career full of potential, and a huge family—and yet somehow I felt like he might understand me, like he might know the anguish in my heart.

When the next wave came, cool and foamy around our bodies, I squeezed his fingers. The water swept up my legs, my sides. Kissed the back of my neck and the base of my scalp. We only had a few minutes before the water would be too high for us to stay, but I wasn't willing to move. Not yet. I just closed my eyes and waited for the next rush.

Two more waves swept over us, and then the next one rose all the way to my ears. I knew we needed to move, needed to sit up before the tide really did drown us, but I was frozen in place, lost in the sensation of the sand and the water and Dante's sure hand in mine.

When the next wave came, I felt Dante sit up beside me, and my belly sank when I realized that our little moment was ending. But he didn't pull his hand out of mine. And before I could move, before I could even open my eyes again, I felt him lean over me, felt his breath on my cheek, and then, just when my own breath caught in my throat, I felt his lips come down on mine.

His mouth was warm, his lips slightly salty from the sea spray. And they felt right, so right, against mine.

I didn't think. It didn't matter that he was famous—from a completely different world than me—or that we hardly knew each other. Right then, he was exactly what I wanted. My lips parted beneath his, and my hand rose to catch the back of his neck.

My reaction seemed to break something in him, because suddenly his gentle kiss became more urgent, more demanding. His tongue slipped into my mouth, tasting me, drinking me, and heat coursed through my body. My nerves came alive with desire, with need.

Dante must have felt it, too. His body shifted over mine, pressing me down into the sand. His hand came up and held the side of my face, and his mouth was unrelenting, his lips shifting on mine until he was kissing me closer, deeper than before. My head was light. My body vibrated with longing. The world above me was heat—his heat—and the world below me was the coolness of sand and sea as the next wave came in.

I never wanted to stop kissing him. I would have given myself to him right there, right on the beach—and after clinging to my virginity for twenty-four years, that was saying something. But the ocean had other plans, for the next wave came up too high, splashing over the place where our mouths tangled. Dante tore his face back from mine, and as he sat up, he pulled me up, too—but it was too late. I was coughing, choking on seawater. My nose and throat burned and my eyes watered at the briny invasion.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his hands on either side of my face.

It took me a moment to stop sputtering and coughing, but I finally nodded. "Yes."

"Good." And he kissed me again. He tasted like the ocean, and I wanted to throw my arms around him and pick up right where we left off, to sink into that kiss and experience everything that would come after. But his lips only lingered for a moment before pulling back again.

"We really will drown if we stay here," he said. Already the next wave was rushing around our waists. He was right, but we'd started something then—started something that would never leave me.

Even now, after all this time, that memory still affects me. I can still feel the frightening buzz of that connection we made.

"Why did you invite me here tonight?" I ask him, pulling his coat tighter around me.

He shifts next to me. Though I'm not looking at him, I'm oh-so-aware of every move he makes.

"Have I changed so much that you can't guess?" he asks, his voice low. "I invited you here for the same reason I showed up at your bakery. Because I wanted to see you."

And to meet my boyfriend, I think. I may not have a lot of ex-boyfriends—and certainly none who shared the same intimacies Dante and I did—but I recognize the game we're playing here. Dante was never exactly what I would describe as possessive—he didn't freak out if I talked to another guy or anything like that—but he'd never needed to be. Even when we were together, we never defined what we were to each other—and for most of our relationship, I never thought we needed to. There was an understanding between us, something neither of us spoke aloud but both seemed to know deep in our bones. We belonged to each other and no one else. I knew it when I looked into his eyes, when I felt his hands in my hair or his lips on my skin. I knew it when he groaned my name in the dark.

But now I have someone new in my life—in theory, anyway—and though Dante might not come out and say it, Jack's presence is a challenge to the thing we shared, to the energy that still weighs heavy in the air between us. Dante's invitation tonight is his way of poking at that intrusion, of testing what Jack and I supposedly have between us.

Coming here was a bad idea. Engaging Dante in any way was stupid. But I can't help it, just like I can't help the feelings that have come rushing back since being in his presence again.

I've stopped shivering. In fact, my body is too heated now, responding to memories I thought I'd buried. I'm suddenly too vividly aware of how long it's been since the last time I had sex. My body is ravenous. I've starved it for too long.

I should get up. Go back to the party. But my ankle is still throbbing, and I tell myself that's why I can't seem to find the will to move. In fact, I want nothing more than to lie back and seek the comfort I found in the sand and the surf back then.

Dante seems to share my thoughts. He lies back on the beach beside me with a sigh—a low, deep exhale that makes my stomach twist.

And then I'm lying back too—I'm already wet, so why does it matter?—and we're side by side on our backs in the sand, just as we were on that night long ago. Only this time the surf is far down the beach, much too far away to interrupt anything.

I can hear him breathing. He's not touching me, but I can feel the heat of his body. My heart is pounding against my ribs, but the longer we lie here, the more my nerves seem to slip away. It's cathartic. There's something unspeakably intimate about this moment, and at the same time, I don't feel like he expects anything of me. We don't need to talk. Don't need to move. Don't need to think. We're just stealing a moment away.

Is this what Mama Pat meant about finding closure?

I don't know how much time passes before I feel the brush of something against the back of my hand. His fingers. Without thinking, I turn my hand, opening it to him, and his fingers lace through mine.

This is wrong! a voice screams in my head. My anger for him is still there, a hard knot in my chest, but somehow it doesn't matter right now. This feels just as natural as it did that first night, even though miles of hurt and pain and other complicated things stretch between us now.

But God, is it hard to remember why we threw this away. Right now, I feel like that lonely, emotional girl in the waves. If I close my eyes—and I do—it's as if no time has passed at all.

This time, the touch of his fingers on my cheek isn't a surprise. It's hard not to turn my face toward that touch. I can sense him leaning over me, but I refuse to open my eyes. The moment I do, I have to think again, and I'm not ready for that.

One of his fingers drifts over my cheek, tracing the planes of my face from temple to jaw. He's going to kiss me. I know it in every atom of my body, in every trembling nerve and every beat of my heart.

And I want it. I want to slip away to that moment long ago when nothing mattered but that little bubble of connection. His breath is warm on my skin, richer and softer than the breeze that comes off the ocean. My chin rises, my lips ready to meet his.

"Ash! Are you down here?"

Jack's voice is like a knife through the energy surging between Dante and me. We both freeze, and my eyes fly open.

"Get off," I say, suddenly realizing what I was about to do. I push him away from me and scramble to sit up.

"Ash?" Jack calls again. I see his dark silhouette descending the stairs to the beach.

"I'm here!" I call. I try to stand, but the pain in my ankle is still too intense. I bite back a moan as I nearly fall over, but as usual, Dante is there to catch me. Once again, he scoops me up in his arms.

"Put me back down!" I say, my voice cracking.

"I'm not going to leave you to hobble over there by yourself," he replies. His arms tighten and his fingers press into my skin as he marches across the sand toward the stairs.

We reach the base of the steps just as Jack does.

"God, Ash. I've been looking everywhere for—" His words cut off when Dante steps into the glow of light cast by the strands of twinkling bulbs in the palms above. His eyes widen as his gaze flies from me to Dante and then back to me.

I expect Dante to put me down, but instead, he just continues past Jack and starts up the stairs. Jack's wide-eyed look of surprise turns into one of full-on shock.

"Dante, what are you doing?" I wiggle in his arms, then look around him and back down to where Jack is standing with his mouth open. "I hurt my ankle," I call to my friend.

Jack must see the desperation in my eyes because he snaps into action immediately, striding up the steps two at a time after us.

"Mr. Fontaine," he says. "I believe you have something of mine." Earlier, I would have had a hard time stifling laughter after hearing those words come out of Jack's mouth. But nothing about this scene feels funny.

"I believe I do," Dante replies evenly. But he doesn't stop.

"Dante," I say, "Let me down. Jack will help me."

"Will he?" he says in a voice low enough that I know Jack can't hear. "Where was he when you hurt yourself? Or when you were beneath me in the sand just now?"

My ears go hot. "It's your fault I hurt myself in the first place! You startled me!" I refuse to even dignify his other question with a response. He makes it sound like we were dry-humping on the beach or something. In reality, nothing happened. We lay next to each other in the sand. He touched my face. I can't say what would have happened if Jack hadn't appeared when he did, but he did appear, so there's no point in thinking about it. Nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened.

We're up by the pool now, and suddenly I'm aware that all eyes are on us. God, I don't even want to think about how we look—me sopping wet, Dante dripping a fair bit on his own, and Jack storming up the stairs after us.

"Put me down. Now." This time, I'm willing to throw myself out of his arms if need be, but thankfully, Dante stops.

And then he puts his lips right by my ear.

"He's not what I expected," he murmurs, his mouth brushing my skin. "Not at all."

I can't help it. I take the bait.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snap.

I don't know how it's even possible, but his lips feel even closer now. "You'll never convince me that man gives you even half of what I did."

His words cut into me. Suddenly, it's too much—his nearness, our almost-kiss on the beach, all of the emotions that have been simmering inside of me for so long—and the little ball of anger in my chest doesn't feel so little anymore.

"Fuck off!" I say, pushing against his chest so hard that he legitimately almost drops me. He was the one who broke my heart all those years ago. He's not allowed to give commentary on my love life now. Fortunately, Jack has caught up with us, and he's there to take me out of Dante's arms before I can cause even more of a scene.

"I think it's time to go," Jack says.

Dante's eyes are fixed on me. I tear my gaze away and loop my arms around Jack's neck as he marches around the pool, but I can feel Dante staring at me as we retreat. I'm seething. How dare he say something like that? How dare he do any of the things he did tonight? I want to prove him wrong, to show him that I've changed since we were together. He may have possessed me once, but he doesn't any longer.

I tighten my arms around my friend's neck and move my face closer to his ear. To anyone else—and especially to the Devil as he stares at us from the other side of the pool—it probably looks like I'm nuzzling him.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Jack turns his face slightly toward me, and his voice is just as low. "Jesus, you're heavy, Ash. And I don't remember this being part of the deal."

"I owe you," I whisper back. "I'll bake you something. Whatever you want."

"Better be a big something. God, my hands are slipping. You're going to break my back."

"Oh, shut up. But yes, it'll be a big something." It takes all of my willpower not to look back at Dante. My body is still tense with anger—and with something else I don't want to think about.

"What the hell happened down there?" Jack asks. "Why are you all wet?"

"Long story." One I'm not ready to tell yet.

I hear a few quiet, simpering laughs as we move through the other guests. Inside, the music is still going and most people seem oblivious to the scene that just occurred by the pool, but many of them still stare as we pass. I'm sure I look ridiculous.

"Where did you find Dante?" Jack asks in a low voice. "What did he say?"

I'm not ready to talk about that yet—I'm still trying to process it.

"I need a drink," I say as we emerge through the front door.

He snorts and nearly drops me. "You and me both."
CHAPTER FOUR

I wake the next day with a hangover that threatens to split my skull right open. The blare of my alarm is like a gunshot right in the brain.

I groan and roll over, slamming my hand against the screen of my cell until the horrible sound goes away. I'm stiff, and my skin is oddly both dry and sticky. The hair that flops across my face feels gross too, and it smells like the ocean. And that's when I remember everything that happened.

I leap up from the bed, then nearly fall over as the hangover vertigo hits—and a sharp pain shoots up from my ankle. I fall back on the mattress, cursing at myself. How could I forget about my injury? I lift my foot, giving myself a better view of the damage. My ankle is currently a lovely shade of purple and about three times its normal size. I remember icing it sometime between the bottles of wine last night, but I'll need to wrap it before I do anything else.

"Jack?" I call. He was good enough to bring me back to my place after the party—and he threw back a couple of drinks of his own while I drank myself into oblivion. I only vaguely remember him getting me into bed, and though he's spent a few drunken nights on my sofa in the past, only silence greets my call. He probably found his way back to his apartment. After all, he has work this morning—not to mention a serious live-in boyfriend who'd probably prefer him home in his own bed. My friend did his duty by me. I definitely owe him.

And sure enough, there's a text from him waiting on my phone. He must have sent it when he left for work this morning.

Take it easy today, Ash. I'll call you later.

Yes, I owe him. I owe him a cake the size of a horse. But first, I need to get cleaned up and back to feeling like a normal human being again.

I alternately hop and limp my way into the bathroom. I scrabble through the medicine cabinet, but there are no bandages or rolls of athletic tape to be found. I almost have a heart attack when I see myself in the mirror. I look like I was dragged behind a boat. Through a hurricane. My hair is clumped and knotted, my makeup smeared. I'm still wearing my ruined, salt-crusted dress from last night. And—I realize suddenly—Dante's jacket is still around my shoulders.

Dammit. I whip off the jacket and throw it down on the ground, glaring at it like it's some infectious fungus that attached itself to me. But it's my fault I still have it. I accepted his damn coat. I stormed out—er, was carried out—of his party without remembering to give it back. With my luck, the damn thing is probably worth a few hundred dollars—assuming it wasn't ruined by sand and seawater. As much as I'd like to burn it, I'm going to need to have it dry-cleaned and sent back to him somehow.

But clothes are the least of my worries right now. All I can think about is what happened on that beach last night—how Dante and I lay next to each other in the sand, how we almost kissed, how it felt as if no time had passed at all...

These are not good thoughts. These are not good thoughts at all.

I pull off my dress and stumble to the shower. I need to get the seawater off me. I need to get him off me. Because now that I've spent a whole night in his damn coat, I can smell him on my skin.

God, that smell...

As I lather up my hair, I try to refocus my thoughts on the day ahead of me—I was planning to spend a few hours at the bakery this afternoon testing out a new rolled fondant recipe—but my mind doesn't want to cooperate. It doesn't help that every time I twist around or bend over I'm forced to put a little weight on my ankle, which then shoots me another painful reminder of last night. Everything comes back to Dante—to the way his fingers twined with mine on the sand, to how solid and strong his arms felt around me as he carried me up the beach, to the feel of his breath against my face...

Nope. Not going to think of that.

To punctuate that thought, I slam my body wash back down on the side of the tub, forgetting in my frustration that I'm effectively crippled at the moment. I put too much weight on my ankle, then jerk back in response to the pain. But in this small, confined space—this slippery, confined space—that's the worst thing I could do. My foot shoots out from beneath me. My hands grab desperately at the tiled walls, but it's too late. I fall. First against the wall, then ass-first to the floor of the shower.

I thought I knew pain before, but I was wrong. Now, pure agony shoots through me. I'm pretty sure I scream. Tears fill my eyes and my entire body spasms. The pain in my ankle is the sharpest, but I throb in a dozen other places I either twisted or hit on the way down.

For a long moment I just sit there, stunned and whimpering in pain, while the water comes rushing down on my head. Finally my mind clears enough to tell me to turn off the spray, and I paw at the dial as I slowly turn onto my knees.

It takes me a solid five minutes to get to my feet. Somehow, I manage to blink through the blinding pain and grab a towel. I wrap it around my body and drag myself back into my bedroom. Halfway to my bed I give up on trying to walk and fall to the carpet, crawling the rest of the way.

When I reach the bed, my cell is ringing.

Thank God. Oh, thank God. Jack has made good on his promise to check up on me.

"Jack," I say into the phone, my voice cracking as the tears run down my face. "Jack, my fucking ankle... I fell in the fucking shower and I made it worse and it hurts so bad and I don't know what to do and I can't even think straight it hurts so fucking much." I'm sobbing, but my relationship with Jack is far past the point of feeling self-conscious about something like this. He's seen me at my lowest.

But it's not Jack's voice that answers me. "Ashlyn?"

My entire body goes rigid. I've heard that mesmerizing voice say my name a hundred times before, but it's the last voice I want to hear right now. If I weren't stunned out of my mind with pain, I'd hang up, but Dante rushes on while I'm still trying to figure out how to handle this.

"Where are you?" he says. "At your place? Have you moved since the last time I was there?"

At least my shock has managed to completely shut down my sobs. But the panic is already setting in. He intends to come here.

"I'm fine," I force out through pain-clenched teeth. "I thought you were Jack. I'll be fine. I'm fine."

"Like hell you are. You can hardly even speak."

"I don't need you to come here. I'll call Jack. Jack will come." Fuck—but Jack is at work for another eight hours. I rush on, "Or Mama Pat. She'll help me." I grimace as another wave of pain sweeps through me. "I-I'll be fine. Really. Fine."

"Where are you, Ashlyn?"

"I'm fine," I repeat, but my resolve wavers as the pain once again threatens to pull me under. And the thought of waiting for Jack to get a break at work, or for Mama Pat to get here from the opposite side of town, makes me feel worse. No, no I'm not fine.

And we both know it.

I let out a shaky breath. "I'm at the same house."

"I'll be there in fifteen."

My home is a lot more than fifteen minutes from his place, but I'm in too much pain to find the presence of mind to ask him where he is or what sort of business I'm interrupting. Not that I should care, anyway.

But it's hard to ignore the questions in my head. His big movie just came out—shouldn't he have a hundred interviews and press events to do? And he called me—why? Was he checking up on me after the disaster that was last night? How can I recover from that?

More importantly, how am I going to recover from this? I'm curled up on my floor, sopping wet and wearing nothing but a towel.

Oh God—if I don't manage to get some clothes on, I'm going to be wearing nothing but a towel when Dante gets here. That is not an option.

I take a few deep breaths and assess my injuries. My ankle is in bad shape. And my left wrist is killing me too. There's a dull ache in my left hip—and down most of that side, honestly. But I think I can move if I'm careful.

I reach up on my bed and feel around under my pillow until I find the pajama pants and tank top stuffed there. I drag them down into my lap and go about the process of trying to pull them on without making the pain worse.

I barely succeed. By the time I'm dressed, tears are stinging in my eyes again, but at least I'm not naked anymore. And that's when I hear my front door open.

"Ash?" Dante calls.

"In here!" I call back, grateful—and worried—that Dante managed to walk right in my front door.

He answers that mystery as soon as he gets to my bedroom. "You still hide your spare key in the same place."

How the hell does he remember that? But I don't get the chance to ask him because he's suddenly kneeling beside me, a frown in his eyes.

"What happened?" he asks.

My cheeks, as usual these days, probably match my hair. "I put too much weight on my ankle and fell in the shower."

"May I?" He waits for me to nod before pushing my pajama leg up my calf and carefully taking my ankle in his hands. I try not to wince as his fingers press against the sensitive flesh. His frown deepens. "It might be broken. It's a bad sprain at the very least."

The concern in his eyes reminds me of the Dante from the early days of our relationship—the one who never would have dreamed of hurting me, the one who promised me that I wasn't alone. But no matter how he's looking at me now, no matter what happened between us on the beach last night, I know that man is long gone.

"We should get you to the ER," he says, rising.

"What?" I ask as he's scooping me up. "I'm sure it's just a sprain. If you can get me to a pharmacy, I'll grab some athletic tape and painkillers."

I stiffen as he settles me in his arms. My body nearly betrayed me last night, and I don't trust it to behave itself now. Not when we're this close. Not when he's looking at me like that or treating me so gently. This is too familiar.

"You're going to the ER," he says. "Even if I have to carry you there myself."

I want to argue, but now that I'm firmly in his arms, now that I'm pressed against the warm comfort of his chest, I start to dissolve, finally succumbing to the physical agony and misery. My fingers curl around his shirt as I turn my face into his shoulder, fighting back tears of relief. I'm not alone. Dante will make sure I'm okay. Even though pain still throbs through my body, there's a sweet comfort in his presence that allows me to relax.

God, I am pathetic.

"You can't tell anyone about this," I murmur into his chest.

"Who would I tell?" he returns.

I guess it was a stupid request, because he's right—who would he tell? As far as I know, he never talked to his family about me. We never went out in public together. I never attended any industry events on his arm. At the beginning, I was fine with that arrangement—it made our relationship more intimate somehow. But as our relationship wore on, as tenderness and passion became love, I began to wonder why he never wanted to go out in public together. Why he hid me from his family. Why he insisted we exist only in a bubble. And those questions were like poison, eroding our relationship bit by bit while I wasn't looking.

I'm not the kind of girl who dates celebrities. I wasn't back then, and I'm even less so now. But somehow I ended up in this mess, and I don't know what Dante wants from me.

But he invited you to a party at his house last night, a voice in my head reminds me. He carried you back into that crowd of people. He caused a scene. That has to mean something, doesn't it?

But as he carries me out to his car, I'm not sure I'm strong enough for the answer.

* * *

My ankle isn't broken, thank God. But it's a bad sprain. And my wrist is sprained, too—though only mildly. The rest of me is just bruised, but those two injuries are going to put me out of commission for a couple of days, maybe longer.

Dante stays with me the whole time at the ER, even though I know he probably has plenty of better things to be doing. He gets a couple of phone calls while we're there, but they go the same way as the phone call he took during our cake consultation—both end with him tersely insisting he'll send pages as soon as they're ready. In spite of everything, I find myself curious about these conversations, about the business he's always kept so private from me. His big movie just launched. Shouldn't he be on top of the world right now?

I manage to bite my tongue until we're on the car ride home, and then my curiosity gets the better of me.

"It looks like Cataclysm: Earth had a great opening weekend," I say. "The newspaper in the waiting room said it broke all kinds of records."

He glances over at me, his expression unreadable. "I didn't realize you were paying attention."

"It's hard to miss it," I say with a shrug. "Are you working on a sequel?"

This time, he can't seem to stop himself from slipping into a scowl. "What are you after, Ash?"

"Nothing. Just wondering." I gaze out the window at the passing houses. "This movie's a big deal."

"And I'm damn near sick of promoting it." There's no ignoring the bitterness in his voice. "I'd prefer to talk about something else."

"Fine."

We don't speak much on the rest of the ride home. I should have known he'd avoid my questions. But any annoyance I feel at his responses dissolves when we reach my house. The hospital gave me a crutch to use until my ankle heals, but Dante's having none of it. Without a word, he lifts me in his arms again, and he carries me all the way inside to my bed. If he's angry at me for prodding—or for taking up his entire day with my injury—he doesn't show it. Instead, he's unspeakably gentle—tender, even—as he settles me down on my comforter.

"Are you hungry?" he asks as he carefully props my leg up on a pillow.

I nod, afraid that if I say anything this sudden fluttery feeling in my chest will overwhelm me.

Dante heads into the kitchen to find us some food, and the minute he's out of earshot, I pull out my phone and dial Jack. It's a little awkward with my left wrist in a brace, but I manage. He picks up on the second ring.

"Among the living, are we?" he says cheerfully. "I was just about to give you a call. How's that hangover treating you?"

"Jack, Dante's here," I hiss.

"Whoa, seriously? At your house?" He laughs. "Sounds like our little plan went well. What ridiculous excuse did he give you?"

I'm more than willing to give Jack every last detail later, but Dante could walk back in here any second, so I need to be brief.

"I fell in the shower," I whisper quickly into the phone. "It really screwed up my ankle. And then he called and I thought it was you and I ended up blurting out everything before I realized my mistake. He insisted on taking me to the ER."

"Shit."

"And now he's in my kitchen making me food and I have no idea what to do."

"Jesus, Ash. I hope they gave you some good drugs. You're going to need them."

"I need to get him out of here," I say. "But I don't think he'll leave unless he thinks I have someone here to help me."

"You know I'd normally be there for you, Ash, but I promised Evan I'd go to his brother's birthday dinner after work."

"I know. I wasn't asking you to come, I just—"

I cut myself off as Dante strides back into the room. Damn it. No time to hash out a plan.

"Thanks for checking up on me," I say sweetly into the cell. "I'll see you later. I love you."

On the other end of the call, Jack snorts a laugh. "Still working the jealousy angle, I see. I think you'll manage him just fine. I'll call you back on my next break, I just—Mike! Where are you going with that? That needed to be at Studio E two hours ago!"

I hang up, not wanting to impose on Jack any more than I already have. When I drop the cell on the nightstand, Dante is watching me, his jaw rigid.

"That was Jack," I say.

"I gathered." His eyes have darkened, and he's standing a little too still.

"He's going to come by as soon as he can."

"Mm," he replies, his mouth a hard line. He moves toward me—slowly, like a great cat stalking its prey—until he stands right over my bed. "But he's not here now."

My breath catches in my throat as he reaches out, and panic rises in my chest as his fingers brush my cheek.

"Where's the food?" I squeak.

His fingers still, but his eyes still burn bright. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in their depths, standing out against the darkness of his gaze.

"You don't have any food in your fridge or pantry," he says, the words rolling slowly off his tongue.

"I usually just eat at the bakery," I say, pulling back. "I don't cook or bake much here. But I'm really hungry."

He withdraws his hand—but not before I see a flicker of something in his eyes.

"I'll order you something, then." He pulls his cell out of his pocket.

"You don't need to do that. I can order it. You've done enough already, and I'm sure you have lots to do today."

"And who will answer the door when it arrives?"

"I've got a crutch now," I remind him. "And Jack—"

"Will get here as soon as he can, I know. And when, approximately, will that be?"

I don't have an answer ready, and he takes full advantage of my silence.

"I'll wait with you until he gets here," he says, still staring at me. "And in the meantime, I'm getting us both some lunch."

This is an argument that I know I'll never win—at least in my current condition.

"Fine," I concede, adjusting the pillow below my ankle. "But you should probably leave after that. I'd rather not have you and Jack get into a fight when he gets here."

"Why would we fight?"

I shake my head. "Don't be an idiot."

There's a spark in his eye now, but that darker emotion is still there, too, making him look all the more devilish. "This conversation isn't over, Ash. But I'm going to go ahead and put in an order. Do you have a taste for anything?"

"There's a menu for a good Chinese place on the fridge," I say, willfully ignoring the way he lingered over the word taste. "My favorite dishes are circled."

As soon as he leaves, I grab my phone again. Calling Jack again isn't an option, but I intend to try Mama Pat—she should be able to get here long before my friend, and that means I might be able to rid myself of Dante sooner rather than later. I don't trust myself alone with him—not with the looks he's been giving me.

Right as I hit the call button, though, I remember that it's her granddaughter's first birthday today. Mama Pat stayed an hour late yesterday to work on the cake, and she spent most of that time beaming and telling me stories about little Daisy. There's no way I can call her away from that, no matter how desperate my situation.

With a sigh, I return the phone to the nightstand. So much for escaping Dante's company anytime soon.

Admit it, I think. You like that he's taking care of you. You like that he rushed over here to make sure you were okay.

Yeah, but how much does that really mean? I haven't seen or heard from him in three years. And though I was the one who ended it back then, it was his actions that made me take that step. Sometimes I wonder if it was all just a passing fling for him. If I only imagined the intensity of our connection.

You didn't imagine last night, I tell myself. But I still don't know what the hell to do about it.

When Dante returns, my heart leaps into my throat. For the first time since he showed up this morning—hell, since he walked back into my life—I allow myself to really look at him, to face the demon who broke my heart.

His dark hair is slightly ruffled, and I wonder if it fell that way on its own or if he's been running his hand through it. He used to do that—run his hand through his hair—while he was working, thinking his way through a problem in his script.

And I used to run my fingers through his hair when we were making love.

My belly warms as I let my eyes drop to his face, to that strong mouth with those eager, demanding lips, and then up to those rich, mesmerizing eyes. He's looking back at me, watching me take him in, and in those eyes I see things I don't want to see. That I'm not ready to see.

Why is he doing this to me?

I turn and grab a book from my nightstand, but that doesn't stop Dante from returning slowly and deliberately to the side of my bed.

"The food has been ordered," he says, his voice too low for such mundane conversation.

"Mm. Thank you." With my good hand, I flip the novel open to the page where I left my bookmark.

"Ashlyn. I told you our previous conversation wasn't over."

"The one where you were pretending you didn't intentionally cause a scene with my boyfriend last night?" The word boyfriend still feels weird on my tongue.

"I didn't cause a scene," he drawls. "I simply did what any man would do when a woman needs help."

My eyes are still on my book. "Jack could have helped me."

"But he didn't."

Anger surges through me, and my eyes finally snap up to his face. "Because you didn't give him the chance."

Dante's gaze catches and holds mine. "He wasn't there with you on the beach. I was."

"And you're the whole reason my ankle is sprained in the first place."

"You know that was an accident. And I've done everything I can to make amends for that, in spite of your rather amusing efforts to shame me out of it."

"I'm not shaming you!" I snap. His presence so close to me is making me nervous, shaky, but I refuse to break his gaze. "And can you stop hovering?"

Without missing a beat, he sinks down on the bed beside me. "Is this better?"

Not in the least. He's even closer now. So close that I'm having trouble thinking. So close that his hip presses against my thigh. So close that his fingers could reach any part of my body.

"You're provoking me on purpose," I say.

One corner of his mouth tilts up. "You always were easy to provoke."

"Well, stop. I'm not yours to provoke anymore."

There's that dangerous darkness again. "You're this Jack's to provoke?"

"Jack doesn't need to provoke me. And what the hell is that look for?" I suddenly remember the words he murmured to me last night before handing me over to my friend: You'll never convince me that man gives you even half of what I did.

"It's just that I never expected you to end up with a guy like that."

"A guy like what? You hardly even talked to him last night. You don't know anything about him."

"I've seen him around. He works for Fairlake Films, doesn't he?"

For a split second, panic seizes me—Does he know this is all a ruse?—but if he does, he would have led with that. Dante isn't one for games.

"Yes, he works there. Why does it matter?"

His leg shifts, pressing closer to mine. "It doesn't."

My heart is in my throat. I swallow it back down. "Then what's your point?"

"In our earlier conversation you seemed to suggest he would fight for you. Is that true?"

My answer is a reflex: "Of course he would. You saw how angry he was last night."

Something flashes in his eyes. "That wasn't anger. At best, that was mild annoyance."

"And this is ridiculous."

I try to open my book again, but his hand covers the page. "You're not avoiding this conversation, Ash."

"Well, I'm certainly not going to sit here and listen to your opinions on my boyfriend." The more times I use that word, the more naturally it rolls off my tongue—even though in my gut it feels dead wrong.

"He's not right for you."

"You're not right in the head."

"I'm serious, Ash."

"Forgive me if I don't trust my love life to you. I've already made that mistake once."

That shuts him up—at least for a moment.

"I don't care whether you think he's right for me," I continue, glad to finally have the upper hand. "As I said back at my bakery, I've moved on with my life. I don't require your opinions anymore."

Dante's hand is still spread against my book, and he presses down until I've lowered the novel to my lap.

"I still have opinions," he says, his voice lower, rougher than it was a moment ago. "Especially where you are concerned."

"I don't—"

"You need a man who can match you," he says. "Your temper. Your emotion. Your passion. This Jack doesn't match you."

"And you're an expert on this how?"

He leans dangerously close. "You know how."

I don't know anything except that I'm no match for the man in front of me. And that I really should tell him to get up, to leave, but I can't.

My heart nearly stops as he reaches out and brushes a bit of hair out of my face. The touch feels so natural—and why shouldn't it, when he's touched me like that a hundred times before? Once again, all I have to do was blink and it suddenly feels as if no time has passed between us at all.

Why did he have to come back into my life?

He smells the same. Feels the same. And he has the same effect on me now that he did back then, in spite of everything. It's not something a body forgets, being this close to Dante. His presence alone makes me breathless, but being so close to him, feeling his heat and his breath and his fingers stroking my hair... This is bad. Very bad.

I force myself instead to think of the pain—of that night when everything fell apart. The years have done little to dull the hurt, to make me forget.

"Ash," he says, the rumble of his voice drawing me back into the present. He's still touching me—in fact, his hand has curled around the side of my face, and his eyes have softened just enough to make my insides go weak.

I turn my face away from him.

"I don't know what you want," I say, "but I have nothing to give you."

"Because of Jack."

"Among other reasons."

I don't have to be any more specific than that—I can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows I'm referring to how things ended between us the last time around. But he doesn't rise, doesn't look away.

"Ash."

"Don't," I say, holding up a hand. "It doesn't matter now."

He presses his lips together. That's another thing he always did when he was working through a plot issue in one of his scripts.

And then he leans toward me. And though he doesn't touch me this time, the movement sends a wave of anticipation through my body.

"Will he fight for you?" he asks, his voice rough. "This Jack fellow—how badly does he want you?"

"I've already told you he'll fight for me," I whisper. "And even if he weren't in the picture, I'd fight for myself against you."

I mean it to sting, but instead, the corner of Dante's mouth tilts up. He was already too close, but now he shifts even nearer, putting his lips right against my ear the way he did last night.

"Convince me," he growls.

My good hand rises to his chest. I intend to push him away, but when I feel the heat of him beneath my palm, I suddenly find it hard to move.

"Convince me," he repeats, softer this time. His hand rises to catch my wrist, and though he isn't holding me against him, he might as well be, so affected am I by that touch.

I want to convince him. And at the same time, I want to sink into his arms, to taste his lips, to lose myself in him again like I did all those years ago.

And I might have done it, too, if the sound of my doorbell weren't suddenly chiming through the air.

We both jump.

"Food," I say, a little too breathlessly. "You need to answer the door."

The look in his eyes tells me that food is the last thing on his mind, but when the doorbell rings again, he gets up without a word.

The minute he's gone, I grab my phone again. I want to send an S.O.S. to Jack, but I stop with my thumb hovering over the screen. What good will it do to message him? It's not like I expect him to leave work or to blow off his plans with Evan tonight. I might be desperate, but I'm not that selfish.

But what the hell do I do? Because one thing's for sure: the longer Dante stays here, the more likely I am to make a terrible mistake.

Remember your story, I tell myself. You have a "boyfriend." Just keep reminding yourself of that fact until you believe it yourself. Not that it seems to be that much of a deterrent to Dante.

It's funny, because in spite of my negative opinion of him, I never thought he'd support infidelity. But between his dealings with Emilia and his shameless behavior toward me, I guess he's changed more than I thought. That knowledge unsettles me more than it should—my body might find him familiar, but in many ways, this man is a stranger.

Still, it's hard to convince myself of that when he comes back into the room with our Chinese food in his arms.

"I presume you're still fine with eating on the bed?" he asks.

He uses the word still. It's a subtle reminder of the handful of times we ate takeout in bed—sometimes naked.

I say nothing as he settles down on the other side of the bed. Nothing as he hands me my sesame chicken. We eat in silence—he must be hungry, to let me get away with ignoring him. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to notice the smooth, measured ease of his movements as he lifts his chopsticks to his mouth. It makes my tongue go dry.

I cough, and Dante looks over immediately.

"I forgot to get you something to drink," he says, rising. "What do you want? Water? Soda? Beer?"

"Water's fine." No alcohol, not around him.

He leaves for the kitchen, and I try not to follow him with my gaze on his way out. Try not to recognize how comfortable he is, making his way around my house. He's almost as familiar with my home as I am, and it's too easy to forget that he hasn't been here in years. A bittersweet ache pulses in my chest. My parents left this house to me when they died, and I've lived here ever since. It's been too long since I've seen anyone else treat it with the sort of easy familiarity that Dante now does. Even Jack, who's been here more times than I can count, still has to ask me where to find the silverware half the time.

Don't start slipping now, I remind myself. Remember the pain.

He returns quickly, a glass of water in either hand, and I swallow down the lump in my throat and give him what I hope is a neutral smile. "Thank you."

"Is there anything else you need?"

I'm not sure which rattles me more—the way his voice deepens on the word anything or the way his eyes gleam when he says need.

"No," I say cheerfully. "I'm good. Please finish your lunch." And get out of here as fast as you can.

He doesn't seem to be in any hurry to bend to my silent wishes, however. Though I gobble down the rest of my food—in hunger and in anxiety—he continues to take his time. And in spite of my best efforts, I continue to find my gaze drawn back to him. It's as if my eyes can't get enough of him. As if they're afraid he'll disappear from my life again if I blink.

What a stupid notion.

Just when I've convinced myself that I'm the biggest glutton for punishment that ever existed, he glances over, his eyes connecting with mine.

My stomach seizes. I want to look away, but I can't. His gaze holds a promise that I'm afraid to believe.

"It's rude to stare," I say shortly.

"I could say the same to you."

I don't have a response to that, but thankfully, he looks away. He sets his food on the nightstand and leans back against the pillows, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling.

"You haven't fixed that crack yet," he murmurs.

My ears burn as the memories come flooding back. The first time he noticed and commented on the crack in my ceiling was the night we first made love. The night he took my virginity.

He's thinking of that night, too. I can tell by the look in his eyes when he turns back toward me.

"Your hair's shorter," he says softly. "I didn't notice that last night."

It's one of the many small changes I've made since we were together, and the fact that he's noticed it pleases me more than it should.

I shrug. "This is easier."

"Your bedspread is the same, though."

The fact that he remembers that is a little more unsettling.

"It's just a bedspread," I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. "I don't need to buy a new one every year."

He settles back further against the pillow, but his gaze is still on me. "Your eyes are just as sad."

"This is just how my eyes look," I say, feeling pricklier by the second. "Don't try to read anything into it."

"No, that's not just how they look," he returns softly. "I've seen them glow."

What the hell is he saying? I don't get the chance to ask him. He reaches over and brushes his fingers along the side of my neck.

"I still don't know why it was me," he murmurs.

He means why I, back when I was a twenty-four-year-old virgin, chose to give myself to him. Why he was the first person I loved, the first person I trusted with my body and my soul. It doesn't matter how many times I said it back then—it looks like even now, he doesn't see or understand the truth.

And in spite of my determination to keep my distance from him, I need to show him. To do anything else would be impossible.

"Because you understood," I hear myself whisper. "You shouldn't have been able to, but you did. You saw who I was. What I needed." And I loved you for it.

His fingers freeze on my neck. His eyes are as deep and as vibrant as the ocean. "You were always a puzzle to me. As passionate as they come, quick to laugh and quick to anger, and at the same time so determined to bury your deepest, truest emotions way down inside." His thumb slides in a soft, slow arc against the front of my throat.

"I don't have to share everything with the world." I already seem to share way more than I'd like.

"No." There's a hint of a smile on his lips. "But you can't hide your emotions, Ash. Never completely. It's not in your nature. They shine out of you. Gleam through the cracks. Dance in your eyes and affect every move of your body. You fight them, but they find their way out."

My eyes are stinging again, and even though there aren't any tears, if he's telling the truth, then I guess it doesn't matter whether my eyes are dry or wet or anywhere in between—either way, he can guess exactly how I'm feeling. I don't like it. It makes me feel too bare.

But he doesn't seem to expect me to answer him.

"That night," he says, "you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life. You were nervous, but that was drowned by everything else. You were just..." He shakes his head slightly and moves his hand again, letting his fingers glide up into my hair. "You were so alive. Your eyes were so bright. Your skin felt like it was vibrating beneath my touch. Everything about you just... My God, I've never felt anything like that. You caught me up in it, too."

If I was confused and terrified before, that's nothing next to what I feel now. I'm trembling, but whether or not that's the vibration he remembers I can't be sure. He's touching me the way he did that night—hesitantly, as if worried he might scare me. Or as if he's worried he'll disrupt the energy pulsing between us, the spell of emotions that he describes.

And he's right. I felt a hundred things that night: nerves, of course—how could I not?—but also the thrill of knowing that I was finally getting to experience something so intimate. It was, for lack of a better word, joyous. And surprising. And wonderful. And terrifying. And bittersweet—as experiences tend to be when they change you forever. And I remember it more vividly than almost any other day in my entire life.

His fingers brushed against my throat, trailing slowly down until they met the curve of my breast. I was having trouble breathing, and my chest was rising and falling too quickly, but he seemed to find that fascinating. Beautiful, even.

His lips touched my jaw. My neck. The hollow above my collarbone. And his hand continued to move down my body, skimming over my nipple through the fabric of my dress, dancing across a stomach that was full of butterflies. His mouth paused right over my heart.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, his lips vibrating against my skin.

"Yes." In that moment, I trusted him completely.

He tried to go slowly, gently. He slid my dress up my legs, glided his fingers across my thighs. His mouth continued caressing my skin, and little by little, he eased his way back up my body until his lips met mine again.

And that was when neither of us could hold back any longer.

Passion took over then, pure desire replacing my anxiety. He might have tried to be careful, to be slow and gentle, but we burned too brightly for that. There could be no slowly, no gently between us. I needed him, needed him more than I'd ever needed anything else in my entire life. And I urged him on, caught up in that vibrant fire.

The memory leaves me shivering.

In many ways, I think Dante thought that me losing my virginity to him was a bigger deal than I did—and I guess I can't blame him, considering there aren't many people who are virgins at twenty-four without one or more very serious reasons. And maybe I did have a very serious reason, deep down, but at the time it felt like a series of not-so-serious reasons had led me to that point. In high school, I wasn't ready. Then when I was nineteen and my parents died, boys were the last thing on my mind—I just wanted to retreat into myself. When I finally crawled back out of that hole, I just became too busy—I'd decided I'd follow in my parents' footsteps and pursue a career in the movie industry, and then I was busy working my ass off to get into the prestigious film school where they met.

The same school where I ended up meeting Dante.

There were boys along the way. Some dates. A few heavy makeout sessions. But I never really wanted anything more than that until Dante. Then I knew anything less would never be enough. He undid me, little by little, day by day, so that I hardly noticed it happening until it was too late.

And I feel it happening again now.

"I don't want to talk about that night," I say. "The past is the past. I'm surprised you even remember any of that."

A little frown appears between his brows. "I haven't forgotten a moment of that night, Ash. I never will."

I snort a laugh. "I guess you're more sentimental than I thought."

My words are more barbed than I intend, but I can't seem to help myself. What right does he have to sit here and act like that night meant something to him, when he was the one who was willing to throw all of this away?

Dante is very still. But his eyes are bright with some unnamed emotion, and his fingers are still tangled in my hair.

"I know what you must think of me," he says.

"I don't think you do." If he did, then why is he here? Why can't he just let me get on with my life?

His hand tightens, his fingers curling firmly—though not painfully—against my scalp. His expression has hardened, but there's a fire in the depths of his gaze that makes me nervous.

"I've told you," he says. "You can't hide your emotions from me, Ash. I hurt you, and that's something you might never forgive me for, but you still want me."

"I do not—"

"You do. I know you. And I know it's been a few years, but I haven't forgotten a thing." He leans closer. "I haven't forgotten the way your eyes widen when you're aroused. Or the way you can never seem to catch your breath when you're overwhelmed." His thumb brushes my cheek. "Or the way you suck in your cheeks when you're trying to fight back your emotions. You're feeling something very strong right now."

"I am. Hatred."

"You don't hate me. You might be pissed at me, but you don't hate me. You can't. For the same reason that I can't forget you."

"You're crazy," I say, a little too breathlessly.

"Maybe." His thumb stills. "But I don't think so. I think you want me. As much now as you ever did."

"I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend I love very much."

"And if you looked at him with half the emotion I see in your face right now, I might believe you."

The bottom drops out of my stomach. He knows. That excuse was my last line of defense, the one thing I could hold up between us. Now I'm vulnerable.

"You're a bastard," I say. "And you have no right to come in here and talk like this. Jack is my boyfriend. I love him. I don't care whether or not you believe it. This is not open for discussion." I smack his hand away from my face. "I think you should leave."

He sits back. "You still need someone to help you here until Jack bothers to show up."

"I'll manage. I want you out of my house. Now."

He stands, but he looks more exasperated than concerned. "This isn't over, Ash."

"It's been over for three years. But for some reason, I'm the only one who can accept that. Go back to Emilia."

Something flickers across his expression, but it's gone before I have a chance to read it.

"I can see I'm not going to get anywhere with you like this," he says, his face unreadable.

"You're not going to get anywhere with me at all."

He doesn't argue. He gathers up his food and—thank God—walks toward the door. But he pauses at the doorway and looks back at me.

"You can lie to yourself all you want, but this isn't over," he says, and the intensity in his eyes belies his calm tone. "We both know it. And no matter how hard either of us tries to convince ourselves otherwise, it will never be over."
CHAPTER FIVE

It will never be over.

The words haunt me. Torment me. Two days later, when I'm bent over a birthday cake in my bakery, they still bounce around in my head, still make my stomach twist and my breath quicken and my heart stutter.

Because he's right, isn't he?

It's been three years. Three years should be more than enough time to get over someone, even the guy who took your virginity. Even the first—and only—guy you've ever loved. Three years should be more than enough time to get on with your life—assuming you're a normal, well-adjusted person.

I chew on my lip as I apply a scalloped band of frosting along the top edge of the cake. I'm perched on a stool today—a necessary adjustment, considering my ankle—and it feels unnatural. Normally I can lose myself in my work—hands-on vocations are wonderful for such things—but today I can't seem to find my zone. I suppose I should be grateful that it was my left wrist, not my right, that was hurt—that would have restricted me even more, and I'm having a hard enough time operating as normal.

It will never be over.

It doesn't make sense. The thing Dante and I had was never supposed to last. He's rich, famous, talented, unbelievably attractive... and I'm the ordinary girl he wouldn't even introduce to his family. He's not allowed to come back to me now and act like I am the one in denial.

I squeeze the bag in my hand a little too hard, causing a glob of frothy pink frosting to squirt onto the cake.

"Are you all right?" Mama Pat asks from her workstation. She must think I've completely lost it.

I force a smile. "Just got a cramp in my hand."

"Maybe you should take a break," she says. "You've been pushing yourself very hard recently. And you're nursing an injury."

"A sprained ankle shouldn't keep me from baking," I counter. "And I feel better when I'm keeping busy."

She nods, but I know she sees right through my bullshit. "Just be patient with yourself."

When she first heard about my injuries, Mama Pat tried to convince me to take a few days off, maybe even a week. She's always telling me that I work too hard, keep too many hours. And it's not that I don't believe she and Karen and Jilly can't manage things without me. But this bakery has been my entire life for these past few years, and I can't imagine walking away from it, even for that long. I'm still building my business—my baby. It needs me. And I need it. I'd go crazy sitting at home all day with nothing to distract me from those words. It will never be over.

Dante is off doing press for Cataclysm: Earth. It's only an accident that I know that, but I was flipping through the TV last night and saw it on one of the entertainment channels. Part of me is relieved that he's busy, but the other part... well, that part is better left unexamined.

It will never be over...

I drop the icing bag on the table. Even work isn't enough to distract me today, which means I need to find another way to get myself past all of this madness. If I actually had a boyfriend, I'd suggest a weekend away together. Or something equally diverting...

But maybe that's it. Maybe this is just the kick in the pants I need to put myself out there again, to actually date for once in my life. Of course my relationship with Dante is going to seem like a big deal when it's the only serious relationship I've ever had. I need to broaden my horizons a little. Explore some other options.

Which is easier said than done, of course, especially since most of the men who walk into my bakery are married—or here to pick out their wedding cakes with their fiancées, which is more or less the same thing as far as I'm concerned.

But I'm not completely without resources.

"Mama Pat?" I say.

"Hm?"

"Is your neighbor still single?"

Her face lights up. "You want to meet Dean?"

"I... I was thinking I should put myself out there again. Do you think he'd be interested in going out?"

"He'd be a fool not to." She's beaming widely now. "He's such a gentleman. And he's been working out a lot since he broke up with that girl a couple of months ago." She winks at me. "You should see his pecs. My William never had pecs like that."

In spite of myself, I laugh, my cheeks reddening. My mom used to gush in great detail about the rock star Arron Rex—who, actually, was the flame of Dante's mother Giovanna back in the seventies—and this is nearly as embarrassing. "That's good to know. Think he'd be turned off by a girl with crutches?" I point at my ankle.

"Not if he knows what's good for him." She's still smiling from ear to ear. "In all seriousness, though—Dean is one of the good ones. But if he gives you trouble, you just let me know. I'll take care of him."

Another laugh escapes my throat. "I know you will."

We work in silence for a few minutes. It feels as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Yes, this is exactly what I need.

But after a little while, I can feel Mama Pat's gaze, and when I look up, I find her studying me, a slight wrinkle between her dark brows.

"What's wrong?" I ask. I hope she isn't having second thoughts about this.

But the look she gives me is one of concern. "Are you sure about this, honey? You never really talked about how things went at that party. Aside from the obvious, of course." She nods toward my ankle.

Mama Pat and my other employees only got the most general of explanations about my injuries, and though Jilly tried to wheedle more out of me, Mama Pat didn't say a word—but it was obvious she knew there was much I wasn't saying.

"Of course I'm sure," I tell her. "I need to get back out there at some point, don't I?"

Her smile returns, but there's still a knowing look in her eye—the look of a woman who's seen enough of life and relationships to guess what might lie beneath the surface of my words.

"Yes, you do," she says. "And if anyone can make you forget about a bad experience, Dean can."

* * *

A week after my conversation with Mama Pat, I'm preparing for my first date in... well, way too long.

I survey myself in the mirror. After much debate over what to wear, I settled on a flowy, emerald-green dress that matches my eyes. It has a sweetheart neckline that shows just the right amount of cleavage—and the scattering of freckles on my chest—and the skirt floats out away from my thighs. It's a great dancing dress, the kind that twirls up around you when you spin, but I won't be doing much dancing tonight. My ankle is still in a brace, but at least my doctor has told me I don't need to use my crutches anymore. I'm wearing the only pair of ballet flats I own that fit over the brace. They aren't especially cute, but they'll do. And with some luck, Dean won't be staring much at my feet.

I run my fingers through my hair one more time—my wrist, at least, is nearly back to normal—and smile at my reflection. My lips sport a delicate coat of pink lipstick, and my eyes a less delicate swipe of eyeliner. My mom taught me how to do a wicked cat eye when I was sixteen and going to my first high school dance. She said it made me look flirty and mysterious.

Just when I've started practicing my "come hither" look in the mirror, the doorbell rings.

My heart quickens as I limp my way to the door. My palms are sweaty, and my breath is coming a little too fast, forcing my breasts against the snug neckline of my dress. Dante's comment about how I have trouble catching my breath when I'm overwhelmed floats into my mind, but I shove it aside. I'm nervous, yes, but I'm also excited. And proud of myself for taking this step, for taking back control of my heart.

And when I see the man standing on my stoop, I'm even more certain that I've made the right decision.

Damn, Mama Pat.

My mother hen's detailed descriptions of Dean over the last few months didn't even begin to do him justice. The man in front of me is breathtaking—tall and athletic with sandy blond hair and deep blue eyes. He's so handsome, in fact, that for a moment I'm rendered speechless. The knot in my stomach explodes into a flurry of butterflies.

And when he smiles, I almost pass out.

"Ashlyn?" he says.

I find my voice. "That's me. Dean?"

"A pleasure to meet you." He holds out a bouquet of daffodils, and I nearly swoon. Why did I put off dating for so long?

"Do you like seafood?" he asks after I've popped the daffodils in some water and we're heading to his car.

"Love it." I try not to look too pathetic as I hobble around to my side of the vehicle. He offered me his arm on the way out the door—Mama Pat was right, he's a perfect gentleman—but I'm not ready for physical contact just yet, even if my date looks like a cross between a male swimsuit model and a Navy SEAL.

We exchange general questions on our way to the restaurant. I tell him about the bakery; he tells me about his job at a local advertising firm. We chat about our favorite foods—I love sweets, of course, and he admits to a weakness for pizza—and our favorite music. Somewhere along the way, I learn that he grew up in Florida and that he has a German shepherd named Luther.

It's strange, being on a real date. Dante and I never did anything like this. Even though what we had was the most intense relationship of my life, we never went out together.

But I'm not going to think about Dante, not tonight. Not when I'm on my way to dinner with Mama Pat's hot neighbor.

Dean is friendly and personable, and the more we talk, the more my nerves start to fade. This doesn't feel scary—it feels natural. Normal. Like talking to an old friend.

Unfortunately, as I sit across from him at dinner, eating what is admittedly some exquisite halibut, I realize why.

It's just talking. Dean is kind, polite, smart. And—I won't deny this isn't a huge part of his appeal—extremely handsome. But he's also boring as hell. Everything he says is just... pleasant. Nothing more. He uses the same tone to talk about his latest project at work as he does to talk about his dog, or that mediocre steakhouse he tried last week.

Dante's opinions about my relationship with Jack—more specifically, his comments about needing someone who matches me—return to my mind.

But that isn't what's happening here, I tell myself. Maybe Dean's just nervous. I don't know much about his past love life—a first date isn't exactly the time to have a conversation about that—but maybe this is a big step for him, too. Maybe once we know each other a little better, once we're a little more comfortable around each other, we'll both open up more.

"Tell me something crazy you've done," I say abruptly.

He stops mid-chew, his eyes widening as if I've just asked him whether he's ever murdered someone or something.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "It's been a while since I've been on a real date."

That earns me a smile. "It's all right. I'm just not sure how to answer your question."

"Then I'll ask you another one," I say, leaning forward. This time, I'll try something a little less personal. "If you had all the money in the world, what would you do?" It's cheesy, yes, and not that original, but it'll give me an idea of where his passions lie—and then I'll start to see the real Dean.

He thinks for a moment, sliding his thumb back and forth along the length of his chiseled jaw. He really is a very good-looking man.

"I'd give some of it to charity," he says finally.

"Any one in particular?" Does this gorgeous guy also have a heart of gold? A cause he fights for on the weekends?

But he only shrugs. "It seems like a thoughtful thing to do. I don't need that much money."

Dead end. I try another angle. "What if you were required to spend a million of it on yourself? On something completely frivolous? What would you do then?"

He laughs. The sound is pleasant, nothing more. Just like everything else about him.

"I don't know," he says. "I don't really think about things like that. Why does it matter? I have what I have, and I'm happy."

Maybe he's just trying to seem humble, or nice.

"It's just a game," I say lightly. "Sometimes it's fun to pretend." When he doesn't immediately respond, I add, "Would you like me to go first?"

His answering smile is friendly, if not exactly enthusiastic. "Go ahead. I'm afraid I'm not very good at games."

"I'd spend some of it on my bakery," I say. "Hire a bigger staff. Get some fancy new appliances. Buy that ice cream machine I've had my eye on—I'd love to have a full case of gelato and sorbet." I tug at the end of my hair, thinking. "But that's all work-related stuff. If I had to be frivolous, I'd buy a movie theater. My own private cinema where I could watch whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. And throw awesome parties. Then I'd use some of the money to travel. Somewhere on the other side of the world—maybe Thailand. Or Japan."

"That's quite a list." He's still smiling, but I can't tell if he's just humoring me. In the back of my mind, despite my best efforts to keep all thoughts of him out of my head, I find myself wondering how Dante would respond to my list of silly dreams. Or even how Dante would answer my questions. Certainly none of the Fontaines are hurting for money, but when was the last time Dante did something frivolous? He's always been so serious, so intense. And I can't help thinking about the tense phone calls I've overheard. Cataclysm: Earth might be a hit, but Dante isn't exactly leading a fantasy life.

What are you doing, you idiot? I think. You're supposed to be forgetting about Dante. Not worrying about him.

I force myself to refocus my attention on Dean. "Have you decided what you'd do with your million dollars yet?"

He considers his answer for another moment, then gives another shrug. "I've always thought it might be nice to have a pool."

Okay, so maybe there aren't any exciting passions buried deep down inside this guy after all.

* * *

The date doesn't get better. But it doesn't get worse, either. It's just... fine. A pleasant meal with a pleasant man. But as we prattle on about general, innocuous things, Dante's words about what I need keep coming back to me. My conversations with Dante have never been just pleasant. They aren't always good—some of our recent interactions spring to mind—but they were never just conversations. They were always something more—a startling connection, a sharing of energy, a meeting of two sparks of life. I never really thought about them in that way when Dante and I were together, but it's hard not to recognize it now, when all of it is missing with Dean.

But I'm not with Dante, and I don't want to be with him—in any way—ever again. I was lonely when I met him—so unbearably lonely that I'd hidden it even from myself—and he'd been there. He'd started to fill in the empty spaces inside of me. I became dependent on him. If it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else... right?

But now I'm building a life of my own. A life on my terms. I stopped lying to myself about wanting a film career and instead followed my true passion—baking. I've made new friends—not just Jack, but Mama Pat and Karen and Jilly and others. Now is not the time to slide back into bad habits, and Dante definitely qualifies as a bad habit.

And Dean is attractive, even if I don't feel any particular spark. Who says this has to turn into a full relationship? Maybe I can just have a little fun in the moment.

In my head, I see myself rolling into bed with Dean. Imagine him undressing me. Kissing my bare skin. Sliding his hand up my bare leg. And I imagine how I might kiss his throat. How my fingers might unbutton his shirt to reveal the broad chest beneath. How my lips might close around his earlobe.

But when the man in my fantasy moans, it's not Dean that I hear. And the fingers I imagine sliding between my thighs aren't his either. They're far more familiar.

I shake my head, trying to jostle the images out of my mind. These kinds of thoughts about Dante are far, far worse than any of the others I've been having this evening.

But what did I expect? Dante is the only guy I've ever slept with. No wonder that's where my mind goes when I'm trying to fantasize.

That's all the more reason to create new fantasies, I tell myself. To do something wild, like have a one-night stand with Mama Pat's hot neighbor.

In many ways, it's an appealing idea. But at the same time, the very thought makes my stomach turn. I hardly know this guy. He might be attractive, but he's still practically a stranger. And he'll be only the second guy I've ever had sex with—shouldn't I wait until I have an emotional connection with someone before jumping into bed?

Don't make such a big deal out of it, a little voice argues. It's just sex. Live a little. But how can sex not be a big deal when my experience is so limited? Not to mention that anyone I sleep with now has a lot to live up to. My relationship with Dante was... intense. There's no other word for it.

Okay, so no sex then. But maybe I don't have to have sex with Dean to get out of this funk. Maybe we can just fool around a little. I've fooled around with several guys over the past few years—that's definitely something I can handle.

So when Dean suggests we continue our date after dinner, I find myself agreeing.

"Would you like to see a movie?" he asks.

"Sure." This is actually the perfect solution—it means we won't have to talk much. "Did you have anything in mind?"

"I've been hearing great things about Cataclysm: Earth," he says. "Have you seen it yet?"

"No," I say quickly. "But I don't really think it's my kind of movie." I consider how that sounds. "Not that I'm not willing to compromise..."

"Disaster movies aren't really my thing, either," he says. "But I've heard this one breaks the mold. My sister loved it, and she hates action movies."

"I..." There's no way I'm going to go see Dante's movie, but how do I get out of this without sounding difficult? "It just doesn't sound like a very good date movie, does it? What about a comedy?"

"I could do a comedy," Dean says, but he doesn't sound particularly enthusiastic. "I'm not sure there's anything good playing right now, though. But I can look up the listings." He pulls his cell out of his pocket, but he pauses when his internet browser pops up. "On second thought, how about a drink? My buddy told me about a place just around the corner."

On the one hand, sitting at a bar means having to come up with more conversation. On the other, it gives me access to alcohol. I'd still prefer a movie, but it's clear that Dean isn't really interested in anything besides Cataclysm: Earth, and I'd go home before sitting through a two-hour reminder of the man I'm trying to forget.

"That sounds great," I say.

It's only a few minutes away. When we get there, Dean says, "Chris says celebs come here all the time. He spotted Stacia Fischer here once."

A jolt of warning moves through me, but I force myself to smile. I can't avoid every place where there's a remote possibility that Dante—or another member of his family—might show up. This is L.A.—I'd end up sitting home by myself all day. Besides, Dante's off on that press tour, isn't he? There's no reason to worry.

"That's exciting," I say.

The bar is small, but I can see immediately why it's popular among celebrities. It's nicer than your average hole-in-the-wall joint but still a far cry from one of those trendy, upscale lounges that seem so popular these days. It's cozy and comfortable, a nice spot for a post-dinner drink.

Dean leads us to a table by the window—which is tinted so that we can see out but people can't see in. I slide into my seat, careful not to jostle my ankle. When the waitress comes by, we decide to split a bottle of wine. And then we're left staring at each other.

Okay, so maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Now I have to come up with more things to talk about, and though Dean is perfectly nice, he's not exactly a big talker. I've given up on drawing out any of his passions—if there's anything in his life that makes him light up with excitement, he doesn't seem particularly interested in sharing it tonight.

I wonder if that lack of passion extends to the bedroom, I find myself wondering. Or would having sex with him be merely pleasant like everything else about him?

There certainly was a connection between passion inside and outside of the bedroom where Dante was concerned. At first glance, on the surface, Dante seems reserved. In perfect control. But I know from experience that beneath that controlled exterior, an intense inferno burns. I've seen the real Dante—the one the rest of the world never gets to see. There's a fire in him, a depth of feeling that is usually only visible through his scripts. But I've seen that depth of emotion in his eyes. Felt it on my skin. Heard it in his words. He and I seem to bring out the wildness in each other.

But there I go, thinking about Dante again. Bad Ashlyn.

I force myself to ask Dean about his current work projects. He looks grateful to have something to talk about, and he quickly launches into a story about one of his clients. As he speaks, I let my eyes wander over him. From his lovely blue eyes... down his straight nose... along his strong jaw... and finally lower to where the muscles of his throat move in time with his words. If I zone out, I can pretend he's giving an impassioned speech about his pet cause, or discussing his plans for getting his dream job, or even telling a hilarious, lively story about an adventure he had back in college. But it doesn't help much.

Eventually, my eyes start to wander. My gaze drifts across the bar, casually observing the other patrons. Almost reflexively, I find myself looking for any familiar celebrity faces. I don't see any, which is both a disappointment and a relief.

Until the door opens.

If this were one of the screenplays I submitted back at school, this part of the scene would have been torn to shreds for being too coincidental—not to mention extremely cliché. Funny, that film school is what I should think of when my worst nightmare is coming true. Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.

Of all people to walk into this bar, it had to be Dante.

Dante, who I'm supposed to be forgetting. Dante, who's supposed to be on a press tour right now. And not just Dante, no—he has someone else with him, too, and as I examine the second figure more closely, I realize it's his brother Luca. They're both covered up—sunglasses, layers, and in Luca's case, a baseball cap, and though both disguises would probably fool any casual observers, they don't get past me. My body is immediately on alert, fully aware of him even across the room.

For a split second my heart stops, half expecting Emilia Torres to walk in behind them, but—thank God for small mercies—it's just the two brothers.

That's still two more Fontaines than I wanted to see tonight.

They stop just inside the door, glancing around. Most people in the bar don't seem to be aware that two of Hollywood's hottest celebrities have just walked through the door, but I can't tear my eyes away. Dante always captures my full attention. And this is the first time I've ever seen Luca in person, but he too has a certain presence about him, that magnetism so often found in successful actors. Unlike Dante—who always looks so serious—Luca is flashing his famous smile as they survey the room.

I shrink back against the window, trying to position myself so that Dean blocks me from Dante's line of sight.

Dean, to his credit, notices something is wrong immediately.

"What is it?" He glances back over his shoulder. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," I say quickly. I need to get out of here. Now. "I've been thinking—maybe we should go see a movie after all."

"Right now? We don't even have our wine yet."

Shit. I forgot about that.

And right on cue, the waitress appears with the bottle and two glasses, so there's no slipping away now. I suppose I could tell him that I'm feeling tired or sick—or that I just remembered that one of the pain meds I'm taking for my ankle doesn't mix with alcohol—but as Dante likes to remind me, I've never been good at lying.

Besides, I tell myself. They've already walked over to the bar. And they've chosen seats with their backs to us. Maybe there's a chance I'll get out of here without anything awkward happening.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean asks as he pours our glasses.

"Yes," I say. "I just got distracted for a moment."

What was I thinking, drawing out this date? I should have called it a night when I knew this wasn't going anywhere. But Dean is a nice guy—and I'm not going to be a bitch. I'll drink my wine, make polite conversation, and part with him on kind terms.

I stay tucked against the window. Though there's a clear line of sight between me and the two Fontaine brothers at the bar, I feel safer against the glass, a little more out of sight. The wine disappears little by little. The conversation continues, as pleasant and uninspiring as ever. The two men at the bar order drinks and don't turn around. A few of the other patrons seem to have recognized them, but for the most part, they're left alone.

"This is the last of it," Dean says, emptying the rest of the bottle into my glass.

Thank God. "Cheers."

We clink glasses. Almost free. I'm going to make it. The next sip of wine is sweeter than all of the others put together.

But when I lower my glass, the back of my neck prickles. I know why even before I glance back at the bar. Dante has partially turned around on his stool, and his eyes are locked on me.

I raise my glass again, blocking my face, but I know it's too late. He's seen me. Recognized me. And if I know Dante, he's not going to just let me walk out of here.

When I lower my glass again, he's already halfway across the room. My breath quickens. How the hell am I going to get out of this—roundhouse kick him in the chest and make a mad dash for the exit while he's still stunned? Unfortunately, the state of my ankle pretty much guarantees I'll wipe out before I even reach the door.

And then he's right at the table, and there's no more time to plan my escape.

"Ashlyn," he says, and something about his voice makes me feel like a mouse who's been cornered by a snake. "What a surprise to see you here."

"Well, they tell me I have to leave the bakery sometimes," I say with a strained laugh.

"Mm." His eyes drift over to Dean. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

He's not going to let me wrangle my way out of this easily. I force a smile.

"This is Dean," I say. "Dean, this is—"

"Dante," our unexpected company cuts in. "Dante Fontaine." Even if he intended to keep his identity quiet tonight, he's willing to give it up now. He holds his hand out to Dean, who looks a little stunned as he takes it. It's the first emotion I've seen on his face all night.

"And what brings you two out here tonight?" Dante asks. His eyes are on me again, burning into me, but his expression is perfectly controlled.

He's not an idiot. I'm with a guy who's not my "boyfriend" on what is very obviously a date. If my clothes and makeup don't give it away, the empty bottle of wine between us certainly does. Now he's just trying to get me to admit it out loud.

Which I won't, of course.

"We were just enjoying a bottle of wine," I say.

That obviously doesn't satisfy him. "How do you two know each other?"

"A mutual friend." I'm more annoyed by the second. "Not that it's any of your business."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dean glancing between the two of us, obviously trying to figure out what's going on.

"And how's Jack?" Dante asks.

"That's none of your business, either." I can't keep the bite from my tone. "Now if you'll excuse us, we were in the middle of a conversation."

"And now we are in the middle of a conversation. Is this really how you treat an old friend?"

Dean stands up, and relief rushes through me. The two of us working together might actually manage to chase Dante away.

But instead, my perfectly pleasant date looks between us once more before saying, "It sounds like you two have something to discuss. I'm going to hit the restroom."

No! Don't leave me alone with him! I want to shout. But doing so would only be admitting weakness.

The moment Dean steps away, Dante moves to slide into his vacated seat.

"Don't you dare sit down," I say.

He ignores me. Instead, he props his forearms on the table and laces his fingers, looking across at me with an expression I'm having trouble reading. There's a wrinkle in his brow and the slightest hint of a frown on his lips, but his eyes have taken on that carefully blank look that makes him feel like a stranger.

"What happened to Jack?" he asks after a moment.

"As I said, that's none of your business." I'm in a pickle now—do I pretend we broke up? Or do I insist that everything is fine and that Dean is just a friend? Neither option is likely to win me points in this battle. And both just continue a web of lies that is getting stickier and more complicated by the second.

Easier to just avoid this conversation altogether.

"Isn't your brother waiting for you?" I say, gesturing toward the bar.

"Luca's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

"Have you told him about you and Emilia yet?"

An exasperated expression flickers across his face, but he regains control of himself quickly. "It wouldn't matter to him if he knew. As I've told you, it meant nothing."

"Sex never means nothing," I insist. "Well, at least to me." My cheeks blaze as I slide out of my chair. "Since you won't get the hint and leave, I think that's my cue to do so."

I think that shocks him—at least, it takes him a moment to get up out of his chair and come after me, even considering the limitations my ankle puts on a quick getaway. I'm at the door before I hear him behind me, but I don't look back as I step outside. I don't know what my plan is—Dean drove me here, and it's not like I can walk home—but I'll worry about that later. Dante lets me get twenty feet down the street before he catches me. He steps right in front of me, forcing me to stop.

"Not this time," he says.

"What the hell does that mean? Not what time?"

He moves forward, and I step back—right against the side of the bar. The bricks scratch against the backs of my arms as he looms over me. But he doesn't touch me.

"I'm not letting you walk away this time," he says, and there's a rough edge to his voice that makes my stomach flip-flop. The blank look he wore in the restaurant is gone, replaced by a fire that threatens to engulf me.

"Maybe you should," I counter, and my voice sounds as ragged as his. "Did you ever think of that?"

"Yes." He places a hand against the bricks on one side of my head. "A hundred times."

My heart is tumbling over itself. "Then why don't you?" Why are you still here, making this even harder on me?

His other hand comes up on the other side of me, effectively pinning me against the wall. But he still doesn't touch me, even as he leans closer. He's so close I can feel his breath on my face.

"I've never stopped regretting the last time I let you walk away from me," he murmurs.

I can't breathe. But I can't escape from him, either—not from his arms or his words or that look in his eyes.

"What happened to Jack?" he asks, his voice lower with every word. "Tell me, Ash."

I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to continue the lie, to hold on to the one last protective barrier I have between myself and this man. Another part of me wants to spill everything, to tell him the whole truth from beginning to end.

"Tell me," he repeats, and this time it sounds less like an order and almost like... begging. When I still can't find any words, he goes on. "Tell me you love him, Ashlyn. That he's the one you want in your bed at night. The one you want fucking you. The one whose name you want to cry out when you're coming. The one whose arms you want around you every morning. Tell me you want him and no one else."

Looking into his eyes—seeing the hunger, the desperation, the vulnerability—I'm finding it impossible to say anything at all.

"Tell me," he says, leaning even closer, "or I swear, I'm going to make you forget him."

Tell him! my mind screams. Tell him you love Jack! That you're still in a relationship! Tell him anything! But I don't. I can't. I won't.

And Dante doesn't ask me again. Before I can make myself act—or speak, or even think—his lips are on mine.

In an instant, everything changes. My fear and confusion and even my anger fade away beneath a flood of pleasure, replaced by a hunger so intense, and so sudden, that I have no choice but to submit to it. His lips are a spark that set my whole body on fire, and as that blaze consumes me, nothing else matters.

My mouth opens beneath his, inviting him in. He responds instantly, his tongue slipping between my lips as he presses against me, pushing me right back against the wall. I grab his shirt at the waist, clutching it in my fists as sensation sweeps through me.

I was starving for this. The longing has always been there—and I knew it was there, even when I tried to ignore it. Now that it's been acknowledged, now that it's free, it's a force that threatens to undo me completely. Dante's lips, his breath, his tongue... they're the sweetest things I've ever tasted, and at the same time, the most dangerous. Because I'm not myself anymore. I'm just a slave to the energy that crackles between us.

Dante drops his hands from the wall to my sides. His fingers run up and down my body—feeling me, remembering me, then drawing me closer. His tongue pushes deeper into my mouth, and his leg presses between mine. I moan against his lips as his thigh rubs against me. The thin material of my dress is little protection from that exquisite friction.

Was it ever like this? It was always intense, overwhelming—a feast of passion and sensation. But there's something new here, something infinitely more terrifying. I've lost control of myself. It's like I've been possessed. And Dante, too—he can't mean to continue this here. Can't mean to take me up against the side of a bar.

He moves his leg, shifting it right against the ache between my thighs, right where all of these sensations threaten to spill over. The sound I make this time is less like a moan and more like a sob, and that seems to spur him on. He tears his lips away from mine and starts kissing my jaw, my throat, my ear. I tilt my head back against the bricks, lost in the feeling. It's been so long since I've felt his lips on my skin. His hands on my breasts. His breath in my hair. So long since I've experienced the thrill of his body up against mine or marveled at how we fit together in such a strange and wonderful way. I know I don't have much experience, but I can't imagine it would be like this with just anyone. This is... This is...

"Wrong," I whisper, coming back to myself for a minute. What am I doing? Why am I letting myself fall into this trap again? The pain of walking away from him once was hard enough. How am I going to find the strength to do it a second time?

Because in spite of everything, I know deep down that there will be a second time.

"This is wrong," I say again, a little louder this time. I release his shirt and press against his shoulders. "Dante, we can't do this."

He goes rigid, his mouth still right against my ear. For a moment, he says nothing. And then, "Why?"

When his lips move, they brush against my skin, and a tremor moves through me. He must feel it, too, because he nuzzles my hair.

"Why is it wrong?" he murmurs. "It feels like quite the opposite to me." I hear a smile in his voice. "And I made you forget, didn't I?"

"Forget what?"

"Don't you mean who?" His thumbs brush against my stomach through the fabric of my dress, and his leg hasn't moved away from that sensitive bud between my legs.

I want to stay here in his arms, to give in to the living, pulsing need that still vibrates between us. To explore this desire another time, to see how it's changed in the time we were apart. To give my body the pleasure it's been missing.

Which is why I need to leave now.

I wriggle out of his arms, then limp several feet away before daring to turn and look at him. My entire body feels flushed, and my dress suddenly feels too tight around my chest. If I'm not careful, I'm going to hyperventilate.

"I can't go through this again," I say firmly—as much to myself as to him.

Dante, for once, looks almost disheveled. But his eyes are bright as he straightens and steps toward me.

"Are you sure about that?" he asks.

No. But I can't let him see that.

"Go on," he says calmly, but there's a wolfish look in his eye that I don't trust. "Go back to your date. But this isn't over, Ash. I've already told you that I don't plan on making the same mistake a second time. This time, there's no walking away from this. And we both know it."
CHAPTER SIX

"How did it go?" Mama Pat asks.

It's two days after my date with Dean—the first time Mama Pat is working since that dramatic evening—and she's nearly bursting as she pulls out her ingredients for a batch of strawberry cupcakes. I'm guessing from her grin that she hasn't spoken to Dean yet.

"He's very nice," I say. "And you were right—he's really cute."

Her eyebrow rises. She knows me too well. "But?"

"But there wasn't any chemistry," I say, then add, "Sadly. Because he seems like a sweet guy." I still feel a twinge—okay, more than a twinge—of guilt over how I handled things. Because even though I know Dean and I don't have a future, he still deserved better. I still have no idea if he guessed what happened between Dante and me against the side of the bar—he didn't ask where I'd been when I returned to the table, and he didn't ask about Dante at all—but it was clear he knew that there was no point in dragging things out any longer. When he dropped me off at my house, he simply said, as pleasantly as ever, "Thank you for the nice evening. I think our interests might lie in separate directions, but I wish you the best."

There'd been no anger in his voice, no resentment—which made me feel worse because I definitely deserved a little of both.

How the hell did I let things get to this point with Dante?

I've tossed and turned in bed the two nights since, trying to forget about that kiss. And the things Dante said before and after. His words still ring in my head: I've never stopped regretting the last time I let you walk away from me.

How am I supposed to interpret that? That he wishes we'd never broken up? If he feels that way, then why did he wait until now to tell me? He's had plenty of time to do it.

"Ash?" Mama Pat says.

I realize she's asked me a question. "I'm sorry—what were you saying?"

"Did you want to try the new buttercream recipe with these?"

"Sure."

For a moment, we work in silence. I keep thinking about the things Dante has said to me over the past two weeks. He says there's no denying this. No pretending that there's nothing between us. And as much as I hate to admit it... he's right. That kiss was like nothing I've ever experienced before. Even now, just thinking about it, my body begins to respond—my skin going hot, my nipples hardening against my bra, my tongue feeling suddenly thick and dry. There's a dull but insistent ache growing between my legs as I remember the way his lips tasted. The way his fingers dug into my sides. The way his thigh pressed in deliberate torture against the most sensitive part of my body...

A shiver courses through me—part arousal, part fear. My stomach is tight and my heart pounds as I feel the last of my defenses crumbling away. I've tried everything to protect myself from this man, from the way he makes me feel. There won't be a happy ending to this. But I can't help myself. He's right—I still want him. Still need him. Still crave him with every part of myself, body and soul. I'm about to have my heart broken all over again because I'm too weak to control my emotions.

The kitchen phone rings. Karen and Jilly only send calls back here if they're ones I need to handle personally—supply vendors, wedding clients, and the like—so I wipe my hands on my apron and grab it.

"Hello?" I say. "Ashlyn speaking. How can I help you?"

"I'd like to schedule a tasting."

My pulse quickens at the sound of that voice.

"Dante," I say, lowering my voice and turning my back to make it harder for Mama Pat to overhear our conversation. "Why are you calling here?"

"Just as I said—to arrange a tasting. You did offer during the original cake consultation."

"I most definitely did not offer. You seemed happy enough to leave the flavor selection up to me. In fact, you didn't seem to have much interest in the cake at all. I assumed you weren't being serious."

"I assure you, Ash, I was very serious. And I'm serious now."

I don't know what to do. Or what I want to do. But the smart thing would be to get him out of my life as soon as possible.

"Look, Dante—I think you should find another bakery to make this cake."

"I don't want another bakery to make it. I want you." He pauses as if to let the full meaning of that last part sink in for me. "I'll make sure pictures of this cake end up everywhere, Ash."

"I don't need your charity." I've already seen a healthy jump in business since photos of the cake from the Cataclysm: Earth party went public, but I don't want any favors from Dante. I don't want to owe him anything or let him have any more sway over me than he already does.

"Then I'll make sure it doesn't end up in any photos at all, if that's what you'd prefer," he says, not missing a beat. "But I still want the cake."

He's not going to back down easily, that's for damn sure—and I don't know how to get out of this without embarrassing myself further. I did take down his order—but mostly because I assumed he'd never follow up on it, that it was just a ploy to get me to talk to him that first day.

"Fine," I say. "Let's schedule a tasting." I'll just get Mama Pat to cover the appointment. "When can you come in?"

"I've got another round of press commitments over the next few days," he says, "but I have an opening on Monday afternoon."

"We're closed on Mondays. You know that."

"Then I'm happy to host the tasting at my place, if you'd prefer."

I'm not falling for that, and I'm a little insulted he expects me to. But Monday is out of the question—I can't call in Mama Pat to cover the appointment on one of her days off. She'll already be working overtime this weekend to help me with our recent influx of orders.

"The tasting has to be here," I tell him. "Is there any other time that might work for you?"

"I could do late Thursday evening."

That poses the same problems. "Why don't you have one of your assistants cover it?"

"This is an important cake. I don't trust it to anyone else." A pause. "If I didn't know any better, Ash, I'd think you were avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you!" Damn him—he knows just how to push my buttons. "Fine. Monday afternoon. Four o'clock. If you're late, I'm canceling your order."

"You don't have to concern yourself with that, Ash. I'll be there."

I've no doubt you will. Hanging up the phone, a wave of dizziness passes through me, and I lean against the wall for support. Dante isn't going to give up this hunt anytime soon.

But that's not what scares me. What scares me is that the longer this goes on, the less I think I want him to.

* * *

I'm testing a spicy variation of my new caramel recipe when the jingle of the bell on my bakery's door announces Dante's arrival at a quarter to four on Monday afternoon.

I freeze. He's early. I should have known he'd be early.

My last three hours have been spent in intense concentration. It's easy to let my mind wander when I'm making recipes I've made a hundred times before. But when I'm testing things, I want to make sure I take in every detail, notice every shift in color or texture, taste or smell. It has made it much easier to forget about why I'm here today.

But now that Dante has arrived, I can't distract myself anymore—and I refuse to examine whether my heart has sped up due to nerves or anticipation.

"I'm in the kitchen!" I call. The caramel sauce I'm stirring has just started to thicken and I can't walk away. "I'll be out in a minute."

There's no response. But a second later, I hear the kitchen door swing open behind me.

"Give me a moment to finish this sauce," I say without turning around. "I have your samples in the walk-in cooler." I swirl my spoon around the pot a couple of times. The sauce's texture is getting much closer to what I'm looking for, but it needs a couple of minutes before it's perfect.

Dante still doesn't say anything, but I can feel his gaze on my back. The back of my neck prickles with gooseflesh, and though it's not an entirely unpleasant sensation, it leaves me on edge.

"Are you trying to creep me out?" I say, finally glancing over my shoulder at him.

He's standing there with the oddest little smile on his face. My cheeks instantly go hot. "What?"

"Nothing," he says casually. He takes a step forward. "I've just never had the chance to watch you work before. Well, not at this, anyway." He gestures at the kitchen around us.

"You saw me working the first time you came in here," I remind him, turning back to my caramel.

"But not back here. This is your real element."

I'm not sure how to respond to that. "Uh... thank you. I think."

He laughs, making me jump. I didn't realize how near he'd come so quickly.

"I mean that you seem at home back here," he says, far too close to my ear. "And it's a pleasure to watch in motion."

I snort and continue working, refusing to acknowledge his proximity. "I'm just stirring some sauce. Anyone could do it."

"It's still a pleasure."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Still, in my mind I can see him bent over his notebook, working on his latest script, and I remember vividly what an intoxicating sight that was. There was an energy there, a passion that was evident in even the smallest movement of his pen. He was just working, just writing, and yet I could have watched him for hours. It was him at his truest, and I couldn't take my eyes off of him.

"I did always love baking," I say softly.

"I remember."

"I guess in my head I always thought it would be an impractical career. Which is ridiculous, because at the time I was trying to make it in the film industry." But I guess I have my parents to blame for that—both of them managed to build successful careers behind the scenes in Hollywood, and so it always seemed like a perfectly logical choice. "But though I love film, my heart wasn't in it. Not like my heart is in this." Not like Dante's heart is in his writing.

"Mm." The tips of his fingers brush my waist. "I'm glad to hear you found your passion."

There's a tightness in my throat, but why I'm getting so emotional over this I couldn't say.

"Did you know?" I hear myself ask softly. "Back then, I mean. Did you realize that I wasn't cut out for the movie industry?"

His fingers tighten on my waist. "You never do anything halfway, Ash. And you were always quite talented at school. I saw that. Everyone did." He pauses. "I'll admit, I always wondered..."

"What?" I prompt when he doesn't finish.

"You left the program after things ended between us," he says slowly. "I always wondered if I was to blame for your departure."

"Oh." I stop stirring.

For a moment, he doesn't say anything. And then, "Well? Am I to blame?" His tone is perfectly measured, but the answer must be important to him if he's asking this now, after all this time.

"Honestly, yes. In part." My words are hardly above a whisper. "I mean—if things hadn't ended when they did, I probably would have finished school and gone into the business as I planned. But after we... well, it was hard to be there, after. Whatever joy I'd found in... I mean, I was never like you, I just..." I shake my head. "Our breakup was the reason I told myself I was leaving, but honestly, quitting was the best decision I've ever made. I never belonged there in the first place." He starts to argue, but I cut him off. "It was one of the last connections I had to my parents. I grew up hearing stories about their work, spending family nights watching classic movies, going to the movie theater every weekend. I love film—but not like them. Not like you. Some people enjoy movies. And others... that love burns through their blood. Inspires them. Drives them. It was never like that for me, but it took me a long time to recognize that."

He doesn't say anything, and it makes me nervous. I've never spoken so openly about this with anyone—not even Jack. It's strange to finally admit it out loud.

"It might have looked like I was running away," I say. "And maybe I was at first. But then I took my inheritance and opened this place, and even though getting this little shop off the ground was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, it's energized me in a way I've never experienced before. I knew the minute I opened the doors of this place that this was what I was born to do. So I guess I have a reason to thank you." It's both exhausting and incredibly freeing to say that.

My sauce is bubbling, and I quickly lean forward, giving it a few stirs as I turn down the heat. My body feels heavy and light at once.

And Dante moves in behind me, close enough that his chest brushes my back.

"No one who sees you here could ever doubt that this is what you were born to do," he says in a husky tone. "It shines through you. It's visible in every brick in this place. And, no doubt, through every bit of food that comes out of this kitchen." He leans even closer, looking down over my shoulder. "What is it you said you were making?"

How could such a simple, ordinary question sound so intimate?

"Caramel sauce," I answer softly.

"May I try it?"

The color and texture are finally just about right—I see no reason to deny him a taste. I switch off the burner and reach over to grab a couple of the disposable plastic spoons I use for taste testing.

"It's extremely hot, so let it cool a moment first," I say as I scoop a little of the sauce up in each spoon. "And it's a new recipe, so it might need some tweaking. I haven't even had a chance to try it yet."

"I'm sure it will be delicious." He's still right behind me, so I pass him his spoon over my shoulder. I should probably turn around and face him, but instead, I stay where I am as I wait for my sample to cool.

"Is this how you spend most of your days, then?" he asks, his mouth still too close to my ear. "Creating new confections?"

He speaks as if savoring the taste of every word. His questions aren't particularly personal—honestly, they aren't any different from the questions most people ask me when I tell them I own and run a bakery—but the words spoken aloud are only half of the conversation happening between us right now. Today is the first time we've spoken in any depth about the aftermath of our breakup, and that emotional tension is still there, lingering beneath the surface, coloring everything we say. And I won't even let myself think about the conversation happening between our bodies.

"Not every day," I answer. "I have to take care of the business side of things as well. And manage the custom cakes. And deal with supply vendors. And all that other stuff." I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead. When did I start feeling so flushed? "But it's fun. It's a challenge. And I love it."

His hand brushes against my back. "I can tell."

My chest is getting tight. "The sauce is probably cool enough now." I shove my spoon in my mouth before I'm forced to come up with more conversation, and he brings his spoon to his mouth as well.

Thankfully, this latest recipe is delicious—damn delicious, if I may say so myself. It hits all the notes I wanted, and the punch of spice is just right.

"What do you think?" I ask Dante.

"I think you're a caramel genius."

In spite of the lump in my belly, I laugh. "I'm glad you approve."

"Can I have another taste?"

"Greedy."

"This is a tasting, after all."

"A cake tasting. Not a caramel one." But I grab a clean spoon and scoop up more of the sauce for him, then pass it over my shoulder once more.

This time, one or the other of us isn't as careful—as I pass the spoon, a bit of the sauce drips off and onto my shoulder. I don't usually bother wearing my chef coat on days when I'm here by myself, so I'm just in a cotton tee—and the caramel lands on the bit of bare skin that's revealed just below where my neck meets my shoulder. I jump, then reach quickly for the kitchen towel I keep tucked in my apron.

"Let me," Dante says as my fingers curl around my towel. Before I can say anything, he dips his head, and then the wet tip of his tongue flicks against my skin.

I freeze, my whole body going hot, then cold. His fingers spread against my waist as he cleans up the caramel—and he's very thorough, continuing the slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue even when I'm sure the sauce is long gone. Goose bumps ripple across my skin as his lips brush against the base of my neck—first lightly, and then with more urgency, sucking at the sensitive skin. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me back against his hips, letting me feel the hard length of him against my ass. He gives me one final nip with his teeth before pulling his mouth away.

"Yes, you are definitely a genius," he murmurs.

I can't breathe. I need to stay focused, to remember why he's here.

"The cake is in the cooler," I say, sliding out of his grip. "Let me go grab it."

Never in my life have I been so grateful for a walk-in fridge. I hurry inside, and the moment the insulated door shuts behind me, I sink against the nearest shelf, trying to regain my senses. The cool air is a relief, and after a moment my flushed body starts to feel normal again.

Just do the tasting and get him out of here, I tell myself. Absolutely no more licking allowed.

The cake samples are on a nearby shelf, and as soon as I've regained my composure, I grab them and return to the kitchen.

Dante is looking around, casually examining my kitchen as if he wasn't just licking my neck only a few moments ago. If he's as affected by that contact as I am, he certainly doesn't show it.

"Why don't we go out to the tasting table in the front?" I say, eager to get down to business.

"We can do it in here, if you'd prefer," he says. "As I said, I like seeing you in your element. And there's no need for us to be so formal. I'm not just another customer."

That's exactly why I'd prefer to sit out front—the more I treat him like any other client, the more I can pretend this is only business—but I can't seem to deny that smile of his. Without even consciously making the decision, I find myself laying out the cake samples on the workstation in front of us.

"We've got chocolate, strawberry, mocha, and orange sponge on this plate," I say, uncovering the samples. "And on this one we have traditional white cake, spice cake, lemon, and a rosewater pound cake. I also have several flavors of buttercream and ganache for you to try with each so you can pick the combinations you like best."

His eyes roam over the small squares of cake, and the enthusiasm I see in his eyes affects me in a way it probably shouldn't.

"Where would you like to start?" I ask, going over to the shelf and grabbing a couple of forks.

His eyes gleam, and that smile is still on his lips. "You tell me."

"It doesn't matter," I say, my face heating. "Try whatever you like. Maybe start with the more traditional flavors and go from there."

I use a fork to scoop up a bit of dark chocolate ganache and a piece of the chocolate cake. "Try this."

When he takes the fork from my hand, his fingers slide against mine in a way I'm sure is no accident, but I pretend not to notice. His gaze remains on mine as he raises this first bite to his mouth. I can see the moment it hits his tongue—his eyes widen slightly, then warm as the flavors sink into his taste buds. People react to good food the same way they react to a toe-curling kiss—something I never really noticed until I entered this business. Our bodies are designed to respond to sensual pleasure, be it a touch or a taste or a delicious aroma. I know this, but until this moment, I never realized how deeply, intimately pleasing it can be to watch someone react in this primal way to my food.

"What do you think?" I ask.

"I think I'd like another bite."

I smile. "Okay. But let's try a different flavor combination. How about orange sponge with vanilla buttercream?" I scoop up the flavors and pass him the fork. Again, I have a hard time keeping my eyes off his face as he tastes and swallows this new blend of flavors. Once more his physical, visible reaction leaves me breathless.

"Well?" I prompt.

"As I said before, you're a genius. I can't imagine anything you make being anything but mouthwatering."

"Well, you're going to have to start being pickier, because you can't have all the flavors."

There's a dark glint in his eyes that makes his smile look devilish. "Then I guess we're going to have to keep tasting."

I give him spice cake with cream cheese frosting next, then mocha cake with coffee buttercream. He tries each while continuing to watch me closely—or is he just watching the way I watch him?

After the mocha cake, we finally start to get somewhere. He says, "That one is good, but I think I'd prefer something a little sweeter."

"Let's try the strawberry cake next, then," I say. "Do you prefer cream cheese frosting or buttercream?"

"Hm..." Rather than wait for a clean fork, he scoops up a bit of the cream cheese frosting with his thumb and pops it into his mouth. Before I can say anything, he repeats the process with the vanilla buttercream. A flush creeps up my neck as I watch his thumb disappear between his lips.

"You do have a fork," I remind him, looking away so that he doesn't notice that I'm getting worked up over a simple thing like him licking his fingers.

"It's more fun this way." He scoops up another bit of frosting from the plate. "You're a baker. Certainly you know this."

"I don't stick my hands in things I'm going to be serving," I say. "And I certainly don't lick my fingers while I'm working. The health department would shut me down in a minute."

"Well, the health department isn't here now," he says. "And you're not serving this to the public. Just me, and I have no issues with you licking anything."

There's no pretending that wasn't a suggestive remark. "This is still business," I insist. "And I—"

"Just one taste." He holds out his hand, and about a teaspoon of buttercream sits on the tip of his index finger. I can't believe that I'm arguing with him about this. He's supposed to be the serious one. Not the one tempting me into breaking the rules. And though he's right that these particular bits of cake and frosting will never be served to the public, I still find myself resisting. Especially since he's holding his hand out as if he expects me to lick his finger.

But I can tell by the look on his face that he's testing me. Teasing me. And I'm not exactly the sort of girl who backs down from a challenge.

Okay. I'll play.

Rather than dip my head and lick the frosting right off his skin, I use my own finger to scoop off a bit of the buttercream and bring it to my lips.

"There," I say after it melts on my tongue. "I've licked my finger. Are you happy now?"

"Not nearly." He grabs my hand and lifts it up. "You've left a good bit of frosting on your skin."

I'd hardly call what's left on my finger a 'good bit,' but Dante isn't going to submit to any rationality right now. "That's what napkins are for."

He smiles. "I don't believe in napkins." He brings my hand higher, closer to his mouth—but slowly, as if daring me to stop him.

I don't. His eyes remain on mine as his tongue comes out and licks my finger. Sensation shoots up my arm—cold, then hot, then a shivery place somewhere in between. His velvety lips close over my skin, and meanwhile, he never looks away from me.

When he finally releases me, I can't think of anything to say except, "You still have some on your finger, too."

I don't know what I was expecting him to do, but my stomach flip-flops when he holds his hand out to me. I take it in mine, folding my fingers around his heated skin, trying not to notice the pattern of calluses on his palm, marks formed from years of scribbling out scripts with a pen.

And in spite of my intentions going into this tasting, I can't help but bring his hand to my lips. Can't help tasting his finger as he tasted mine. Can't help slipping the tip of it into my mouth to clean off every last bit of frosting. His skin is salty beneath the sweetness of the buttercream, and the taste of him causes heat to rush between my legs. His eyes have darkened considerably. His mouth hangs partially open as if he means to say something—or attack me the moment my lips are free. The hunger in his gaze is plain, and this time, it's not my baking that he's responding to.

His free hand comes out and grabs my side, pulling me closer. Only when our hips are pressed together does he drag his hand out of my mouth, obviously ready to make a different use of my lips. But when his face dips toward mine, the panic sets in. I twist out of his grasp, retreating to a safe distance before turning back to look at him.

"We have business to finish," I say.

He takes a step toward me. "Yes, we do."

"I mean the cake," I say desperately—even though my body wants nothing more than to sink into his arms, to taste his lips like I just tasted his finger.

"Use whatever flavors you like."

"The only reason we're even having this tasting is because you insisted—"

"Is that the only reason?"

My eyes fall closed for a moment. "Don't do this, Dante."

"Why not?" I hear him step closer. "I told you, Ash. I can read everything on your face. And in case you've forgotten, I was there when we kissed the other night."

"It doesn't matter," I say, opening my eyes. He's too close to me again, but I stay where I am. "It doesn't matter what I feel. Or even what I want. I'm not putting myself through this again."

He frowns. "I know things didn't end well between us last time, but—"

"That's an understatement," I snap. "You broke my heart, Dante. And I see no evidence that you've changed enough not to do it again."

His whole face has tightened. "May I remind you, Ashlyn, that you were the one who broke up with me?"

"Because you'd pulled away. Because you thought it was okay to take another woman to your events—"

"I explained that to you, Ash."

"And you're still defending that bullshit excuse, which means you haven't changed. I'm an idiot if I willingly walk back into that."

"You're an idiot if you walk away from this."

I shake my head, growing angrier with every word that comes out of his mouth. "You've had three years, Dante. If you really felt this way, why are you only saying so now?"

"You weren't exactly happy with me when you left."

"I'm not exactly happy with you now."

"I convinced myself that maybe it was better to let you go."

"Obviously you didn't do a very good job of it if you're here now."

"You're right."

That admission stuns me for a moment, but I find my voice again quickly.

"We are better off apart," I say. "We're too different. I'll never belong in your world, Dante. And you'll never pass in mine."

"Now you are the one spouting bullshit."

"It's not bullshit! We don't exist in a bubble."

"But that's not what broke us up. That's not what you're still angry about." He's so close now our toes are nearly touching. "Lay it on me, Ash. Let it out. Scream at me if you have to. I can take it." He doesn't look angry now—in fact, quite the opposite. There's a softness in his eyes, a tenderness. An apology.

For some reason, this kindness and understanding only makes me angrier.

"It's not enough," I snap. "It will never be enough. No amount of screaming will fix this." I suck in a ragged breath. "I loved you. I loved you so much it hurt. So much it still hurts." And now there are tears in my eyes, but I don't know how to stop them. "It's not fair that you can still do this to me. It's not fair. Why couldn't you just leave me alone? Why couldn't you just let me get on with my life?" I want to shove him away from me. But when my hands come up against his chest, they can't move—and then his hands are on my wrists, and his face is coming down toward mine, and before I realize what's happening, he's kissing me.

And I lose the battle with myself.

A sound rises in my throat that's half sob and half moan, but I can't fight this anymore. I don't want to fight it. Dante drops my wrists and loops his arms around me, pulling me against his chest, and his hands are everywhere—cradling my lower back, gliding up my spine, threading through my hair—and always pulling me closer. Deeper. His lips devour mine, and when I try to catch my breath his mouth moves around my face, kissing up my tears, erasing them with his lips and tongue. Taking all of my pain, all of my hurt, all of my anger. Everything I've built up over these past three years is pouring out of me as desire, as need. I'm dizzy with it.

His mouth dances over my cheeks. My eyelids. My jaw. My throat. And I kiss him just as fiercely wherever I can reach—his neck, his ear, his temple.

"You made me crazy," he says against my throat. "You still do. It never stopped." He spins me around and presses my back against the table, then buries his face against my neck again. "There's no going back."

My fingers grip his hair. He grabs me by the ass and lifts me onto the edge of the workstation, then pushes me back against the cool metal.

"There's no going back," he says again, looking down at me. His eyes are two burning embers. His hair falls down across his temples and ears, and for a moment I'm back at that first night, looking up at him and knowing he's about to change me forever. There's no going back.

He leans down and brushes his lips against mine. I tilt my head up into his kiss. This feels natural, kissing him again. It feels right—like this is what my body was made to do. Like I've been denied a basic necessity of life.

Like the first time, his gentleness doesn't last long. If he's feeling half of the longing that I am, it's a wonder he restrains himself for as long as he does. His mouth grows rougher, more urgent, his tongue sliding between the seam of my lips. His hands catch my wrists and hold them back against the table. My left wrist is still a little tender and it throbs beneath his touch, but I welcome the sensation. His hips press against my legs, forcing me to spread my thighs apart, and I'll submit to anything if it allows me to get closer to him. My throat burns with emotion, but I can no longer say what it is that causes the tears to leak down my cheeks—nor do I care. The moment they leave my eyes, Dante's lips are there, sweeping them away. Cleaning up years of strangled feelings that are suddenly overflowing.

I want to wrap my hands around him, to hold him close to me. But he still has me by the wrists, so I settle for hooking my legs around his hips. There's a twinge of pain in my still-recovering ankle, but I ignore it. Dante growls and grinds against me, then stills.

"I'm going to take you," he says roughly against my cheek. "Tell me now if you don't want this, because I don't trust myself to stop again."

My heart is beating so fast that it hurts. A little voice in my head tells me I should stop this, that I should do the smart thing and walk away while I still have some of my dignity, but I shove those thoughts back down.

"I've waited three years for this," I hear myself say. "If we stopped I think I'd fall apart."

I hardly get the last word out before his mouth attacks mine, and then the time for talking is over. Dante releases my wrists and begins to pull at my clothes. His fingers claw at my apron, tugging the straps this way and that before he realizes he needs to go for the knot tied at my lower back. In an instant, his arms slip beneath me, lifting me back up into a sitting position. He crushes me against his chest and kisses me while his hands undo the messy bow at the back of my waist.

I, meanwhile, am prepared to take advantage of this position. I quickly undo the buttons of his shirt, and while my hands work I tighten my legs around his hips and slide against him, rubbing myself right against the hardness in his pants. I may not be especially sexually experienced, but I know Dante's body well. And I know how our bodies work together, move together, blend together. I remember some of the things that made him groan as vividly as I remember the things he did that made me tremble and cry out. And I'm suddenly overcome by the desire to try them again, to see if I still have that power over him.

My lips pull away from his. He's gotten the knot on my apron undone, but he gets distracted as he tries to take it off, his fingers wandering to the strip of bare skin that's showing between my shirt and jeans. I move my lips along his jaw toward his hair, and when I reach his ear I suck the lobe between my teeth, biting down on the tender skin.

This time, the sound he makes isn't a growl—it's something infinitely more feral. His fingers dig into my back, and though I gasp at the sharp pain, I don't pull away. No, gentleness was never our way. Dante once said it was because we felt too deeply to hold back, that we didn't know how else to deal with the overflow of energy between us. And he's right. I've never been good at handling my emotions. And Dante... Dante might seem to be controlled, might seem to be the thoughtful, reserved one next to his brothers, but beneath the surface there's a storm of emotions that matches my own.

His shirt is finally open. I tear it off his shoulders, and as I do I let my mouth fall to the side of his neck. My teeth nibble and nip at his skin, and his body goes rigid against me, like a rubber band ready to snap. The next time my teeth graze him, he practically tears my apron off of me. Then my shirt. His nimble fingers undo my bra as he pushes me down onto my back again, and I shiver as the cool metal of the table hits my spine—then again when I see the way he's looking down at my bare breasts.

It's been too long since he's handled my naked breasts. My nipples have hardened even before he touches them, and when he finally does, I whimper and arch against his hands, surprised by how sensitive they are beneath his eager fingers.

Dante knows what I want, and he wastes no time in teasing. Instantly, his mouth is on me, making a rough path across my breast, finally taking the bud of my nipple between his lips. He doesn't taunt me with kisses or delicate flicks of his tongue—no, he bites, sucks, tortures me into a sweet frenzy with his lips and teeth. I buck beneath him, digging my fingers into his scalp, torn between begging him to relieve me and urging him onward. My mind is fuzzy, my body so hot and sensitive that I feel everything a hundred times more acutely than I should. He's driving me past the breaking point, and yet I don't want him to stop. Can't bear for him to stop.

It's not right. Not right that he can still do this to me. Not right that after all of my sensible decisions, all of my self-preservation, he can erase everything like this. Make me feel these things again. Make my body ache and sing and tremble and yearn. I thought I could escape him once. But I was wrong. It's not right.

I shut my eyes, surrendering to all of the emotions I don't want to feel, all of the sensations that are out of my control. I hate him. I hate him for doing this to me.

But I also want him, so badly that I can feel the tears building up in my eyes again, feel the knot in my stomach twisting and turning even as I cling to him, silently begging him for more.

He undoes my jeans as his mouth moves to my other nipple. Then his hands move to my hips and slide down my thighs until he can pull my legs away from his waist. I make a sound of protest, but he compensates by giving me an especially passionate nip with his teeth, and I relent. This allows him to pull my jeans and underwear down my legs, leaving me completely naked beneath him. No sooner have my jeans hit the floor than he's undoing his own fly and pushing his pants down his legs.

It's been so long since I've seen him naked. So long since I've admired the hard planes of his chest, or followed the dark trail of hair from his belly button down to his groin, or marveled at the hard, thick length of him. But neither of us seems to want to waste time on studying each other's bodies. We're both slaves to a larger need, a deeper hunger. He leans down fully against me, capturing my mouth again, and the feel of his full weight against me, of his rigid arousal pressed between my legs, is so sweet and sinful and terrifying all at once that I don't know what to do. My fingers tighten in his hair, but he seems to have other plans. He grabs my wrists again and traps them once more against the table, leaving me at his mercy. And then he pulls back just enough to look down at my face.

"You're still crying," he says, his voice hoarse.

I shake my head from side to side, half-mad with all of the emotions and sensations rushing through me. "I don't know what to do. I can't... I don't know what I'm doing." What I'm feeling. I only know one thing—that we can't stop this now. There's no going back. "Please don't stop. Please. Please..."

Indecision flickers in his eyes. His desire battles with concern for whatever it is he sees in my face.

"Please don't stop," I beg again. "Please, Dante."

When I say his name, his desire wins. I see it flood his eyes, turn them dark and bright at once. And in that moment, his decision is made. Before I can even take a breath, he buries himself in me.

As soon as he's inside of me, the world changes. My body changes. My heart can't seem to keep up with itself anymore. I know it shouldn't be like this—that he's just a man, and this is just sex—but I suddenly feel like I'm falling, diving into a storm and giving myself up completely.

And at the same time, I feel like I'm finally whole again.

I hate him. The words flood my brain as he begins to move, filling me and retreating, joining our bodies in the way they were meant to be joined. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not with him. Not for me. I was supposed to be past this. To be stronger. To be free of him.

Instead I'm losing myself, drowning a little more with every stroke of his body, hating him a little more with every ragged breath. He's not supposed to have this power over me.

His hands release my wrists and creep up until they're flat against mine, palm to palm. His fingers twine through mine, and though I hate myself for it, I find myself gripping him back, hanging desperately on. My legs have once more found their way around his hips, and I rise to meet his thrusts, trying to appease the ache that has settled in my lower belly.

I want him. I want him as much now as I ever did—maybe even more than I ever did. My body missed this—missed him—in a way that I can't even put into words.

His face is buried in my hair now, his breath hot against my ear.

"I'm never letting you go, Ash," he rasps. "Never again."

God, why does he have to say things like that? Why does he have to pretend that all of our problems are over, that we aren't the same people we were back then? That having sex solves everything?

At the same time, his words fill me with a feeling so wonderful and overwhelming that my entire body responds, opening further to him. Something swells in my chest even as the knot in my stomach twists again. And I don't know what to do with any of these emotions.

His shoulder is right in front of my face, strong and corded with muscle like the rest of him. I lift my chin and catch his skin beneath my teeth, biting down on him with much more force than I used on his ear or neck.

He responds with a noise deep in his throat, and suddenly his thrusts take on a new energy, a rhythm that threatens to tear me apart. I ride the pulsing flood with him, my body meeting his with every stroke, my lips and teeth hanging onto his shoulder. I want to dig my fingers into his back, to hold him as hard as I can against me, but he still has his hands twined through mine, so I just keep biting him. If I'm causing him any pain, he doesn't seem to mind—in fact, it only seems to make him wilder.

My climax comes so quickly that I don't have time to prepare myself, don't even realize what's happening until I'm already over the edge. I cry out, releasing him, and he makes a sound I know deep down as my body contracts, an echo of my complete surrender. Within seconds he finds his own release, and I'm filled with a flood of warmth.

My head falls back against the table. Dante relaxes on top of me, all of the tension flowing out of his body. But he doesn't withdraw from me, doesn't release his grip on my hands. His breath is hot against my ear, his body sticky with sweat against my heated skin. I never want him to move.

I needed this. Wanted this. Craved it in my very soul. And at the same time, I feel like I've lost something, feel like I've betrayed the woman who spent the last few years trying to be stronger, trying to build something from the ashes he left behind. Instead, the weak, emotional girl won this battle.

"Ash," Dante sighs against the side of my neck. He says it with a tenderness that makes my throat hurt, but I can only think of three words, over and over again:

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.
CHAPTER SEVEN

He moves first, rolling off of me and onto his side. But he keeps one of his arms around me, letting his fingers trail across the skin of my belly. Part of me longs to lean into him, to keep the connection between us, and the other part wants to get far away from this—from him—as fast as possible.

I sit up.

"Not yet," Dante says, his arm sliding around my waist. "I'm not done with you."

He pulls me back down, right against his chest. I sink back, melting against the familiar, heady scent of his skin. God help me.

His lips are at my neck. His fingers drift down between my legs, down to where I'm still wet with the evidence of our ecstasy.

My stomach clenches.

"This is wrong," I say, jerking out of his grip and sitting up again. This time, I manage to avoid his arm as I slip off the table and grab desperately for my clothes.

Dante sits up behind me. "This isn't wrong, Ash."

"We shouldn't have done it." I find my shirt and tug it over my head. Now that I've managed to find a little strength, a little bit of self-control, I refuse to look at him. If I do, I'm afraid I'll fall right back into his arms.

"What are you talking about?" He's right behind me, his breath on my neck. A quiver moves down my spine, and it takes all of my effort to ignore the fresh wave of desire that sweeps through me.

I grab my jeans, still refusing to face him. "This. We shouldn't have let it go so far."

"On the contrary. I think we're just getting started." His fingers brush my lower back. "I told you, Ash—this time I'm not letting you go."

"You have to!" I snap, spinning on him. "You have to let me go."

One look in his eyes gives me the answer, but I cut him off before he can say a word.

"We didn't use protection," I say.

"Is that what this is about?" His jaw is tight, but his eyes still shine with something that makes my insides go weak. "Ash, I'm clean. And I always use a condom. Always before now, I mean."

Considering our past, I resign myself to believing him—we always used condoms when we dated before.

"You used to be on the pill," he continues. "Has that changed?" Suddenly his fingers are against my cheek, his touch as light as air. "If something happens, you can rest assured that I'll—"

"It's not just that," I say. "And yes, I'm on the pill." How do I put what I'm feeling into words? How do I explain this to him in a way he'll understand?

He's still naked. That and the way he's touching me make it hard to concentrate, make it hard to push down my body's reaction and focus on the uncertainty in my heart.

"I can't do this again," I say. "Any of this." My jeans are buttoned, so I pull away from him and reach down for my apron. "I need to get back to work. I just want to forget this ever happened."

But he steps in front of me again. "You begged me to keep going."

The look in his eyes makes me feel sick to my stomach—guilt and confusion swirl in the depths of his gaze, though they don't drown out the brightness of his desire, or his determination. Shame rises in my chest.

"I didn't mean... of course I wanted you to... I wanted to..." My skin feels hot again. God, I didn't mean to make him feel like he's taken advantage of me in some way. "But it was a moment of weakness. One I don't think we should repeat."

"Do you actually mean that? Or are you just running away again?"

Anger flares in my chest. "I'm not running away. I'm protecting myself!"

For a moment, he just stares at me. His eyes—no longer gleaming, but hard and inscrutable—pierce me. His face doesn't betray a hint of emotion as he bends down and grabs his clothes.

He dresses in silence. My chest is heaving, and I'm torn between anger and regret, between fear and a deep longing that I'm not sure I want to name. This is why we can't be together. I can't live like this. I can't put my heart and soul through this again when I know our situation is hopeless. I feel like I should say something to him, but I can't find the words.

Only when he's dressed does he turn back to me.

"I'll have my assistant call you about the cake," he says.

And just like that, he's gone.

* * *

For days afterward, I'm in a daze.

I don't feel like myself. My head throbs. My heart feels tired. My body... my body feels different. It's been so long since I've had sex that I feel as if I've reawakened parts of myself, stirred long-dormant nerves back to life. My skin is more sensitive than usual, and there's a tender feeling between my legs that reminds me too much of the soreness I felt the day after he took my virginity. The marks left by his mouth and nails linger on me for even longer—and in spite of everything, I find myself reliving the passionate nips of his teeth every time I catch sight of those bruises in my bathroom mirror.

I'm hopeless.

The worst part is that every time my cell rings, every time the bell on the door of the bakery jingles, my heart leaps as if I expect him to be there. And when it isn't him, I'm flooded with an unsettling mixture of disappointment and relief.

Serves me right. I got what I wanted, didn't I? He seems content to leave me alone, and now I need to get on with my life.

But why did I have to sleep with him? Why did I have to submit even once to the small part of me that refused to let him go? If I hadn't let him kiss me again, if I hadn't melted into his arms and made love to him, this would be easier. But I'm weak.

I don't tell Jack what happened between Dante and me. He wouldn't understand. I'm not sure anyone would.

Instead, I try to remind myself of those last few weeks Dante and I spent as a couple. Of all the reasons I ended things and told myself I was better off without him.

It had started as a small but nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, the end of us. At that point in our relationship, we were spending nearly every night in each other's arms. We couldn't get enough of each other, and in many ways it felt like we'd created our own little pocket of heaven. By day, I was a film student. By night, I was Dante Fontaine's lover. It was a thrilling, incredibly sensual experience.

We never went out together. There were no public appearances, no paparazzi chasing us, no fanfare of any kind. We existed in our own little world, and it was only the small things that reminded me of who he was—passing mentions of his brothers or parents or manager, for example, or those rare occasions where we had to schedule our plans around events he needed to attend. When we were together, he was just Dante—the exquisite lover and brilliant writer. Sometimes I'd wake up to find his side of the bed empty, then look over and see him sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, scribbling in his notebook as the rays of dawn filtered in through the window. Often I'd just lie there, still groggy with sleep, and watch his pen move across the page. Watch his eyebrows move with his thoughts. Watch his lips mouth the words as he tried to work out a bit of dialogue. Often on those mornings he was wearing nothing more than his boxer briefs and his pair of dark-rimmed glasses. He looked so normal, so unlike the perfect picture of a man who appeared on the covers of the magazines in the supermarket. And he was mine.

The cracks that formed between us were small at first—another night of lovemaking canceled for a business commitment, a distance over breakfast. He rarely talked about the celebrity side of his life with me. At the beginning of our relationship, I appreciated this separation—relationships are hard enough without public scrutiny—but as the weeks crept into months, I began to wonder why he was so determined to keep the two apart. I felt like I only knew half of him. When I wandered past the tabloids in the grocery store or came across his photos online, the man who looked back at me was a stranger.

Several times, I suggested we go out for dinner, or out and about town. He always dodged the issue, usually by telling me he'd rather spend the evening in bed—and more often than not, it didn't take much convincing before I was in his arms.

But I couldn't ignore his other half forever.

We were lying in bed together when it happened. Our skin was still sticky with sweat, still heated from our exertions. My cheek was pressed against his chest, his hand stroking my back. His heart beat steadily beneath my ear.

"I have something I need to ask you," he said.

The seriousness of his tone made me instantly nervous.

"What?" I asked without lifting my head.

His hand stilled on my back, his fingers pausing right at the base of my spine. "Luca's movie comes out in two weeks. I'm expected to be at the premiere."

I raised my head, propping my chin on his chest so I could look up at his face. "What's your question?" My heartbeat quickened in anticipation, and my head filled with images—of me on Dante's arm on the red carpet, of the photographers' lights flashing, of our picture on the covers of all the magazines at the checkout line. It was a terrifying, sobering vision of the future—but at the same time, I was willing to embrace it all to be with him.

"It's been a long time since I've been seen in public with a woman," he said, tilting his chin down to look at me. "The gossip sites are beginning to create all sorts of rumors."

I'd seen them—wild speculations linking him with a number of actresses, and a few suggesting that he was hiding some big secret like an illness. Most theories were completely idiotic, but I imagined even the most ridiculous of rumors took their toll. It made me even more determined to be there for him.

But his next words left me cold.

"My manager has arranged for me to bring Becca Brighton," he said.

"Who's that?" My voice was a whisper.

"She's no one. I mean, she's another client of my manager's. An up-and-coming actress and model." His hand pressed against my back. "This is purely a business arrangement, Ash. But I wanted to be upfront about it with you."

"How is taking a model on a date a business arrangement?" I hated myself for sounding so jealous—and for being stupid enough to believe even for a moment that he might ask me to go with him.

"Public appearances are part of my job," he said. "I treat them like another aspect of my business, and that means taking ownership of my public persona and crafting it to suit the needs of that business."

I pulled out of his arms and sat up. "And... and that business has no need for someone like me?" I sounded absolutely pathetic, I knew, but in that moment all the cracks that had been forming between us suddenly joined and spread into a huge chasm.

In an instant, he was sitting up beside me, his arm sliding around me again. "That world has nothing to do with us."

"How can you say that?" I pushed his arm away. "This is who you are. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise." I was suddenly too worked up to stay in the bed, so I slid off the mattress and started gathering my clothes. "Why are you hiding me?"

"I assure you, that isn't my intention."

"Then what is your intention? To keep sleeping with me while you go on public dates with models?" I grabbed my dress from the floor and pulled it over my head. Why had I let this go on for so long? I should have known the first time he refused to go out in public with me that something was off. But I ignored my gut because I was so infatuated with him.

"This isn't going to be a regular thing," he said, sliding to the edge of the bed. "And it may look like a date, but I assure you it won't be. It's much more like an acting job—I'll be playing a role, nothing more."

"That doesn't make it okay." I was fully dressed again, but it didn't leave me feeling any less vulnerable.

He stood and walked over to where I was, stopping only a foot away from me.

"I'm telling you this because I wanted to be honest with you," he said, raising his hand to my hair.

"You're missing the point." I swiped his hand away again. "In what universe is it okay to date one person publicly and another privately?"

"In this business—"

"I don't care about this business!" I said, fighting back the lump in my throat.

He didn't say anything. His hand was still raised, and his fingers spread as if he meant to reach out to me again, but he maintained his distance. And in his eyes I saw those cracks, those chasms, and I knew he was just as aware of them as I was. It was too much—this had all meant too much to me, and now that it was crumbling I didn't know what to do. The doubts were no longer just doubts. They were specters that floated in the air between us. And they required answers.

"Why couldn't it have been me?" I whispered at the ghosts.

Something flickered in his eyes—something that made my heart hurt. He didn't respond right away, and that only made it worse. Made the bigger, deeper question bubble out of my lips.

"Will it ever be me?"

Again the flash of something in his eyes, again the frown. "Ash..."

The fact that he didn't have a ready answer was answer enough.

"I need time to think," I said. "I'm going home."

"Ash, it's late, and I think—"

"Just let me go!"

But I only made it as far as the door before I turned back to him.

"If I asked you, would you cancel with her?" I asked.

He ran his hand through his hair. "It's not that simple. This arrangement affects more than me, Ash. This industry is built on connections and appearances, and if I don't—"

"Stop. Just stop." I said. His answer made everything plain: he had no plans of ever inviting me into that part of his life, no plans of ever letting me see his other half. "I can't do this. Not if this is how it's going to be. I'm only getting part of you."

"You're getting all of me, Ash."

"No, I'm not. And it's not enough. I can't continue like this." I don't know where I found the strength to look him in the eye, but I did. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I think if you just sleep on it, you'll see—"

"No. You are the one who isn't seeing." I searched his face, but I already knew the words I needed to say. "I can't do this, Dante."

I didn't wait for his response. I knew if I did my resolve would crumble. But the fact that he didn't come after me told me everything.

* * *

The ache is still there now, after all this time. But so is the desire, so are all the intense emotions that drew me to Dante in the first place.

He said he wasn't going to let you walk away from him this time, I remind myself. But that doesn't mean our problems are gone, or that Dante suddenly finds me worthy of inclusion in his public life. We have an intense physical connection, sure, but even the best sex in the world isn't worth the heartache I know I'll experience if I continue this madness.

I'm a mess at work. I screw up recipes I've made a hundred times before. I forget a pan of muffins in the oven. I'm hardly functioning. Mama Pat starts to look at me like I'm insane. But it's hard to work when I'm standing right where it happened—I can't look at my workstation without remembering the way the metal felt against my back. I gave everything the scrubbing to end all scrubbings—this is still my place of business, after all—but I can't clean away those vivid memories. Every time I speak with a client about a cake, my mind goes back to Dante's tasting—to his lips on my skin, to the feeling of his weight on top of me, to the smell of his hair. I'm never going to get it out of my mind.

It's exactly eleven days after Dante and I had sex—not that I'm counting—when I get the text from Jack:

The Devil Himself is officially on the studio's shit list.

Jack's been crazy busy with work this week, so this message is out of the blue. But I'm not about to let him escape without giving me details.

ME: What are you talking about? What happened?

JACK: He's canceled two appointments this week. TWO. And apparently he's weeks behind on turning in this script he owes.

ME: Oh.

JACK: Rumor has it that he's refusing to take calls from his manager.

ME: That's weird.

JACK: Yeah. You wouldn't know anything about this, would you?

ME: What makes you think it has something to do with me?

JACK: He's been acting weird, YOU have been acting weird... I thought there might be a connection.

Part of me wants to tell Jack everything. But even though he's my best friend, I'm not sure he'll understand this. So I send him one more text:

I'd be an idiot to have anything to do with him. But I've got to run and finish a cake. Dinner soon?

I shove my phone in my pocket without waiting for his reply.

I'm not sure what to make of this information about Dante. Even if he is acting strange, I doubt it has anything to do with me. It's been eleven days, and he hasn't tried to contact me once.

But it doesn't matter how many times I try to convince myself of his indifference—the lies come crumbling down the following night after work when I stop by the supermarket.

I don't normally read the tabloids. In fact, I've made a habit of actively avoiding them. But when you're standing in line at the checkout, sometimes your eye wanders unintentionally to the glossy magazines displayed on every side of you. And today, my eye lands straight on a giant photo of Dante.

He's only on one cover—most of the other magazines boast pictures of Luca or Emilia, since their engagement is still hot news—but the photo of Dante on Celebrity Spark is a striking one. And the headline even more so: "Dante Confesses: Why He's Still Single."

I suddenly feel like I'm going to vomit right here in the middle of the store.

I shouldn't read it. I know I shouldn't. And yet my hand is reaching out, grabbing the issue from the rack. Flipping through the pages until I find the cover story. My heart is in my ears as my eyes skim over the words. Most of his answers are typical PR fluff—comments about Cataclysm: Earth and general good will towards his family—but then I get to the meat of the interview.

The interviewer brings up the fact that Dante attended the Cataclysm: Earth premiere without a date and asks him about his love life.

"I'm currently single," his response goes. "But I wouldn't say I'm available."

The questions go on from there.

INTERVIEWER: Does that mean there's someone in your life?

DANTE: There is someone. And before you ask—no, she isn't anyone famous.

INTERVIEWER: But you consider yourself single?

DANTE: Not by my own choice.

"Miss?" the woman behind me in line says.

I glance up. The line has moved forward, and it's my turn to put my groceries on the belt.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I wasn't paying attention." The magazine is still in my hand. I should put it back, but I can't. I need to read the rest of the article.

So I throw the glossy weekly on top of the rest of my things. It's been years since I bought an issue of Celebrity Spark, but there's no helping it. My mind won't rest until I read the rest of Dante's interview.

I grab the magazine out of my bag as soon as I get to my car and pick up right where I left off.

INTERVIEWER: How could anyone turn down Dante Fontaine?

DANTE: That's between her and me. But I'll be the first to admit that I've made some mistakes. This life I lead—I'm blessed to be where I am, but I confess that it makes it hard to have a real relationship.

INTERVIEWER: Does that mean you'd give up your career for the right person?

DANTE: I can't imagine giving up this life. But I'd do everything in my power to protect the right person from the harder parts of it.

The interview wraps up quickly after that. I read the whole thing twice more before forcing myself to start my car and drive home.

You don't know that he's talking about you, I tell myself. He doesn't give any details about this girl except the fact that she isn't famous.

The other side of my brain is quick to respond: But who else could he mean?

A general "girl," maybe. The hypothetical "right person" who would come along one day and convert him from his bachelor ways.

But it didn't sound like he was talking about a hypothetical person.

I argue with myself the entire way home. By the time I get inside my house, I'm ready for a huge glass of wine. And moments later, as I'm pouring that glass, the real question finally finds its way to the front of my brain: If he is talking about me, what do I do now?

He hasn't contacted me, but maybe he's just waiting for me to contact him. I am the one who chased him off, after all. But do I want to contact him? Are the words in this interview enough to convince me that he's aware of the issues that lie between us—and that he's willing to try and fix them?

But as my wine disappears, the anger starts to trickle in. Is this really how he means to go about addressing our issues—by talking about them in a tabloid interview to a stranger? To the public? And what if I'd never seen this magazine? If this is his idea of "protecting" me from his other life, he's doing a poor job of it. He might not have gone into all of the gory details, but he's aired out our dirty laundry for anyone to see. I can't imagine Celebrity Spark—or any other celebrity news outlet—is just going to let this story die away.

On the other hand, that traitorous voice in my head says as I drain the rest of my wine, he's bringing you into this other side of his life. Isn't that what you always wanted? For him to stop separating the two where you were concerned?

And it's that thought that has me reaching for my phone and pulling up Dante's number.

I don't call him. Historically, I've never been particularly good at stopping to think before I speak, and I'm so worked up right now that I know I'll only end up putting my foot in my mouth if I'm not careful. But texting will give me the chance to look over my words before he sees them.

Still, it takes me a very long time to get my initial message exactly right. I write and erase several texts before I finally send him one that's short and casually indifferent:

I saw your interview.

And then I quickly pour myself another glass of wine. I'm prepared for a long evening of drinking and chastising myself, but no sooner have I set the bottle down again than my cell beeps with an incoming text. I hold my breath as I pull up Dante's response:

I was hoping you would.

Nothing more. Nothing to give me any clues as to how to proceed from here. It takes me a moment to come up with my next message.

And what did you hope would happen now?

There. The ball is in his court. I sit back and nurse my wine as I wait for his next text to roll in, which it does fairly quickly:

You know what I want, Ashlyn.

I don't know how to answer that one. I do know what he wants—on the surface, anyway—but I'm not sure what I want. Or at least, I'm not sure I want it badly enough to drag myself through hell for it.

His next text comes in while I'm thinking.

Can I see you?

If he'd been a bully about it—if he'd just told me he was coming over, or otherwise ordered me to talk to him—I might have been annoyed enough to refuse him. But he's asking me, and as much as I want to be strong, to tell him off, I can't.

ME: Now?

DANTE: If you'd like. I can come to you, or you can come to my place, if you'd prefer.

I've had a healthy amount of wine, which means I probably shouldn't be driving. It also means I don't think about my answer nearly as long as I should. My fingers move across the screen:

You can come here.

Please, God, don't let this be a mistake.

* * *

He actually rings the bell this time.

I limp to the door, running my fingers over my hair as I go over what I've decided I need to say to him. This time, I won't let emotions get in the way.

But when I open the door and see him there, all of the words fall out of my brain.

He doesn't say anything. His hands come up, one on either side of my face, and the ends of his fingers thread through my hair. He looks down at me almost as if he's afraid he's imagining things, as if he's afraid I'll disappear right before his eyes. The emotion in that gaze makes me forget my carefully prepared speech.

For a long moment we just stand there, staring at each other. And then I finally find my voice.

"You can come in," I say.

He seems almost hesitant to withdraw his fingers from my hair, but after a moment he does and follows me inside, right into the small living room next to the kitchen.

"Do you want anything to drink?" I ask. "To eat?"

"I've already had dinner, but thank you."

His comment is a reminder of how late it is—nearly eleven, according to the clock on the wall—and somehow that makes this conversation seem that much heavier. This is a conversation to have during daylight, not right when most couples are engaging in the very thing I'm trying very hard not to think about right now. I need to remember why I texted him in the first place. Remember the article.

"You shouldn't have said those things in the interview," I blurt.

His eyebrows rise. "No?"

God, why does he have to look so attractive right now? He's wearing a gray T-shirt and casual pants, and his hair is a little disheveled—in fact, it looks a lot like it does when he rolls out of bed first thing in the morning. But I don't want to think of him in bed. I need to stay focused.

"Do you really think that's the best way to deal with this?" I ask him. "To talk about it with some gossip magazine rather than with me?"

He doesn't look the least bit apologetic. "Would you have let me talk about it with you? You seemed pretty adamant that you never wanted to see me again. I suspected that the only way I'd get you to listen would be to go about it indirectly."

"And what if I didn't see the magazine?"

"Then I would have tried something else. I know one of the reporters at Celebrity Spark. I'm sure she would have been happy to print as many interviews as I wanted to give." He steps closer. "And if that didn't work, I'd have exhausted my other options. Sent a statement to all the celebrity gossip blogs. Commissioned a TV commercial. Hell, I'd have made an entire movie if I'd thought it would get you to listen."

I close my eyes. This is too much. "We still should have talked about it in person."

He takes another step closer. "Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"And how do you propose we deal with our problems?"

"We want each other. The way I see it, there is no problem."

I open my eyes. He's right in front of me now.

"Is that what you really believe?" I ask him. If he doesn't understand why I walked away back then, we have no chance.

There's a slight furrow in his forehead. "You want to take this public."

"Not—not right now. And that's not the issue." I'm suddenly feeling flustered and extremely self-conscious. "I just want to know that you won't hide it. That you'll give it the chance to become something real." I suck in a breath and rush on. "If this is just about sex for you, then I beg you to walk away. If this is just a diversion, or if you know this won't go anywhere, then don't put me through it. I don't think I could survive it a second time. And if you're going to spend the whole time dating other women—even if it's fake—then I want to end this now. I can't do fake, even if I'm on this end of the arrangement."

Now that I've gotten all of that out, I feel a little lightheaded. And terrified. But at the same time, I'm relieved. I've said it. There's no taking it back now. Either we move past this or I learn once and for all that it's time to let go.

Dante raises a hand as if to touch me, but his fingers pause just shy of my face.

"This is real for me," he says. "It was always real. And I know this is going to sound like an excuse, but that's why I wanted to keep everything between us. It was ours. It couldn't be spoiled by the media or public commentary. I've seen it happen dozens of times, Ash—real couples torn apart by the spotlight. I couldn't watch it happen to us. This belonged to us. I didn't want to share it with the rest of the world." Now he touches me, brushing his thumb along my jaw. "It was never about hiding you. But it was heartless to ask that of you."

"And now?" I whisper.

"I'll shout it from the rooftops if you like. Talk about it to any and every magazine. Take you to any red carpet event you like." He twines his fingers in my hair. "I'm warning you, though—the minute we go public, everything will change for you. The eyes of the entire country—of the world—will be on your every move. There's no going back."

Is that what I want? To have our relationship in the public eye while we're still figuring out whether we work as a couple? To have gossip sites and random people pick us apart or comment on whether I'm pretty enough or skinny enough for Dante?

"We don't have to go public immediately," I say. "I just want to know that there's a future for us. That you think we might... I mean, that if we stay together, we'll give this a real chance."

"We will." He pulls me closer to him. "I never got over you. I tried. I told myself you were better off without me. That I should give you the chance to find someone who could give you everything you deserved. But I couldn't forget you."

"I couldn't forget you, either," I say softly.

He smiles. "I thought you would have been scooped up by someone else immediately. When you told me you were in love with that Jack fellow..."

My cheeks burn. "I actually have a confession to make about that." If I don't confess this now, I never will. "Jack—he's just my friend. He's only ever been a friend."

"He seemed more than friendly at my party."

My face gets even hotter. "Because he was doing me a favor. I told you he was my boyfriend to save face. He's just my friend. In fact, he's very much in love with his boyfriend." I shake my head. "I know it was a stupid, childish thing to do, but I wasn't ready to face you alone."

His fingers tighten in my hair. "So it was all a lie?"

"You have every right to be angry. I know it was an idiotic thing to do. But I wanted to tell you the truth now, before this goes any further."

"Angry? Maybe I should be, but I'm mostly just relieved. I didn't want to think I might still have competition." He frowns. "What about the guy at the bar?"

"A blind date. And it didn't exactly end well, but I'm sure you could have guessed that already. There's no one else."

He's smiling again. "I wanted to make sure. You aren't the sort of woman guys will let go of easily."

I blush to learn that he believes something like that, especially when it couldn't be any further from the truth. "There's no one else, I promise. There hasn't been anyone else since you."

Now his eyes widen. "No one?"

"I mean, I've been on a few dates. But I haven't..." I can't believe I'm confessing this. I can't even finish the sentence.

But I can see by the expression in his eyes that he's connected the dots. "No one? You mean you haven't—"

"No. I haven't." My skin feels like it's on fire. "And I'd rather not—"

"No one?"

"Yes, no one. Now can we change the subject?"

But he drops his hand and steps back. "Absolutely no one?"

"You don't have to rub it in." I'm not sure whether I want to laugh this off or cry. "It's not a big deal. And it doesn't matter for us."

"It matters to me." He takes another step back. Runs his hand through his hair. He almost looks upset.

"What's wrong?"

"This means you haven't experienced anyone else," he says. "It means you have nothing to compare this to. You were a virgin when we met, and you haven't been with anyone else... how do you know this is really what you want?"

I'm starting to get annoyed with him. "I know. And I don't need to be with anyone else to prove it to myself. Or to you." I cross my arms. "I thought you didn't want any competition."

"I also don't want you to wake up one day and wonder what you've been missing." He must see something on my face, though, because his expression softens a little. "Believe me, Ash. There'd be plenty of men who'd be eager for you to take a chance on them."

"If you don't want to do this, just say so," I tell him.

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Then don't insult me by suggesting I don't know my own heart, or that I'm not smart enough to make my own decision about something like this."

He steps close to me again. "I would never intentionally suggest that you can't make your own decisions. I know you too well for that." And now he's reaching out to me, sliding his hand along my waist. "And if I'm being completely honest, there is a certain appeal to knowing that I've experienced you in a way no other man has. I just want you to know exactly what you're giving up." His other arm comes around me. "Because I won't share you, Ash."

"You sound even more confused than I do," I say lightly. "One minute you're upset that I haven't been with anyone else, the next you're acting all possessi—"

I'm cut off by his lips coming down on mine.

He's kissed me so many times—and so recently—that I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. My body floods with warmth and sensation, and I suddenly can't even remember what I was saying, what we were discussing, why we were talking at all when we could have been doing this.

And I don't care to remember.

I surrender to the feelings completely, give myself over to him. My arms wrap around him as he pushes me back, walking me toward the wall, trapping me against the ugly yellow wallpaper I couldn't bear to change when I inherited this house. I crush my mouth against his, and my fingers dig into his lower back. We're pressed together everywhere—faces, chests, hips, legs—but I can't get close enough to him. Can't taste him deeply enough.

He pulls back slightly, and I try to yank him back to me. But he moves only far enough to reach between us and undo the buttons on my blouse. He practically tears the shirt off, and I nearly dislocate my shoulder trying to get my arm out of the sleeve. His shirt goes next. Then my bra. Then his belt.

My fingers skim up over his back. It's been less than two weeks since the last time I touched his bare skin—and God knows I spent many, many nights exploring his body when we were together before—but I still feel like I need to discover him again, to relearn this man inch by inch.

His kisses are even better than I remember. How many women has he kissed since we were together? I find myself wondering as his hands close around my breasts. How many women has he touched like this?

Dante seems to be pursuing a similar line of thought.

"So no other man has touched you like this in all this time?" he asks against my lips. He catches one of my nipples between his forefinger and thumb and squeezes it until I gasp. And as he moves away from my lips and starts kissing me along my jaw, I realize that he actually expects me to answer.

"I said I hadn't had sex with anyone else," I say. "That doesn't mean I've been living like a nun."

He pauses, but he doesn't move away. "So you've had someone make sure these delicate nipples of yours were getting enough attention?" He gives me another squeeze, then catches my other nipple in his grip. "Did he know how to make you whimper with just a twist of his fingers?" He hardly turns his fingers at all, and yet the motion draws a sound from my throat that could most definitely be called a whimper.

"No," I manage to gasp out. The last guy who touched my breasts seemed in a rush to get on to other things—which is part of why he didn't.

"Did he figure out how soft these little nipples felt against his lips? Or how sweet they tasted at the end of a long day?" His mouth starts a slow, tantalizing journey down my throat, across my collarbone, down the slope of my chest. My skin trembles and tingles beneath his lips. I arch toward him.

"No," I say, It's more of a squeak than a word. "He didn't." And he certainly didn't touch my breasts the way Dante does now, like he's worshiping them. Worshiping me.

"So I take it he never did this?" He's reached the tip of my breast now, and he takes the nipple between his lips and sucks with a force that makes my head fall back against the wall.

I moan and dig my fingers into his shoulders in response, but apparently that's not enough. Dante lets my nipple pop out of his mouth, grazing it with his teeth as he does so.

"Did he, Ash?"

"N-no," I manage to say. I'm not sure how I'm forming any words at all.

"That sounds like a very, very bad man," he says, running his hands down my sides. "And a very stupid one, to mishandle a body like this. Men like that shouldn't be allowed to touch you."

I don't disagree. In fact, I never saw that particular fellow again after that night.

"Tell me," Dante continues, his lips brushing against the upper slope of my breast, "did he give any other parts of you adequate attention?"

One of his hands is undoing my fly. The other is sliding down the back of my pants, his fingers spreading against the bare skin of my ass. As my jeans fall down my legs he pulls me against him, locking our hips together, letting me feel how hard he is and making me remember how beautifully we fit together.

I have been touched this way by other men—but it's never affected me half as much.

"Yes," I tell Dante, a little excited to discover what he might do in response to this admission. "I've had a guy grab me there."

The response is immediate. His fingers dig into my skin with a bite that draws a gasp from my lips. He raises his face to my ear.

"Is that so?" he murmurs. "Well, did he do this?"

One of his hands still keeps me pinned against him, but the other moves, sliding down the curve of my ass and between my legs from behind. This time the sound I make is so strangled it can hardly be called a gasp. Pleasure shoots through me as his finger slides against the swollen wetness between my thighs. If I thought I wanted him before, it's nothing compared to the throbbing desire I feel now.

"Did you let him explore you?" Dante growls into my ear. "Did you let his fingers into places where you wouldn't let his cock?"

His questions bring fire to my cheeks—to my whole body. I shake my head.

"Answer me with that sweet tongue of yours," he says. "I want to hear it."

"No," I whisper. "I didn't."

"Good." His fingers press deeper, and though we aren't at the best angle for this, even these delicate explorations leave me trembling.

"We need to make sure you get all the proper attention," Dante says, moving his finger back and forth between my legs. Teasing me. "If he didn't do this much, then I suspect he may have neglected other things as well."

He pulls his hand away, and though I whimper, he ignores the protest. Instead, he catches me by the waist and starts kissing his way down my body again—ear, throat, collarbone, chest. And then he goes even lower, dropping to his knees as his mouth marches down between my breasts and across my belly, finally pausing just above my navel. His tongue flicks at my bellybutton.

"Did you let him put his mouth on you?" he asks.

My hands are on his shoulders, and it takes me a moment to do anything but nod. Finally, my tongue moves again. "No."

"No?" Dante might have initially been upset when I confessed that I'd never been with anyone else, but there's no doubt he's enjoying himself now.

"No," I repeat. I'm yours. Only yours.

He's moving down below my bellybutton now, kissing me lower and lower. I'm shaking again, holding onto his shoulders for support, longing for each and every new touch of his lips. When he finally reaches the crest between my legs, he pauses again.

"You always enjoyed this," he says. "Did you really deny yourself for so long?"

"It wasn't exactly an active decision to deny myself," I say. "It just... never happened." There's no way to explain this without embarrassing myself.

"Well," Dante murmurs darkly, "we'll just have to make up for lost time, won't we?"

He doesn't wait for my response. Instead, he dips his head again and slips his tongue between my legs.

It's been years since I felt the sensation that shoots through my body right now. Maybe that's why it feels like my entire world is nothing but pleasure and desire. My nails dig into his shoulders as his tongue teases across my delicate flesh—softly, too softly, as if he wants to reacquaint himself with me before going any further. It's the most exquisite torture I've ever felt.

After a moment, I can't take it anymore.

"Please," I beg, squeezing his shoulders tighter. "Please..."

I don't need to specify any more than that. He drops his hands from my hips to my thighs and gently presses my legs apart—and then suddenly, he's not so gentle anymore.

I suck in a breath at the first touch of his teeth. But I'm not in pain—no, quite the opposite. I quickly lose track of what's what—teeth, lips, tongue. He kisses me, massages me, licks me, sucks me. Tortures every bit of the ache between my legs with practiced skill. He remembers what I like. What makes me moan. What makes me scream.

My back is pressed against the wall. My legs are shaking so violently that I'm sure the only reason I'm still standing is because Dante has his arms around my thighs. He's relentless, drawing cry after cry from my lips, sending one tremor of pleasure after another across my skin—and deep inside of me, to places I'd all but forgotten about.

Little by little, the tension builds up, the pleasure bunches and swells, my body grows tauter and tighter. I can feel the peak coming, feel Dante building me up toward the place where he's sent me many times before. But just when I'm nearly there, he stops. Pulls back.

"What are you doing?" I ask him breathlessly. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

But he climbs to his feet. Presses close to me again, bare chest to bare chest. Down at my waist, I can feel him fumbling with his pants.

"I'm going to be inside of you when you come," he growls against my hair. "It's been too long since I've had that pleasure."

"It's been two weeks," I remind him—though admittedly our encounter in the bakery still feels something like a dream.

"As I said, too long."

His pants are on the floor now. He doesn't even bother stepping out of them. Instead, he grabs my thighs again and lifts me up, pinning me between his chest and the wall. He hooks my legs around his hips, and I wrap my arms around him as his lips come down on mine.

I can taste myself on him. I never thought my own scent, my own taste, could drive me mad, but on Dante's lips, it does. I pull him closer, kiss him closer, do everything in my power to bring our bodies together.

And then he's pressing at me below, sinking into me, joining us in that final way.

The sex in the bakery was good. Explosive. But this is different. This is not two people giving into years of pent-up lust, succumbing to some latent passion left unexplored for too long. This is deeper—I can feel it in the way he kisses me, in the way he touches me, in the way he drives into me. We found each other physically. Now we have to find each other emotionally, cross the walls we built up by accident or fear, connect in a way that goes deeper than the sensual passion. I want him. Not just in my body, not just for pleasure. I want his joy, his love—all of his emotions. I want him on a level that goes beyond my body, deeper even than my heart.

And he wants me that way, too. If he didn't, he wouldn't be kissing me like this. This is all so familiar, and at the same time, we never reached this place when we were together before. It might appear the same on the surface, but it isn't. It will never be.

And when he finally drives me over the edge, when my body finally spasms in the culmination of sensation and desire, I know I will never be the same, either.
CHAPTER EIGHT

There is nothing like the pleasure of waking up in Dante Fontaine's arms.

He's warm and solid around me. It's absolute heaven. I can't remember the last time I was this happy.

Dante must have woken before I did, because even as I'm coming into full consciousness, his fingers are sliding over my hip, up my side, over my breast. He's curled around my back, closer than close, and he smells of sweat and soap and me.

"Good morning," he murmurs in my ear. He's said those words to me before, but they're sweeter now than they ever were.

"Good morning," I whisper back. My voice is hoarse, rough. I roll over in his arms, wanting to look up into his eyes, and he pulls back just enough to let me do so. The sheets tangle around my legs, and my hair seems to be everywhere, but I don't care. He pushes the tangled strands out of my eyes—I'd swear his fingers are warmer and softer than usual—until finally I'm able to meet his gaze.

I don't get to enjoy the view for long. He dips his head and kisses me—first a peck, then something more. His lips are as warm and soft as his hands. They taste like morning—which, on anyone else, I'm sure, wouldn't be entirely pleasant. But it's familiar in a way that makes my heart speed up, and in this moment I swear there's no sweeter taste in all the world.

His hand is still roaming over my body, skimming across the bare skin of my stomach, dancing lightly over my nipple, tugging at my hair before moving down again. His leg hooks over one of mine as my arm loops around him, and we're tangled again, as intertwined as we were last night.

I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe Dante is here in my bed, that we spent most of last night making love, that we're actually going to give our relationship another shot. I know I'm an idiot for doing it, but at the same time, I'm so happy I can hardly contain myself. But though I'm willing to lose myself in him another time—and then another, then another—just when I think he's going to sink into me again, he pulls back.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. He nuzzles my neck, giving me an appetite for all sorts of things, but I don't think that's what he means. And though I'd like to spend more time in his arms—an infinite amount of time—I could definitely use something to eat.

"Yes," I say. "But I'm not sure how much food I have here. There should be a couple of eggs, and maybe some cereal—"

"I thought we might go out."

It's a simple statement, and coming from any other guy I probably wouldn't have given it a second thought. But for us, this is huge. Our first public outing. The fact that Dante is willing to take this step fills me with joy.

It means that I wasn't an idiot to believe he's changed.

"There's a little diner down the street," I tell him. "They make a mean omelet."

"That sounds great," he says. He dips his face and kisses my neck again.

And though we're both hungry, getting ourselves dressed and out the door is something of a production. First, there's the challenge of finding his clothes—which are mostly in the living room but managed to end up in a couple of other places, too—then, the matter of actually getting dressed without distracting each other too much. It takes me five solid minutes to put on my bra because Dante keeps coming up behind me and sucking on my neck. And when I'm halfway into a clean dress, he grabs me and pushes me up against the wall and kisses me until I can't remember my name, let alone how to use a zipper.

"Are you sure you don't just want to skip breakfast?" I ask him when he pulls away.

The gleam in his eyes makes me think he's seriously considering it, but then he shakes his head. "Let's go out. I want the whole world to know how I feel about you."

My belly fills with warmth. All of this seems too good to be true. Any moment now I'll probably wake up. Alone.

But if this is a dream, I'm going to follow it to the very end.

"Let me get my shoes," I say, adjusting my dress. "And find my purse. Oh—and I should probably call Mama Pat and let her know I'll be late." I can't believe I almost forgot about work. I never forget about work—it's not exactly an option when you run your own business. Dante has me all distracted.

A few minutes later, I've found my cell phone and dialed Mama Pat.

"Ash, honey? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's great," I say cheerfully. More than great, truth be told. "Look, Mama Pat—I was wondering if you and Jilly might be able to hold down the fort this morning. I—" Dante is behind me again, his arms sliding around my waist, his face in my hair. "I just needed to—" He nips my neck, and I bite down a cry of surprise and pleasure.

"Honey, take all the time you need," Mama Pat says. "I've been telling you for months that there's no reason for you to be here a hundred hours a week. Jilly and I will manage just fine."

"The dough for the croissants is on the top shelf in the walk-in," I tell her. I try to push Dante's face away, to eliminate any distractions while I go over the day's tasks with Mama Pat, but he just catches my hand and begins kissing my fingers one by one. "I—make sure Jilly remembers to discount the banana bread. I want it gone by the end of the day. And there's a man coming in to pick up a dozen chocolate cupcakes at three, and—"

"And Melissa Varner is coming to get five pies—two cherry, two apple, and one mixed berry. She'll be in at four. I'm looking at the order right now. It's a light day, as far as orders go. I think we'll manage just fine, my dear."

"I should be in later. I don't know what time—"

"Take the whole day, dear. You deserve some time off. When was the last time you had a vacation?"

Since I opened the bakery? Never. And Mama Pat knows that.

"I can call you after the post-church rush and give you an update, if that would make it easier," she says. "Go on, dear. You know I'll take good care of this place for you."

"I know, Mama Pat." I smile. "I do expect a call, though."

"You'll get one. Now go enjoy yourself."

I hang up, finally allowing myself to pay attention to Dante. One of his arms is around my waist. The other still holds my hand to his mouth. He's moved on from kissing and started sucking the fingers one by one.

"We—we should go," I manage. "If we want to actually make it to breakfast, I mean."

"Agreed." He pulls my fingers away from his mouth, but he keeps his hand around mine as we walk toward the door. I stop in the foyer to survey my hair in the mirror—it's a mess, even for me—but as I start to fiddle with the strands, Dante spins me around to face him.

"You look beautiful," he says, smoothing my hair back from my face.

"Actually, I look like I just rolled out of bed."

"The last time I checked, those two things weren't mutually exclusive."

I laugh and blush at the same time. "I'd still rather not go out in public looking like I just had a roll in the hay."

The corner of his mouth tilts up. "Even if that's the truth?"

"Especially if that's the truth." I spin back around and face the mirror again. "I'm not used to... I mean, I don't really have experience with this sort of thing. Dating, I mean." And the fact that Dante is famous adds an entirely new layer of complication. Dante—even tousled, tired, wearing-yesterday's-clothes Dante—still looks every bit the celebrity. If I'm going out in public with him, I want to look at least moderately presentable.

I can feel his eyes on me as I play with my hair, twirling it and tucking it behind my ears in an attempt to tame the wild waves. His hand rests on my lower back—we can't seem to keep from touching each other, even for a moment—and there's something so quietly intimate about him watching me that my whole body starts to feel all trembly again. My eyes meet his in the mirror, and he pulls me back against him.

"You're so beautiful," he says. "I mean that. Even disheveled and fresh out of bed, you outshine everyone else."

"You're just saying that because you're the one who took me to bed in the first place."

"No. I'm saying it because it's the truth. In my line of work, I see a lot of objectively beautiful women. But you... you have something else. I can't even begin to describe it, not in any way that would do it justice."

His arms tighten around my waist, and his face turns so that his lips are against my hair. I relax back against him.

"I love you, Ashlyn," he whispers. "Maybe this isn't the right time to say it, but I want you to know that."

My chest tightens. Yesterday, before I saw that issue of Celebrity Spark, I thought he was content to go our separate ways. Today, he's telling me he loves me. Is this real? Can I trust it?

But when life gives you everything you ever wanted—even when you've spent the last few years trying to convince yourself that you don't want it—you don't push it away.

"I love you, too," I whisper. It feels so wonderful to say that out loud, to admit all of the feelings I've tried to repress. "I never stopped loving you." I twist around in his arms so I can face him properly, and in an instant his lips are on mine.

I could kiss him forever. Longer than forever. But after a moment, he pulls back—though he doesn't release me from his arms. Instead, he stares down at me like he can't believe what he's seeing, and his smile is breathtaking.

"Come on," he says finally. "Let's go show the world."

* * *

Big Barb's Diner is busy, which shouldn't surprise me. It's Sunday, and everyone knows that Big Barb's has the best brunch.

I knew it would be strange, coming out in public with Dante. But knowing it and experiencing it are two different things. When I ran into Dante during my date with Dean, both Dante and his brother were both more or less disguised. But this morning, Dante has no sunglasses or hat or anything else to obscure his identity. He's recognizable to anyone who looks his way.

A dozen pairs of eyes are on us as we slide into our booth. I spot a group of young people trying to snap pictures of Dante with their cell phones, and a couple of twenty-somethings at the counter keep throwing flirtatious glances his way.

"Is it always like this for you?" I ask him.

He gives a single nod. "Often. It comes with the territory."

"I can't imagine living like this all the time." I glance over at the group with the phones. "Not that it's terrible," I add quickly, remembering that he's doing this for me, because I thought it was important. "It's just weird."

"It's what I've always known," he points out. "I won't deny that it can be inconvenient, but I grew up with the understanding that this was how my life would work. I could fight it, or I could live with it. So I use it to my advantage when I can and work around it when necessary."

As silly as it sounds, I don't think I was really aware of how savvy he was at this whole publicity thing until this moment. But how could he not be? His parents were both huge celebrities even before he was born—Charles as a director and Giovanna as an actress. Apparently their romance was a huge, well-publicized affair, and Dante's birth, not long after their big Hollywood wedding, got a lot of press. I remember looking up old issues of celebrity tabloids three years ago when I realized that Dante was going to be more to me than a classmate. He's been part of this world since his birth.

But this is the first time I've seen it in person. Sure, Dante got some extra attention at film school—a lot of people wanted to use him for his connections—but it was still in many ways a private place. And our classmates never openly stared at him like he was some attraction in a zoo, the way the other diners are now.

"Don't worry," Dante says, reaching across the table and grabbing my hand. "You won't have to deal with this alone."

I smile. "I'm ready for it." I think. If being with Dante means I have to deal with getting stared at when we're out together... well, it's a price I'm willing to accept.

And as our brunch goes on, I get better at ignoring—even forgetting—the people staring at us. It's not that hard, with Dante sitting across from me and looking at me like I'm the only thing in his entire world.

"What?" he asks, apparently seeing something of my thoughts on my face.

"Nothing," I say, scooping up a big bite of omelet. "I just... this feels so strange, being out with you. And at the same time it feels like the most normal thing in the world. Like we've been doing this all along."

"It does, doesn't it?" He smiles. "So being gawked at while you're eating breakfast isn't enough to scare you off?"

"It will take a lot more than gawking to scare me," I say. "And anyway, I'm pretty sure they're all staring at you. You're the famous one."

"And that means you are the one they're going to be curious about. They'll wonder if they should recognize you. And if not, then why not. I bet half of them have already tried to look you up on their phones."

I lean back. "Well, they aren't going to have much luck. They won't be able to figure out my name just by looking at me."

"They will, eventually."

I can't read the emotion in his eyes—sadness? Regret? Something else?—but he laces his fingers through mine, and I feel like I could take on anything.

"I love you," I say. The words just slip out. Now that I've said it once, it seems like the easiest thing in the world to say.

Dante glances over his shoulder and leans closer before saying, "I love you, too."

His furtiveness makes me nervous. "Are you afraid other people will hear?"

"An old habit." He brings my hand to his lips. "I've spent my whole life trying to protect my privacy from the public and the press. It's a hard pattern to break, especially when I'd much rather have you all to myself. I want to shield you from all of this."

I glance around again. Maintaining our privacy is important, but we also can't let the rest of the world force us into hiding.

"We'll figure it out," I say.

He nods. "Though I must admit, my biggest complaint about our current circumstances isn't that we have an audience. It's that you're sitting across from me, fully clothed, when I'd much rather have you naked and spread across this table." He's still holding my hand against his mouth, and he sucks the tip of my finger between his lips.

Somewhere off to the right, I think I hear someone make a squeal of surprise. But all of my attention is focused on the man in front of me.

"If we were alone," he says against my skin, "I'd already have you on your back. I haven't made you come nearly enough times today."

My body responds immediately to his suggestions, and I can feel a telltale wetness between my thighs.

"Maybe we should finish quickly and go back to my house," I say.

"There's nothing I'd like more." He turns my wrist and kisses the inside of my palm. "We—" His fingers tighten on mine as his voice cuts off. His eyes widen for the briefest of seconds, then narrow. He's staring behind me, right at the door.

"What is it?" I twist around, trying to figure out what's caught his attention. He mutters a curse under his breath at the same moment I catch sight of them through the glass—a couple of photographers lingering on the sidewalk just outside the door.

"Do you think they're here for you?" I ask.

"I think they're here for you," he says. "Quick, change seats with me. You'll be more hidden over here." He lifts his head and gestures to our waitress.

"Is that really necessary?" I ask.

He must hear something in my voice, because his face softens a little.

"I was just hoping we'd have more time," he says.

"More time?"

"Before everything changed." He gives my fingers another squeeze. "Remember, Ash, whatever happens—we're in this together."

He's making me nervous again, but the way he's looking at me now—like he's willing to go through hell and back with me—leaves me with a fluttery feeling of hope.

When we've settled the bill and are rising to leave, Dante says, "We have two choices. We can walk out the front and face a bunch of photographers, or we can try and sneak out the back."

He's standing with his back to the front of the diner, blocking the photographers from my view—or, perhaps more accurately, blocking me from them. His hand is on my waist, his eyes dark with concern.

"What do you think?" I ask him. He's the one who's dealt with this sort of thing before. He's the one who's spent a lifetime protecting himself from the press.

"I told you that I would shout my feelings for you from the rooftops if you wanted," he says, drawing me closer. "I'll declare them in every magazine. Tell them to every reporter who shoves a microphone in my face on the street. Just say the word, and I'll let the whole world know." His fingers spread against my lower back. "But the moment we go public, everything will change. I just want to make sure you're ready."

I think I'm ready. Deep down, I know that I'll follow this man wherever he wants to lead me. My heart won't let me do anything else. If he's willing to take the next step, then I am too.

"Let's do this," I whisper. He doesn't have to tell me that there's no going back from this decision.

And, to my great relief, he seems pleased by my answer. He pulls me harder against him and kisses me roughly and passionately before releasing me and grabbing my hand. "Let's go."

It's not until we're at the door to the restaurant that I start to second-guess myself. Maybe I should've waited for a day when I had a chance to do my hair and makeup. Maybe I should've waited until I'd told my friends about Dante and me. Maybe I should've—

"Just keep walking," Dante says softly. "They might ask you questions, but you can ignore them. You don't even have to look at them if you don't want to. Just follow my lead. I'm not going to let you go." He laces his fingers through mine.

"Got it," I say.

And then we're stepping out into the sunlight, into a small sea of photographers—far more than I saw through the glass. Maybe seven or eight in all—and even a couple with video cameras—but I don't get an accurate count because as Dante suggested, I'm keeping my head down.

"Dante! Dante!" they shout.

When he doesn't respond, they start yelling questions at me.

"Are you the mystery girl?"

"What's your name?"

"How did you meet Dante?"

"Are you two dating?"

It's a strange, almost surreal experience. They're everywhere around me—shouting, strolling down the street after us, clicking away with their cameras—and I try to focus on the feel of Dante's hand around mine. He takes the lead, clearing the way down the sidewalk toward his car. I wonder if I should smile. Is this all we have to do to show our love to the world—walk hand-in-hand through a sea of paparazzi?

I keep my head down and keep walking.

It seems like an impossibly long way to the car. When we finally get there, the photographers are still following us—though thankfully, most have given up on asking us any questions. Does that mean they're bored with us? And if they are, is that good or bad?

I suddenly realize that there are much bigger concerns here than whether or not the press thinks I'm good enough or pretty enough for the crown prince of Hollywood. Dante once suggested that a public appearance was like an acting job—part of his carefully constructed public persona. What if dating me affects Dante's public persona in some negative way? I'm never going to be a supermodel or famous actress or someone else who can further his career. I wonder how many sacrifices he's making for this. For us.

When I'm finally safe inside his car, I let out a deep breath. The photographers still linger nearby, but they hold back a certain distance. Is there some rule I don't know about concerning how close they can come? Or do they stay back because of some agreement with the Fontaines? Dante doesn't even glance at them as he slides into his side of the car. Then he immediately turns to me.

"Are you all right?"

"I think so," I say, still feeling a little dazed.

"You started shaking the moment we stepped outside." He takes my hand again—God, I just want to hold his hand forever—and turns it over so that he can brush his thumb against my inner wrist. "You're still trembling."

"I didn't realize," I say, and even my voice quavers. "I swear I can handle this. It's just... strange."

"I know. But remember, we're in this together."

I smile. "I know. And I'm glad."

Out of nowhere, he suddenly breaks into a smile. "They're not going to know what to do with you. I can't wait."

"So you admit that some part of you is actually looking forward to... whatever comes next?"

"Don't doubt it, Ash. I'm looking forward to wherever this leads us."

I don't know which one of us moves first. All I know is that he's kissing me, and I'm kissing him, and I only give the most passing of thoughts to whether or not the photographers outside of the car can see us. His lips promise love and heat and adventure, and I cling to him and hope he tastes my answer. I want him. I need him.

Wherever it leads me.

* * *

I don't think Jack's eyes have ever been this wide in his entire life.

"I know I have some explaining to do," I say. It's Monday night and we're sitting at the tasting table in my bakery. I've just broken my news to Jack over the feast of chili fries he brought me.

"You're damned right you have some explaining to do," he says. "You do remember how things ended between you the first time, don't you?"

"I know, I just... Jack, I can't help it. I've never felt this way about anyone else in my entire life. I don't know if I ever will." I run my finger over a knot in the woodgrain on the table's surface. "I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like I was always meant to be with him. And I can fight it, or I can try to make it work."

He shakes his head. "So that's it, then? He's the love of your life? You're going to marry him?"

"Geez, Jack. We just got back together. I'm not thinking about marriage yet."

"Yet. Which means it's on the table. Have you thought about what that means? What kind of life you're signing up for?" He leans across the table. "I'll give you the fact that he's an inhumanly attractive guy, and I don't judge you the least bit for having sex with him. But this isn't just sex. It was never just sex."

"It's not just sex for him, either," I protest. It feels weird to be talking about this so soon—I mean, only a couple of days ago, I thought Dante was out of my life for good—but maybe it's good for me. The more I talk about it, the more real it becomes. "He told me he loved me, Jack."

"To get you into bed."

"No. After we'd already been to bed." My cheeks go hot. I'm not used to having a sex life to discuss with Jack.

"When did all of this happen?" he says.

I look down at my fries. Confession time. "We've met up a couple of times since his party."

"A couple of times?" His eyebrows are so high they almost disappear into his hair. "Wait—when I texted you about his weird behavior a few days ago, was all of this already going on? Did you lie to me?"

Shame floods my chest. "I wasn't ready to talk about it yet. I was still trying to figure out what I was feeling. But I'm telling you now."

"You still lied."

"Jack, I—"

"No," he says. "I'm your best friend. I was there for you when he tore your heart out the first time, and I was your backup when he came back into your life. There's no excuse for lying to me about this, not when I've had your back this entire time."

He's right. There is no excuse.

"I just knew you'd try to talk me out of it," I say.

"Damned right. And why shouldn't I? How many times does he have to hurt you before you start seeing sense? Damn it, Ash, you walked in on him with his brother's fiancée!"

"Emilia and Luca's relationship is just for the press," I say. "Things are different this time. He's not trying to hide me anymore. We went out in public together. We were photographed together. He's as serious about this as I am."

"And just like that, all of your problems are over?"

"Not 'just like that.' But it's a start."

"Ash, I saw you in the aftermath of that first breakup. He fucked you up. I was convinced he'd done some sort of permanent damage. Most people don't spend three years getting over someone."

"Maybe I wasn't supposed to get over him."

"And maybe you've been knocked upside the head."

I cross my arms. "Seriously, Jack? I knew this would be a shock to you, but I thought that deep down, you would ultimately understand."

"Look, I'm not trying to talk you out of it. I just want to make sure you've thought this through, Ash. This wouldn't be the first time you let your emotions get in the way of your better judgment." He stands. "I backed you up. I supported you when you needed me. And you sneaked around with this guy and lied to me about it. That's not how our friendship is going to work."

I sigh. "Jack..."

"I've said everything I need to say. And it's clear that you have no intention of listening to my advice. I'm only trying to look out for you, Ash, but obviously what I think doesn't matter."

"I love him, Jack."

"Then don't come crying to me when this all goes south." He grabs his briefcase. "I just remembered I have some work to do for Brockman. I'll see you later."

And before I can come up with a response, he's gone.

I sink back down into my chair, feeling sick. How did this turn into an argument? How did it end with Jack, my best friend, storming out on me? This was supposed to be good news.

But Jack's words struck deep—mostly because they give voice to my own fears, the ones I've been trying to ignore. Have I really thought this through? Am I just setting myself up for pain again?

I don't want to believe it. When I'm in Dante's arms, the world seems to disappear. There's only me and him. All worries—of the past or the future—seem far away. I want to sink into that bliss. Lose myself in him. Drown in the feelings that only he seems to stir. Is that wrong? Is that stupid?

You're in this together, I remind myself. Dante and I have committed ourselves to figuring this thing out, following it wherever it leads. But where is that? Jack mentioned marriage—I honestly haven't had a chance to think that far ahead, but maybe I should. Do I see myself eventually marrying Dante? Was that scene at Big Barb's Diner an indication of what my entire public life will be from this point forward?

I glance out the window of my shop. The world is going on as normal. People are walking down the sidewalk, cars are passing in the street, gulls are flying overhead. There aren't any photographers lingering in the shadows, waiting for me to emerge. But then it's only been a day—it's quite possible no one has figured out who I am yet.

I stand, running my hands down my apron. I've made my decision. Now I need to live with it. I only hope that Jack will come to see that this wasn't some ridiculous whim. I want to believe that Dante is committed to making this work.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes. It's Dante, and my heart gives a little leap in my chest as I raise the cell to my ear.

"Hey," I say.

There's a brief pause. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I'm fine." I tuck a loose bit of hair behind my ear. "Just had a little argument with Jack."

Another pause. "Do you need to talk about it? What were you arguing about?"

You. But I don't say that out loud. Our relationship is still too new, too fragile, for us to start dissecting the reasons other people think we shouldn't be together. And I don't want him to think I'm second-guessing this.

"It's fine," I say. "He'll come around."

"I hope so," Dante says, his voice dropping. "Because I plan on being around for a while."

The dizzying buzz of happiness fills me again. "Is that so?"

"Yes. In fact, I have an invitation for you. As you know, Luca's birthday is next weekend, and my mother is holding a small get-together for family and close friends. I was wondering if you would do me the honor of accompanying me as my date."

My heart stutters. He's asking me to meet his family?

"I—of course I will," I manage. The little voice in my head says, See? I knew this was something real.

"Glad to hear it." His tone makes his pleasure more than clear. "Of course, I'd like to see you before then, too."

"I think that can be arranged." I lean against the bakery case and smile. "What were you thinking?"

"If I had my way, I'd see you tonight. Tomorrow. Every night. All night." His voice has gotten rough with what I easily recognize as desire. "But unfortunately, I've got work commitments for the next three days. How does dinner on Thursday sound?"

"It sounds wonderful," I say.

"Good. Then it's a date."

I smile. "It's a date."
CHAPTER NINE

On Wednesday, the day before my first real dinner date with Dante, everything changes.

It starts like any normal day. I'm in the bakery early, getting my recipes organized for the day, when Jilly comes bouncing in. Rather than go straight for her apron, she stops right in front of my workstation.

"Is it true?" she says. "Are you really dating Dante Fontaine?"

I look up from the flour. "What? Where did you hear that?"

"The same place the rest of the world did." She holds up her phone, showing me a popular gossip website. There, front and center, is a photo of Dante and me leaving Big Barb's with the headline, "Dante Fontaine's new mystery girl: Who is Ashlyn Worth?"

A chill shoots down my spine. I knew this was coming, but I guess I'd hoped I'd have my anonymity for a little while longer. It's so strange to see my face on this site, to see my name printed as if I'm some sort of celebrity. Tens of thousands of people might read this.

"So?" Jilly prompts. "Is it true?"

"I..." After asking Dante to be open about our relationship, I can't exactly deny it. "Yes. Yes, I'm seeing him."

"Are you serious?" Jilly squeals. "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm telling the truth."

"How did you meet him? What's he like? How long has this been going on?"

"I don't—"

"Oh, give the poor girl the chance to breathe." That's Mama Pat, who's just come in through the back door.

"Did you hear?" Jilly says. "Ash is dating Dante Fontaine!" She spins back toward me. "How did this even happen? Did someone introduce you? Or did you just run into him on the street somewhere and have some intense connection the moment your eyes met?"

"No, we—well, we knew each other back in school. And I ran into him again when we delivered the Cataclysm: Earth cake." As soon as the words leave my mouth, my mind revives a very vivid image of that night—of Dante and Emilia together—but I quickly push it away. I've done a good job of forgetting the circumstances that reacquainted Dante and me, and even though I know I can't ignore it forever, it's not something I want to dwell on right now.

"So this has been going on since then?" Jilly says. "I delivered the cake with you—why didn't I see him? Did you ask him out or did he ask you?"

"Why don't you make sure the front case is ready?" Mama Pat says. "Do your job before you start prying for personal information. She'll tell you when she's ready to."

Jilly glances at me, but I only nod.

"Go prep the front case," I say. "I've got three cake consultations today and I need to get eight batches of muffins done before the first one."

Jilly looks disappointed, but she's a good employee and won't directly disobey me. She heads out to the shop to get everything ready for the day. As soon as she's gone, I give a nod of appreciation to Mama Pat for coming to my defense.

She smiles. "I've been wondering what was going on with you."

I turn back to my muffin dough so she can't see my face get red. "Was it that obvious?"

"To anyone who's spent any great amount of time with you. I knew it would take something special to make you call off work." Her grin widens as she ties her apron around her waist. "I hope you noticed that we managed to keep the place from burning down while you were gone."

"I did. And thank you."

After that, we settle in for what seems to be a normal morning. But around noon, when I head up front to help Jilly with the lunch crowd, I see him.

At first I think I'm just imagining things. We get a lot of tourists here in Los Angeles, so it's not unusual to see people snapping pictures on the street outside. But usually those tourists aren't taking photos of my bakery. And usually they're using cell phones or small personal cameras, not huge fancy-looking contraptions with lenses as long as my arm. He's here to investigate Dante's mystery girl. I just know it.

But what do I do? Go out and shoo him away? Am I allowed to call the police? Or should I just let him go about his business? Maybe if I let this play out, it will blow over more quickly. The more I try to hide, the more interested they'll be. Besides—this might bring the bakery some extra business, and I won't turn my nose up at that.

But as the afternoon rolls on, I realize that I grossly misjudged the situation.

The photographer outside my bakery becomes two photographers. Then three. Then five.

I'm watching them and chewing on my lip when Jilly beckons me over.

"Phone call for you," she says.

Thank God. Business will take my mind off of the growing crowd of paparazzi. I grab the phone off the wall. "Hello?"

"Hi, Ms. Worth?"

"That's me."

"I'm Margaret Stefano from the Hollywood Grandstand, and I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to chat."

"Are you interested in ordering a cake?" I ask, pulling my clipboard off the wall.

She laughs. "No, Ms. Worth. I wanted to ask you a few questions. For an interview."

"An interview?"

"For Hollywood Grandstand. We can chat right now over the phone if you like, or if you'd prefer to meet in person—"

"No," I say quickly. "Thank you, but I'm not interested."

"If you'd prefer—"

"I'm not interested," I repeat, then hang up the phone before she can get another word in.

For a few minutes after the call, I'm too stunned to move. That was a reporter. I knew my relationship with Dante would attract some attention, but I didn't expect the press to start calling my bakery.

But that call is only the beginning.

The second call comes in half an hour later. The next one fifteen minutes after that. By lunchtime, the phone is ringing off the hook, and not with an influx of orders for specialty cakes. Instead, it's people from magazines and blogs and even a couple of newspapers asking to speak with me. To set up interviews. When I politely decline, a couple of them try to wheedle information out of me, but I just tell them "No comment," and slam down the receiver.

"Maybe we should just disconnect the phone," Jilly says. She seems as distressed by this as I am.

"I don't want to miss any actual customers," I tell her. I'm not going to let some overzealous reporters mess with my business.

I've been watching the top celebrity gossip sites all day, monitoring what's being said about me. Most of the blogs don't have many details—they only offer general theories about who I am and how Dante and I met—but then around mid-afternoon, one of them posts the name of my bakery.

And that's the tipping point.

Let's be real: anyone who knew my name could have figured out where I work with a little bit of internet research. Certainly many reporters and photographers did. But now this site has made it easy for anyone to find me.

And find me they do.

Suddenly our phone is ringing off the hook—and not just the bakery phone, but my personal cell phone, too. I must have my number linked to one of my social media profiles or something, and before long I have to turn it off to keep from going insane.

Most of the calls coming in on the bakery's main line are still from reporters, but some members of the general public are calling in, too, asking if Dante Fontaine will be making any appearances here anytime soon. Or asking what Dante's favorite dessert is. Or what his last order was.

Under different circumstances, I might have found it amusing—at least until the threats started.

The first one comes an hour after my bakery' name is posted.

"Hello?" I say into the receiver. I've probably answered a hundred calls today, but I'm still stubbornly refusing to let this attention disrupt my business. "Ashlyn's Bakeshop. Can I help you?"

"You're a slut!" screeches a voice on the other end of the line. "I hope you die!"

For a moment, I'm too shocked to say anything. And then, "Excuse me?"

"I hope you fucking die! You're a whore."

"I... I think you must have a wrong number."

"Dante deserves better than you. If you hurt him, I swear I'll come down there and kill you."

I have no idea who this is. No idea why she thinks these things about me. But I've heard enough. I hang up the phone and yank the cord out of the wall.

"No more calls," I tell Jilly, who looks a little stunned at the violence of my reaction.

I don't tell her or Mama Pat about the threat. I walk straight back through the kitchen and into the walk-in cooler, waiting until the door is shut behind me before I release a long, shaky breath. Dealing with reporters is one thing, but death threats?

My hand trembles as I pull out my phone. Should I call the police? Or Dante? What are you supposed to do in a situation like this?

When I turn my cell back on, dozens of notifications await me. I don't bother listening to any of the messages or reading any of the texts. But a quick glance at my inbox reveals that they've found my email address as well. And it only gets worse when I pull up my bakery's website and social media pages.

Everything is overflowing with messages. Some curious, some invasive. But I'm quick to learn that the woman who called me isn't the only one upset about my relationship with Dante. His fans have sent me dozens of messages—some public, some private—expressing their opinions of me. Commenting on everything about me. Threatening me with death just for daring to date their celebrity crush.

And those aren't even the worst. The worst are some of the messages I've received from men—vile, disgusting things so obscene that I feel dirty just reading them. Calling me a filthy whore. Making crude remarks about my body. Detailing the things they want to do to me. My phone slips out of my hand and crashes against the floor.

A moment later, Mama Pat pokes her head into the cooler. "Ashlyn, honey, are you all right?"

There's no hiding my distress. "I... I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting any of this."

She nods solemnly. "Jilly and I were just thinking it might make sense to close early."

I press my hands against my eyes. "I told myself I wasn't going to let them get to me."

"There's not going to be an end to this today," she says softly. "Or tomorrow. Maybe we should close the rest of the week until this blows over."

"We can't afford to lose an entire week of business," I say.

"We're losing business as is," Mama Pat points out. "No one can get through on the phone, and the crowd outside is scaring away our usual customers."

Sadly, she's right.

"Okay," I say. "Let's close shop for today. I'll make the decision about the rest of the week tomorrow."

We pack up and try to sneak out the back door. But the photographers are ready for us. They must have been watching us clean and pack up through the windows, because by the time we attempt to make our escape, half a dozen of them are waiting for us behind the shop.

"Just go," I tell Mama Pat and Jilly as the cameras start flashing. "Escape while you can. They'll follow me."

And they do. As I make my way around the building to my car, the paparazzi follow, snapping pictures and calling out questions. I try to ignore them, but in my head I hear the death threats, the invasive questions, the obscene remarks about my body. By the time I reach my car, I'm shaking so hard that I have trouble turning the keys in the ignition.

Is this what I signed up for? I should have listened to Dante's fears. He knew it would be like this. And yet I asked him to make this thing public, as if somehow that would make our feelings more real. How could I be so naïve, so unprepared?

I shake all the way home. There aren't any reporters camped outside my house, thank God, but I wonder if it's only a matter of time. I want to talk to Dante. I want to beg him to come here and be with me and promise me that this will pass.

But that's just it—I don't know if this will pass. Is this my life now? Is this how things are going to be if I want to be with him?

I want to call him, but that means turning on my phone again, and I'm not prepared to do that just yet. So I just climb into bed and pull the covers over my head and tell myself this is all a dream.

* * *

Morning doesn't bring much relief.

I wake with a knot in my stomach. I don't think I can face the bakery today—and frankly, I know it's unfair to ask Jilly or Mama Pat or Karen to, either. After taking several deep breaths, I turn on my phone. There are at least a dozen new messages waiting for me, but I ignore them. I call my employees and let them know that the shop will be closed today. That gives me a little bit of relief, at least.

Right after I've hung up with Karen, my phone rings. My stomach seizes, but then I see that it's only Dante. Relief floods me as I answer.

"Ash? Are you all right?" he says immediately. "My publicist told me the news broke."

"Oh, I—I'm fine," I say. Still a little stunned, but holding together. "Yeah, I guess it did."

"I tried calling you multiple times last night. They sent me to Vegas for a press thing, or I would have come over to make sure you were all right." There's a hint of darkness in his tone. "You are all right, aren't you?"

Just hearing his voice makes me feel better. Makes me feel silly for getting so worked up about a few photographers. Yes, it was weird. Invasive. But it was only one day of my life. Dante has had to deal with this since he was a child—on a much bigger, much more intense scale. This is nothing compared to what he's experienced.

"I'm all right," I assure him, hoping my voice sounds steady. "They just surprised me, that's all."

I swear I can almost hear him frowning. "They found your bakery, I understand."

"Yeah. Disrupted business a little, but I guess that's to be expected," I say lightly. "Maybe in the long run this will be good for the bakery. I've already had your fans calling to ask about your favorite desserts."

Though I'm trying to make a joke of it, he doesn't seem the least bit taken in by my tone. "Are they harassing you?"

"No worse than you've been harassed, I'm sure."

"That's not what I asked."

"Really, it's fine," I say. I don't want to talk about this. "I decided it was best to close the bakery for a day or two until this blows over. So I'm going to be taking it easy at home. You don't need to worry."

"That's for me to decide."

"They'll get bored with me soon enough, I'm sure. I'm just the shiny new thing. I'm not famous or particularly interesting."

"Ashlyn, don't try to avoid the subject."

"I'm not. I said I'm fine. And I'm trying to be realistic about the whole thing. This is a temporary inconvenience, that's all."

He doesn't say anything, but I can sense him stewing.

"Are we still on for dinner tonight?" I ask before he can press the matter any further.

"Of course," he says, then pauses. "Would you rather stay in?"

Part of me most definitely does. But another part of me knows that wouldn't actually solve anything. I'd just be running from the problem.

"Let's go with the original plan," I say. "I can handle it, I promise."

His pause tells me he doesn't quite believe me.

"Really," I say. I asked for this. I need to be strong enough to handle it.

"All right," he says. "Pick you up at seven?"

"Sounds perfect."

Another hesitation. "Ash, if they bother you at all—"

"I'll be okay."

"I want you to call me immediately."

"I don't think—"

"I mean it, Ash. Call me."

In spite of everything, I find myself smiling. "Look at you, getting all protective on me."

"Did you ever doubt I would be?" The edge is gone from his voice. "I love you, Ash. I would do anything to protect you."

Now that the tension has lessened, I decide to tease him a little. "Anything?" I can think of a few things I might suggest.

But Dante doesn't give me the chance to elaborate. "Anything."

There's no hesitation, no hint of jest in his voice.

"I mean it," he continues. "I made the mistake once of hurting you. Of driving you away from me. I won't make that error again. And I'm going to do everything in my power to make it up to you. That includes protecting you from anything that might cause the look in your eyes I saw that day."

"You remember the look in my eyes?"

"It has haunted me ever since." He sounds haunted, even now. "I tried to forget you, Ash. I tried to distract myself. Sometimes with work. Sometimes with alcohol. Sometimes with other women. But somehow you were always there in my mind. Always calling to me, even when I was doing everything in my power to drive you out of my head. Do you know what that does to a man?"

"No," I whisper. "But I know what these years did to me."

* * *

Preparing for my date with Dante is nothing like preparing for my date with Dean. On the one hand, I already know that Dante is in love with me—a thought which still makes me tingle from head to toe—so I don't need to stress too much about how I look. On the other, this is still my first public dinner with the guy, and I desperately want to make him drool.

Even though I didn't go into work today—which means I've had plenty of time to stress about what I'm going to wear—I'm still running late. When my doorbell rings, I'm only halfway through my makeup and I haven't even decided what shoes to pair with the dark blue dress I finally settled on. I curse and swipe on a bit of lipstick called Blood Orchid Red before running to the door.

"I'm almost ready," I tell him as soon as I swing it open. "Just give me five minutes and I'll—"

He grabs me and pulls me against his chest, crushing me to him. His lips come down on mine. His tongue slides into my mouth, both demanding and pleading, and I'm only too happy to oblige him. My mouth falls open beneath his. I find myself gripping his shirt, sinking against his body. It's only been a few days since the last time I saw him, but that's far too long. And after the unexpected stress of the last two days, I need him more than ever.

Somehow we make it off my doorstep and into the house. He manages to press me up against the wall without breaking the kiss. I'm not sure if seconds or minutes or even hours have passed. I only know that kissing him is life. It's an explosion of passion that threatens to consume me.

When he finally pulls back, I'm dazed and fuzzy-minded with pleasure. I lean my head back against the wall, eyes still closed, as he brushes one last soft kiss against the corner of my mouth. There's a brief pause, and then suddenly he lets out a laugh.

God, that laugh. That rare, beautiful sound makes me go soft all over. I open my eyes to see what's causing that marvelous, heart-swelling, intoxicating reaction, but when I do, my eyes go straight to his lips—and the enormous smear of Blood Orchid Red across them. His entire mouth is smudged with it. And the skin surrounding his mouth. And his chin. And even parts of his cheeks, though I don't remember my lips ever going there.

He's still laughing. But now I'm laughing, too.

"You sweet thing," he finally manages to choke out. "You have lipstick all over your face." He brings up his hand to try and brush it away, but I'm laughing so hard that I can't imagine his efforts are very effective.

"You should see your face," I say, wiping the tears out of the corner of my eye. I grab him by the upper arms and turn him around to face the mirror on the wall. His grin widens when he sees his reflection, and he pulls me back against his chest.

"What a mess you've made," he says.

"I can clean you up, if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary," he replies, turning me back around and kissing the corner of my mouth again. "Not yet, anyway."

He kisses his way along my jaw. Up my cheek. Over my temple. On one eyelid and then the other. Probably spreading the lipstick even further across my face, but I don't care.

"I could have warned you, you know," I say. "You didn't even let me finish my sentence when I opened the door."

"I couldn't help myself," he murmurs against my skin between kisses. "It had been far too long since I'd kissed you."

"I don't disagree. But—"

He kisses me on the lips again, stealing the words right out of my mouth.

"You taste sweeter every time I kiss you," he says.

"Do I?"

"As sweet as one of those cakes of yours. Though between your red face and your red hair, you look a lot more like a strawberry."

My cheeks burn, and I'm sure that only adds to the effect. "I am not a strawberry."

"What's wrong with strawberries?" He holds my face close to his. "I happen to think that they're the best of fruits."

I'm laughing again, drunk on his kisses and his sweetness.

"We should go," I say. If we don't stop this now, we'll end up naked on the floor of my foyer—with the front door still wide open. After tonight, we can stay home as much as we like. But this dinner is an important step for us, one I'm not ready to skip.

"We should," he concedes, but it still takes him a full five minutes to release me again.

After that, it takes a little time for the both of us to clean up, but eventually, we find ourselves at Bistro Julia, a small, luxurious restaurant that Dante claims has the best mussels in town.

He must come here a lot because the hostess doesn't even blink at the celebrity walking through the front door. And I think I hear her say something about his "usual table" as she leads us across the floor. None of the other patrons give us much more than a passing glance, either. I wonder how many other celebrities are tucked away at the semi-secluded tables along the walls? How many of these other diners are huge media moguls or studio executives who see people like Dante Fontaine every day?

Halfway across the restaurant, Dante stops.

"Excuse me," he says to the hostess. "I see a friend. I'm going to go say hello, but I'm sure we can find our way to the table when we're done."

"Of course, sir." The hostess gives a nod and a smile as Dante's arm slips around my waist, guiding me gently to the left.

"I've spotted someone you should meet," he says in my ear as he guides me across the floor.

He's leading us to a table against the wall where a couple sits. The man looks about Dante's age or a couple of years older, and he's incredibly handsome and sharply dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my entire closet. The woman is younger, late-twenties or so, with thick, dark hair that hangs loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are even darker, and they gleam when she looks up and recognizes Dante. Her gaze doesn't linger on him long, though. Her eyes snap right to me, and she breaks into a smile as she looks me over. It's a friendly expression, but I'm suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

By the time we get to the table, the man has looked up as well, and though he also smiles, there's something a little more controlled about his expression.

"Good evening," Dante says. Then, to me, "Ash, this is Felicia Liddle. And this is—"

"Roman," the man interrupts, rising. "Roman Everet. A pleasure to meet you."

I take the man's offered hand, wondering why his name sounds vaguely familiar. He's certainly attractive enough to be some sort of actor or musician or other celebrity, but I don't recognize him.

"Felicia writes for Celebrity Spark," Dante continues as the woman also rises. "And Mr. Everet recently acquired the magazine."

I was reaching to shake the woman's hand, but my arm freezes in midair as this sinks in. Celebrity Spark. That's the name of the magazine that published Dante's recent interview, the one that led to us getting back together. Dante brought me over here to talk to people who work at a tabloid? To talk to the man who owns that tabloid? That's how I know Roman Everet's name—his recent purchase of the magazine was a highly publicized deal.

If the woman—Felicia—notices my reaction to the name, she pretends not to. Instead, she takes my hand and gives it a friendly shake. And Dante goes on as if introducing me to an old friend.

"This is Ashlyn," he says to them. "She owns and runs Ashlyn's Bakeshop."

"Nice to meet you, Ashlyn," Felicia says. She's still smiling at me, and even though there's nothing particularly ruthless about that look—nothing like what I saw in the faces of the reporters and photographers who followed me to my car yesterday—there's still an eagerness in her expression that makes my stomach tight. The man's face is harder to read. And he seems more focused on Dante than on me—in fact, he's fixing Dante with a wary look. He places his hand against his date's lower back—a subtle way of staking his claim—and I suddenly find myself looking closely at Felicia again.

She's very pretty. Her generous curves are quite obvious in the gold cocktail dress she's wearing, and her face is sweet and appealing. Her dark hair shines in the restaurant's flickering candlelight, and her eyes are large and bright. In fact, her hair and eyes are similar to those of Emilia Torres, who I know from firsthand experience caught Dante's eye. My gaze flicks from Felicia to Dante, and the possibilities that swirl through my head make me sick to my stomach. Is this someone he dated? I'm not sure which is worse—that Dante would introduce me to a tabloid reporter, or that he would introduce me to someone who's been in his bed.

"Ashlyn's Bakeshop... that's the one on Vesper Street, isn't it?" Roman is saying. "I've heard of the place. My assistant raves about your pumpkin chocolate chip muffins."

"Those are definitely a customer favorite," I say, flashing what I hope resembles a smile.

"We'll have to go by there and try one sometime," Felicia says. "I—well, if that would be all right with you, Ashlyn?"

I find it almost funny that a tabloid reporter would ask to come by my bakery, especially after my experiences yesterday. In fact, this woman looks almost nervous, as if she actually wants to make a good impression on me. I don't know what to make of it. None of the people who camped outside my bakery yesterday—or called, or harassed me online—seemed to have that concern.

"Sure, come by if you like," I say. "But you'll have to call ahead if you want one of those muffins. They tend to be gone by lunchtime."

Felicia's smile widens.

"Well, we don't want to keep you two from your meal," Dante says. "I just wanted to give my greeting."

Roman nods. "It was nice to meet you, and I wish you a pleasant meal. Might I recommend the mussels? They're the chef's specialty."

"If you ever want to do an interview, I'd be happy to chat," Felicia says to me. "Dante can vouch for me." She's still looking at me like she wants to be friends, but I'm not sure whether that makes her offer better or worse. Honestly, the whole situation is making me uneasy.

"I'll consider it," I say, just to be polite. "It was nice to meet you."

"Good evening," Dante says, before turning and guiding me away.

I don't say anything as he leads me to our table. But Dante seems to sense that something is wrong.

"Is everything all right?" he asks.

"I... I don't know," I say honestly. "Why did you introduce me to those people?"

Dante frowns. "What do you mean?"

"It just seems weird. We're on a date and you're introducing me to tabloid reporters."

"It was just one," Dante says evenly. "And I do vouch for Felicia. I've worked with her in the past. She's honest. She won't twist your words."

After the past couple of days, talking to any reporter, honest or not, is the last thing I want to do.

"I'm not doing any interviews," I say. "I don't want to talk to Celebrity Spark or anyone else." We've reached our table, but I'm suddenly feeling too wound up to sit. I look up at him. "Is that what you want? For me to start speaking with reporters?"

He's still frowning. "I thought this was what you wanted—to be open with the press."

"I just didn't want to hide this. Hide us." I try to keep my voice down, but I notice a woman glance over from the next table. "I mean I just..." I lower my voice. "I wasn't expecting to... I didn't think..."

Suddenly his hands are on either side of my face. For a long moment, he just stares at me, searching me, and though I want to look away, I can't tear my eyes from his.

"You told me this morning that everything was okay," he says gently. "That you could handle this. I think you weren't telling me the whole truth."

"I can handle this, I promise."

But he isn't buying it. His eyes get darker. "What did they do?"

"Nothing," I say. "Nothing I shouldn't have expected, at least. I'm just not used to this."

His mouth is tight. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. And then, "I was afraid of this."

"I can handle it," I tell him again. "But this is all happening so quickly. I never thought it would be easy, but I also wasn't expecting everything to change so drastically overnight. To go from a nobody to... to whatever I am now. In only a few days my whole life has changed, and we're only just getting to know each other again, and I just want... I just want..." A few moments to think. Some room to breathe, away from the curious eyes of the press and public. To run away with Dante to a place where they'll never find us. "This is what you were trying to avoid back then, wasn't it?"

He gives a single nod, but though I've just admitted that he was right, he doesn't look the least bit smug—or even satisfied.

"Why don't we go?" he says softly.

I shake my head. "This is supposed to be our first real dinner date."

"And that means we can't spend it alone with each other?" He brushes a loose wave of hair back from my temple. "We aren't hiding anything just because we want to enjoy each other away from the judgment of the world, Ash. We're still rediscovering each other. That's hard enough without a spotlight on us."

My eyes fall closed as I nod. "Okay. Let's go."

I don't realize how much tension I was holding in my body until I say those words and relief flows through me. Yes, let's go be somewhere alone. Let's figure out our relationship with each other before we try to figure out our relationship with the rest of the world.

I lace my fingers through his as we move back through the restaurant. The hostess looks surprised as we pass, but neither Dante nor I say a word, and I'm strangely grateful that he doesn't feel the need to explain or justify our sudden departure to anyone. I squeeze his hand, overwhelmed with wonder at how well this man seems to understand me, even after all this time. The perfect first date of my dreams is falling apart around us before it's even truly begun, but something about this still feels just right.

Or at least... on the way to being right.

I try not to notice the woman who snaps a picture of us with her cell phone as we wait on the curb for the valet to bring around Dante's car. At least she tries to be subtle about it.

I can deal with minor inconveniences, I tell myself as Dante drives back to my house. But it will be easier once Dante and I have had more time to reconnect. Once I'm feeling stable again. Or at least as stable as you can feel when you're dating a man who makes your insides turn to mush every time he glances your way.

Now that I think about it, I'll probably never feel stable again. Neither my heart nor my body is a match for Dante. But I'm hopeful, and that's enough for now. At least until Dante turns onto my street.

"Shit," he says under his breath.

"Hm?" I sit up, glancing down the road. Instantly, my gut clenches.

There are people outside of my house. Paparazzi or reporters or others, I can't tell from here. But it doesn't matter. They found my house. They found my house.

Dante has stopped the car. He's looking over at me, probably waiting for a cue as to what I want him to do, but I feel like someone has dumped a bucket of ice over my head. It was one thing when they came to my bakery—at least then I could tell myself that I might eventually get some extra sales for my trouble. But this...

My home was my retreat when I was too overwhelmed to face the press. But now that's been taken from me.

"Can we go to your place?" I ask Dante, my voice sounding too small. "I can't do this."

His answer is to swing immediately into the nearest driveway and turn around. I glance back over my shoulder, unable to look away from the small group of people gathered on the street in front of my home. I should probably call the cops, I know, but right now I'm not sure I can manage even that. I just want to get away.

We drive in silence. My hands are shaking again, so I curl them into fists to keep Dante from noticing. But that simple gesture seems to stir something in me. The sick feeling in my stomach melts away, and in its place is anger. Pure, raw anger.

By the time we get to Dante's house, I can't hold it in anymore.

"They can't do that!" I blurt the minute I step out of the car. "They can't just show up at people's homes and camp out and take pictures and—God, they won't try to break into my house, will they?"

"There's a reason so many celebrities prefer gated properties," Dante says grimly. "Though even that doesn't always keep the worst of them out."

"Is that even legal? In what world is it okay to stalk someone like that? In what world? Is it really so important to get a picture of someone?" I'm hardly making any sense, I know, but I'm so mad that I don't care. My legs wobble beneath me, but Dante catches me around the waist. His fingers grip my side.

I glance up at him. For the first time, I notice that he is probably as pissed—if not more pissed—than I am. His jaw is rigid. His mouth pressed tight. His neck is so tense that I can see the tendons through his skin.

"They're going to hear about this, that's for damned sure," he says.

I blink. "From you?"

His hand tightens on my hip. "Yes. I'm not an unreasonable man. I understand that they have jobs to do, just as I have mine. And that our jobs depend on each other. But this is a step too far. And I'll be damned if I let them harass you like this."

"They'll leave me alone if you ask them?"

"If they know what's good for them. My family holds a lot of influence in this industry." He still looks grim. "But I'll be notifying my security company about the potential for trouble. If any of the paparazzi set foot on my property I'll press charges, and most of them know that already."

I relax a little at his words, but his body is still as tense as a bowstring.

He doesn't say anything else as we move through his house, not until we reach the kitchen. There, he stops, but he still keeps his arm around my waist.

"How bad was it yesterday?" he asks, his voice too low. Too calm.

"There were a bunch of them outside my bakery," I say. "And when I left, they followed me to my car. But I just tried to ignore them."

He's not looking at me but rather at some invisible spot on the wall. "You said you had to turn your phone off."

"Some of them got my cell number. It was easier just to turn it off. We had to unplug the main bakery line, too."

He's still not looking at me. "They're not all like that, you know. There are plenty of members of the press who are good, reasonable people. Felicia, who you just met, is one of them. I've made it my business to find the honest ones and build professional relationships that benefit both parties. But the ones who pull this shit... they're jackals. They don't see us as people. They see us as objects. As dollar signs. They have no qualms about harassing their targets or invading their lives."

"They weren't even the worst harassers," I say. "You have some very avid fans, Dante."

He finally looks down at me, his eyes wide with surprise. "What?"

I wasn't expecting him to be shocked by that information, so I don't know quite how to proceed.

"Your fans... I mean, I don't know who they were, but I'm assuming they're your fans. I got a lot of calls and messages from them once the name of my bakery was posted publicly."

"What kind of messages?"

"I... mostly just asking when you liked to come by, or what you liked to eat, or when you might next be there."

"You said they were harassing you."

"It's ridiculous, really," I say, trying to make light of it and ease his mind a little. "I'm sure they'll forget about me soon enough."

"What kind of messages, Ash?"

No way am I going to tell him about the death threats, not when he's like this. And I'm definitely not going to tell him about the crude, vulgar messages.

"Do we have to talk about this?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Our date has already been ruined. Are we really going to spend the rest of the night talking about other people?"

"If that's how long it takes for you to tell me the whole truth, Ash."

I close my eyes. "I just want to forget about everyone else."

"That won't make them go away."

"How do you deal with it, then?" I ask. "How have you gone your whole life like this?"

"I've had a lot of practice. But I'm still not sure it's prepared me for this. For watching you have to endure it." He tugs me closer. "I wish you would tell me the truth, Ash."

How can I deny him? Even though I know it will upset him, even though I know that there's nothing I can do, I want to be honest with him. I open my eyes.

"Some of your fans aren't exactly happy that you're dating someone," I say. "And they had some very strong opinions about whether or not I was good enough for you."

His arms are tense around my waist, and I can see that he's trying very hard to control his temper. "What did they say?"

"Ridiculous things, mostly. But some were very... protective of you. Threatened me bodily harm for daring to date you."

"They threatened you." Something twitches in his cheek.

"Everyone knows people are terrible on the internet."

"You're not telling me everything."

"Some of the threats were quite violent," I say. I'm in too deep to avoid the truth now. "But they didn't upset me as much as some of the other messages. There were men who... They said some very raunchy things to me. About me. I know that's just part of—" The sudden tightening of Dante's arms around me startles me into silence.

When I glance up at his face, I see plain, bare fury.

"Men you know?" he says, and his voice is so strained that he hardly even sounds like himself.

I shake my head. "Strangers."

The muscles of his chest are rigid beneath my hands. He doesn't move—doesn't even breathe—for a full minute.

"Why didn't you tell me this?" he demands finally. His eyes bore into me.

"I knew it would upset you."

"Of course it upsets me!"

"Well, it's not like there's anything we can do about it," I say.

"You still should have told me." He releases me and turns away, his hands going to his hair.

"What good has it done, telling you?" I say. "You don't tell me everything, either. We've just started seeing each other again. It's okay to still have some secrets."

He turns back toward me. "And what secrets do you think I'm hiding from you?"

"Not secrets, necessarily," I say. "But you dodge all of my questions about your work." Between the tense phone calls and his odd behavior at the studio, something is definitely going on.

"That's a different matter entirely," he growls.

"But it proves my point," I say. "We're allowed to keep some things to ourselves."

"Not if you're in danger. That is the difference here." He steps close to me again. "Especially if that danger is my fault."

"It's not your fault. You have no control over other people's behavior."

"Ash—"

"I'm done," I say. "I refuse to let them ruin our date any more than they already have." Before he can respond, I push past him and walk toward the door to the patio. "If you want me, I'll be in the pool."

"We haven't finished our discussion yet," he calls after me.

"I've finished." I pause at the door just long enough to make sure he sees me undo the zipper to my dress.

The patio is in darkness. He hasn't had a chance to turn on the outdoor lamps yet, but the pool lights are on, shining up through the water and making the tiles on the bottom shimmer. I slip off my heels and toss them aside before going to the edge of the water.

I sense more than hear Dante come to the door behind me. My eyes fall closed. I don't want to have this discussion with him right now. I don't want to think about harassing messages or reporters or paparazzi. I refuse to let our relationship fall victim to this.

I slide my dress off my shoulders and down my body. Without turning around, I step out of the garment and throw it behind me, not really caring where it lands. Now I'm in my bra and panties.

"I have no intention of letting this go, Ash," Dante says from the doorway.

"And I have no intention of saying another word about it tonight." I unhook my bra and toss it aside.

"The problem isn't going to go away."

"Not if we keep talking about it." My panties are down my legs, and I reach down and throw them in the same direction as my bra. Now I'm completely naked, and I can hear Dante coming closer.

"Ash, I know this is a lot to handle all at once," he says, his voice so soft I can hardly hear it over the breeze rolling in off the beach. "But you're not alone. I'm here. We're in this together."

"Then let's be together," I say. "Let's just forget the rest of this bullshit for a night."

His arms fold around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. "All right. Just for a night."

He dips his head and brushes his lips against the place where my neck meets my shoulder. A moan escapes my lips, and I let my head roll back against his shoulder. His mouth moves slowly up the side of my throat. His hands slide up the front of my body, finally coming to curl around each of my breasts.

"You know," he says, "you can't just get naked every time you want to end a conversation."

In spite of everything, I smile. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Only this once."

I start to reply, but then he takes my earlobe between his teeth and I forget how to speak.

After a few minutes of that exquisite torture, I can't take it anymore. I twist in his arms, turning to face him, and finally our mouths are meeting. The hunger that rises in me chases away the uncertainty, loosens the tension that had taken root in my body. I can't get close enough to him, and Dante seems to be struggling with a similar force. His body is rigid beneath my hands, his grip on me a little too tight, his kisses a little too rough. Suddenly I'm stumbling back, and he's moving with me, and then we're both tumbling into the pool.

Dante's arms stay around me as the water rushes over our heads. Fortunately, the water isn't that deep here, and I'm able to find my feet quickly. No sooner does my head rise above the water than he's kissing me again, not even taking a second to catch his breath.

He's still wearing his clothes—a fact I'm all too aware of as his hands roam over my naked skin. His wet shirt is clinging to his chest, but my hands find the buttons as his lips continue to assault mine. He only pulls his mouth away when I have trouble yanking his shirt off of his shoulders. We finally manage to wrestle it off together, and then he takes me in his arms again, more gently this time.

"Tonight, there's just us," he murmurs against my throat. "I'll protect you from the rest of the world."

I believe it—I know that this man will do his best to guard me from the crueler side of this sudden attention. The rest of the world might try to tear me down, but he has my back.

I slide my hands through his hair. Even wet, the strands are thick around my fingers, and I tighten my grip as he sucks at the side of my neck. His fingers drift up and down my spine beneath the water. When he first grabbed me, there was a tension, an urgency to his touch, but now it's as if he has all the time in the world.

"I missed this," he says roughly.

"Sex in the pool?" I say, my cheeks going hot as I remember the last time we did this very thing. We were in slightly deeper water, and he—

"All of this," he says, interrupting my thoughts. "Your skin. Your mouth. Your hair. Your voice." His hands drop lower and spread across my ass, one on each side, pulling me against his hips and letting me feel the hard length of him beneath the wet fabric of his pants. "I missed kissing you. Making love to you. Even arguing with you."

My face gets even warmer. "I feel like we've done even more of that this time around."

"And I wouldn't trade a moment of it." There's another soft brush of his lips against my neck. His hands tighten on my butt. "I'm still kicking myself for waiting so long to try and win you back."

"Why did you?" I ask. "If I'd known you felt like this..."

"As I told you, I thought you were better off without me." He rests his forehead against mine. "What we had was perfect when it was just the two of us. I knew things would change when we went public, and I told myself it was because I wasn't willing to put you through that. But honestly, I was thinking about myself—about the consequences of having a public relationship and the effects it would have on my career. Every public move I've made in my entire life has been carefully cultivated, designed to create a very specific persona and to get me a very specific outcome. The appearances I made, the women I dated, even the clothes I wore were all chosen with a purpose." He returns his hands to my back, but his face is still right against mine. "I didn't think I was prepared to make that sacrifice for you, and you deserved someone who was."

I swallow. Hearing him speak about this—hearing him admit to all the fears, all the insecurities that haunted me in the months after our breakup—is painful, even now. "Then what changed?"

"Sometimes you don't realize what you have until it's gone. Until you're left with an emptiness that you can't fill no matter how hard you try." He turns his head and rests his cheek right against mine. "I loved you, but I didn't realize how much until you were no longer there. Everything in my life felt hollow. Superficial. For a long time I didn't understand why—but then I couldn't seem to get you out of my mind, no matter how much I tried to distract myself, and I realized what it was. You never saw me as a means to an end. You weren't after fame or money. You loved me for the man beneath. And I'd thrown that away because I was afraid of losing the rest."

I tighten my arms around him. It breaks my heart to hear him say these things.

"By then," he murmurs, "I knew it was too late. You'd long since left school and no doubt moved on with your life. I was the one who'd made the mistake, and it was me who needed to suffer. But when I saw you again, after all this time... God, Ashlyn. It was like a part of me woke up again. I told myself I should leave you alone, but I couldn't. When we were alone with each other, it was as if nothing had changed. That energy was still there, and I knew there would be no letting go, not this time."

His hands have drifted all the way up my back, and now they grab my hair. He pulls my head back and turns my face toward his, and in his kiss I taste the truth of every word he's just said. It doesn't matter what his fans say or even what Jack says—I'm not a fool for loving him. I can bury all those silly fears I've had over the last few weeks.

My hands move beneath the water, struggling to undo his belt and pants. The moment I do, I wrap my legs around him, letting the water help me as I pull him closer.

His hard length is already pressing against my entrance, ready to reunite our bodies. But he pauses then, tilting his head back so he can speak.

"I'm never letting you go," he says roughly, and the pool lights make those flecks of gold in his eyes gleam. "Never."

"Never," I echo.

The moment the word escapes my lips, he pulls me down onto him, and I cry out as he buries himself fully. My arms loop around his neck as my body finds and matches his rhythm.

"You're mine," he growls against my neck.

"Yours." It's the only word I'm capable of right now.

"And I... don't care what... they do..." he grunts out between thrusts. "What... they say..." He drops his hands to my ass to pull me harder against him. "We have... this. Always... this." His nails bite into my flesh.

My only response is to moan as his next thrust drives him deeper. He's right. This is ours. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, and that includes that traitorous little voice in my head. This Dante won't hurt me, and this is all the truth I need.
CHAPTER TEN

I wake to the soft in-and-out of Dante's breath against my cheek.

We're in his bed, and for once, I've woken before him. My body is draped across his, and his chest rises and falls beneath my arm. I can feel his slow, steady heartbeat beneath the pads of my fingers.

For a long moment, I just lie there and stare at him. Watch the slight flutter of his dark lashes against his cheeks. Admire the long, hard lines of his body. He has a habit of kicking the sheets off while he sleeps, so most of his well-muscled form is in view. I let my fingers drift across the plane of his chest, following the path my mouth took last night. It must be close to dawn because the light that leaks in through the window is pale pink against his skin.

I'm not sure how long I lie there watching him. My body feels languid, content. Any tension or anxiety I felt last night disappeared beneath Dante's passionate touch. I feel like we could take on the world together.

We left the window cracked last night, and a soft breeze makes it to where I lie on the bed. It smells like the ocean. Like hope and infinite possibilities. Leaving Dante to his sleep, I carefully roll away from him and climb out of bed. God knows where my clothes ended up last night, but Dante has a robe draped over a chair next to the nightstand. I grab it and pull it around me as I walk over to the window. The feelings rolling through me right now are overwhelming—love, hope, and yes, a little bit of fear. I'm a part of this now. A part of him—and of everything that comes with him. The paparazzi, the complications, the overwhelming loss of self-control... My feelings seem to run deeper and more intensely when I'm around him, and as wonderful as it is, I also feel a little like I'm drowning. Like I'm lying on a beach and the waves are coming higher and higher up my body. Over my head.

His bedroom faces west—toward the beach—so I can't see the sunrise from here. But the sky over the Pacific is turning from gray to pink, and the breeze smells like morning. It tickles my skin, calling my over-sensitized nerves back to attention. I lean forward and push the window open a little more.

Something flutters on the table beneath the window. Some of Dante's papers. The house has an office—a big, beautiful room with a view of the sea—but from what I've seen, Dante rarely uses it. He'll write anywhere and everywhere—outside by the pool, at the kitchen counter, here in the bedroom—so it doesn't surprise me that some of his notes ended up here.

I wonder how his script is coming. He didn't seem particularly inclined to talk about it last night, but maybe he'll give me the details in time. I've watched him pour his soul into his writing, and I can only imagine the creative and emotional stress he's enduring right now. Every screenwriter dreams of penning the next big blockbuster, but there must be an intense amount of pressure following such a success.

I'm so lost in these thoughts that I don't notice that the wind has strengthened until it's too late. My only warning is a sudden flapping of paper, and suddenly Dante's notes are everywhere, blown across the room by a sudden gust.

"Crap," I mutter under my breath, hastily yanking the window shut. I pray that Dante's notes weren't in any particular order as I race across the room, frantically gathering them up.

I don't mean to look at them. But I spent so many years admiring his work that it's hard to ignore the pull of those pages in my hands. I fell in love with his passion, and these words are his art. I'd almost swear I can feel the power of them pulsing off the paper.

Most of the sheets I have in my hand are character sketches. Nearly all of them have "Cataclysm: Aftermath" scribbled across the top of the page, so it's no great leap to assume these are related to Cataclysm: Earth's sequel. The top sheet in my hand says "Jax Walton — Luca" under the title, and I guess from the notes that follow that he was sketching out the character arc for his brother's part. It's fascinating to read—after a quick bullet list of his physical appearance, Dante goes into an entire personality breakdown of the character. He lists strengths, weaknesses, fears, hidden desires... It's like looking into a master storyteller's head. I wrote a number of scripts and stories while I was in film school, but I never examined my characters this closely.

The page beneath Jax Walton's is for a female character named Isabel Alonso. This one has "Emilia" written next to the character name, so it's no mystery who belongs to this part. Part of me wants to read Isabel's description, but another part of me doesn't want to think about Emilia at all, let alone examine the character Dante wrote for her. Besides, I probably shouldn't even be looking at these notes in the first place.

I quickly gather up the rest of the scattered pages, determined to keep my eyes to myself. But as I'm adding the last one to the stack in my hands, a single word on the sheet catches my eye.

Ashlyn.

I freeze. And though I try to tear my gaze away, that's impossible now that I've seen my name. Why is my name in Dante's notes?

This sheet of paper is titled "Ashley Holtz — to be cast." Unlike the other character profiles I glanced at, this one is heavily marked up. Half of the notes are crossed out, and others are squeezed into the margins. There are at least four different shades of pen at work here, which means he's probably come back and reworked this character several times.

My name appears halfway down the page in red pen: "Like Ashlyn." Ashlyn is underlined three times.

You're not supposed to be reading this! a part of my brain screams. But how can I turn away now? And why wouldn't Dante tell me he was basing a character on me?

My eyes skim over the page, focusing mainly on anything in red ink—which I'm guessing was written about the same time he scribbled the bit with my name. The physical description of the character doesn't resemble me much at all, but then I get to this section of her description: "Orphaned as a child. Owned her own small business before the disaster. Something creative—bakery, pottery studio, plant nursery, or similar. Struggling business?"

That stings a little, but I guess my little bakery would hardly seem successful to a guy who makes millions of dollars a year. I definitely wouldn't turn down more business, but it's still not exactly pleasant to see that note on the page.

He's just using you as inspiration, I tell myself. This is fiction, not fact.

But my stomach only sinks further as I continue reading: "STRENGTHS: Tenacious. Passionate. Kindhearted. WEAKNESSES: Too emotional. Impulsive. Acts without thinking." And a few lines below that, next to a crossed-out section: "Naïve. Should she have some emotional baggage? A guy from her past—the only guy she's ever loved. Never got over him. Hasn't been with anyone else, even years later. Emotionally volatile around him." And below that: "Very vulnerable, physically and emotionally. Needs protecting."

It all hits too close to home to be merely coincidence—especially with my name right there on the page. By the time I'm done reading, I feel like I'm going to throw up. Jack's words float to the front of my mind: How many times does he have to hurt you before you start seeing sense? This wasn't the kind of hurt I was expecting, but the pain cuts just as deep. Last night, when he promised to protect me, I thought he'd be guarding me from the judgment of the rest of the world—not participating in it.

At once, the maelstrom of emotions I've been fighting swells forward. I knew this was too good to be true. I knew it was all too much, too fast. There are still so many things I don't know about this man, still parts of his life I have yet to see, but it's too late—I've given him my heart. Made myself vulnerable. And he's putting that vulnerability in a movie for everyone to see, exposing it to millions. It doesn't matter if no one knows it's me—I will know. He's putting my heart, my pain, on his page, when I've spent so long trying to keep those things safe to myself.

I'm still fighting nausea as a pair of arms slide around my waist from behind.

"Good morning," Dante says against my hair.

His just-woken-up voice is scratchy and raw, and on any other morning it would have made my toes curl. Today, though, I just feel sick.

"I never said you were allowed to leave the bed," he murmurs, sliding a hand beneath the robe to find my breast. "I'm not done with you yet."

Even the promises of his body can't chase away the chill that's come over me. "Dante, what is this?"

I can tell the exact moment his eyes land on the sheet of paper because his fingers freeze. "Where did you get that?"

"Your notes blew off the table and I was picking them up." I shouldn't have looked at them, I know, but it's too late for such regrets. "Is this a character in your script? You're using this? Using me?"

He doesn't speak for a long moment. Too long. And when the words finally come, he talks slowly, as if choosing every word carefully. "Writers use real people as inspiration sometimes, Ash. It helps us create characters that feel authentic. But a lot of influences go into a character. Bits and pieces from different people and different experiences."

I'm still frozen in his arms. "Her name is Ashley."

"That was the director's decision. It's his girlfriend's name—purely a coincidence."

"But this note about me isn't a coincidence. You have a comment about her running a bakery... about her having emotional baggage..." But my eyes keep going back to the weaknesses: Too emotional. Impulsive. Acts without thinking. Even as part of a fictional character, they sting. It's like having all of my worst traits spelled out. And the fact that Dante has recognized them and is using them as part of his work is just too much.

"Ash," he says, pulling the notes out of my hands. "You're a fascinating woman. That's why you've found a way into my work." He tosses the notes on the bed behind us and turns me around in his arms. "I've been struggling with this script for months. The studio didn't like the first draft I turned in. They wanted me to add a bunch of new characters and rewrite the entire second and third acts. I'd hit a wall." His hands come up to cup my face. "And then you came back into my life—you with your smart mouth and your passion and your energy—and suddenly I found the words flowing again. I saw this character in my head and she had all of your vibrancy, all of your emotion."

"Too much emotion, apparently," I whisper. My throat aches, but my eyes are strangely dry. For once, I feel like a hollow, emotionless shell. "And all of my baggage, too." I pull out of his arms. "I'm not perfect, I know that. But I've spent the last few years beating myself up for being too emotional. For acting without thinking. For letting my heart get in the way of my better sense. My best friend just accused me of those very things—he thought I was crazy to come back to you. And I was afraid he was right, that I was being naïve and impulsive and stupid for letting my emotions make my decision for me." I back up another step, shaking my head. "But I thought that you, at least, would defend that decision. That you saw my choice as something wonderful, something inevitable. But you think those traits are weaknesses, too." Is this why he's been hesitant to talk about his work around me?

He moves toward me. "Ashlyn, I think I've made it more than clear how I feel about you. I don't care what your friend thinks. You belong with me."

"You're missing the point," I say, throwing out my hand to keep him from getting closer. "I don't expect you to think I'm perfect. But to have you call out all of my issues... for you to use them like this, use our relationship history as inspiration... Do you have any idea what this has done to me, letting you back into my life? I don't even feel like myself half the time anymore. I've been terrified that it would all come crashing down again, fighting myself at every turn, hating myself for being weak." My eyes are burning now, but they're still perfectly dry. And my voice remains steady and cold. "I know I wasn't supposed to see these notes. But God, you have no idea how it feels to have the person you love consider exposing your pain to the world. Sharing your baggage for everyone to see." In fact, it feels like a knife right to the gut—or is that just another overemotional reaction?

I feel exposed, stripped. All of my fears and doubts are threatening to pull me under. Maybe he's right—maybe I'm not strong enough for this. Not for the intensity of emotion or for the spotlight or for the glimpse into his art—if I can't handle a character, a work of fiction, how can I handle a life with him?

Dante steps closer. "Ash, I'm sorry."

"This isn't something an apology can fix." No, this goes much deeper than that. I take another step back toward the door. "But I'm glad you finally found a way I could help you with some aspect of your career." Maybe, as usual, I'm just being naïve. Unrealistic. But the feelings I have for Dante are beyond intense, beyond anything I've ever felt for anyone else. And the way he's looked at me, kissed me, made love to me... made me feel like he worshiped me. But if he's willing to put this character on the screen, then he's not the man I thought he was. Maybe all of this is just an illusion. I've been willfully blind because I wanted to believe I was strong enough to handle things this time.

Too emotional. Impulsive. Acts without thinking. A checklist of my shortcomings. All the things I've been trying to fight since Dante broke my heart the first time. I never got stronger, never learned.

"I think I need to... to think," I say. "I need to go."

He shakes his head. "You're safer here. The paparazzi are still going to be looking for you. We need to make sure you aren't getting harassed."

The note at the bottom of his character sketch jumps into my mind: Very vulnerable, physically and emotionally. Needs protecting.

"I can handle it," I tell him—even though I know the words are a lie. This is all a lie. "Please, Dante. Just let me go."

His dark eyes are fixed on me, searching me. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. He looks like he's one breath away from lunging toward me.

"Please, Dante." I need to get out of here before I completely fall apart. Before the last shreds of my armor are torn away. I hear Jack's voice again in my head: This wouldn't be the first time you let your emotions get in the way of your better judgment. What made me ever think this relationship was a good idea? It's all too much. Too much.

Maybe it's the look in my eyes. Maybe it's the fact that I still haven't shed a tear. Maybe he just doesn't know what to make of me right now. But he gives a single nod.

And I escape while I can, before this empty, hollow feeling abandons me and he has the chance to add "weepy, pathetic mess" to the sheet of paper.

* * *

Mama Pat is my savior. She picks me up from Dante's house, and I don't think I've ever been happier to have a mama hen in my entire life.

The moment I slide into her car she looks me up and down. "Need to talk about it, honey?"

I shake my head. If I say a word about Dante, I'll lose my carefully maintained self-control, and I'm barely holding myself together as it is.

"Thank you for coming to get me," I tell her. "Normally I'd have called Jack, but he and I aren't exactly on good terms right now."

"You know I'm always here for you, my dear."

I do know. Mama Pat's been the closest thing I've had to a mother since my own died, and something about the way she's looking at me now—with compassion and understanding—softens me. I need a friend, a mom, right now.

"I'm an idiot," I say, leaning my head against the car window. "I should have known I wasn't strong enough to handle this. I knew I was being stupid and emotional... but I let myself fall right back into his arms."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Mama Pat says.

I let my eyes fall closed. My head and chest feel heavy, like I should be sobbing—but I must have finally reached a breaking point because the tears don't come.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I tell her. "Part of me knows I'm in way over my head, and the other part thinks I'm overreacting. And I don't know which part to listen to. It's all a mess. I've screwed up everything. Everything was going so well for me before he came back into my life—I had a business I loved, good friends, a life I enjoyed. Now I've had to close my bakery and my best friend is mad at me and I feel like I've lost control of everything. I've been so stupid."

Mama Pat is silent for a long moment. And then, "Love does strange things to people. If it doesn't turn your life completely upside down, then it's probably not love."

"Maybe some people just aren't equipped to deal with it," I say, opening my eyes.

"No one is, honey."

Another time, I might have smiled. But it's hard to get my lips to move when my insides are in such a jumble. I press my fingers against the glass of the window, lining them up with a set of smudgy prints someone left there. In my mind I can still see Dante's eyes, still hear the intensity of his voice. I'm not strong enough for this. For him.

"He had a bunch of notes about me," I say softly. "Or—not me, exactly. But a character based on me. She had all of my baggage." I flatten my palm against the glass. "I know it sounds silly and petty, but when I saw all of those things written down... God, it just felt like someone had reached inside of me and ripped my heart out. I knew that dating Dante came with its own set of complications, but I just thought... He's the only man I've ever loved, Mama Pat. In a twisted way I thought we were living our own little fairy tale. I thought the man who loved me was supposed to accept all of my issues. Not expose them to the world to further his career. He said he was going to protect me, but who's going to protect me from him? I feel so... so bare around him. And he was willing to show that to the world." I let out a long breath. "God, this all sounds so ridiculous when I say it out loud. I'm sorry."

"First of all," Mama Pat says, "don't you ever apologize for how you feel. There's no shame in emotions." She glances over at me. "Some people spend most of their lives hiding their emotions. Or burying them down so deep that even they don't recognize what they're feeling. If something in this life makes you feel something, let it. Don't judge yourself for it."

"Even when it makes things worse?" Even when others judge you for it?

"Ashlyn, dear, I'm pretty sure I only know half the story, but from where I'm sitting, you've had a very overwhelming couple of weeks. And you've spent the last few years working your butt off, pouring your heart and soul into the bakeshop and never giving yourself a chance to breathe. Take a few days and get some rest. You'll think clearer when you've given yourself a little break."

Taking a break is the last thing I want to do—honestly, I want nothing more than to throw myself back into my baking, to bury my hands in flour and work out all of these churning emotions in a batch of dough. But I'm not going to go back to my bakery, not when there are probably still paparazzi and reporters looking for me there. Not when that's one of the first places Dante will come looking for me. I'm afraid to even go home.

"Mama Pat," I say, sitting up as her car nears my home. "I should probably warn you that there were reporters outside of my house last night. I don't know if they're still there."

She frowns. "Oh, honey. Has it gotten that bad?"

She turns onto my street, but—thank God—there are no paparazzi to be seen. Still, there are a handful of subtle clues that they were here—footprints in the gravel next to my mailbox, cigarette butts in the street. I wonder if they plan on returning.

I'm not strong enough for this.

"I tell you what, my dear," Mama Pat says as she pulls into my driveway. "Why don't you come stay with William and me for a few days? I hate the idea of you being here all alone if they come back."

"I'll be fine," I tell her. I don't want to have to rely on anyone.

But she gives me a look that says she knows me too well. "There's no shame in accepting help when it's offered. You need someone to make sure you're getting enough food and rest."

I'm too exhausted to argue. "All right. Let me go grab some things."

I only pause once during the packing process, and that's to pull out my phone. It's been off since yesterday, and I cringe when I see how many messages are waiting for me. I don't check to see whether they're from reporters or Dante or someone else. I just shoot off a quick message to Jack.

You were right. I'm sorry. Let me buy you some chili fries to make it up to you?

Then I grab the rest of my things and dash back out to Mama Pat, telling myself I'm not just running away.

* * *

My "vacation" doesn't leave me feeling much better.

Sure, I get plenty of food and plenty of sleep—and both Mama Pat and her husband are kind, generous hosts—but my heart still feels heavy. I feel lost. Dragged out by a rip tide. And I'm not sure what to do but continue to push on. The moment I heard back from Jack—he agreed to meet for lunch this coming week, thank goodness—I switched off my phone. I've avoided television and the internet. I need time to think.

But thinking is hard when I'm like this. Every time I close my eyes I feel Dante's arms around me. Feel his lips against mine. Feel his fingers on my skin. Sometimes, I let myself sink into those fantasies. But every time I do, the feelings of love and desire are quickly drowned beneath a rush of pain and fear. I love him. I love him so much I don't know what to do with myself. He holds my heart in his hands, could break it without any effort at all—and he knows exactly where my weak spots are. I hate that he has this much power over me.

On Tuesday, I can't take it anymore. I need something to do. So I call up Jilly and Karen and tell them I'm reopening Ashlyn's Bakeshop.

It's a relief to have a distraction. The minute I'm back in my kitchen again, I feel myself starting to relax. Once I get back into the rhythm of normal life, I'll feel better. If Mama Pat thinks this is too soon, she doesn't say anything to me.

And so I do my best to pretend that everything is fine. To pretend that I don't see the paparazzi camped outside. And though the bakery phone seems to be ringing more than usual... well, Jilly and Karen have gotten very good at filtering calls.

Yes, I tell myself. I might make it through this after all.

Just before lunch, I sit down with Mama Pat to go over the week's cake orders. Today is the day I'm taking Jack out for his chili fries, but before he gets here, I want to make sure we have our schedule in order.

We flip through the stack of orders, making notes and divvying up tasks. There's a kid's birthday cake going out on Thursday and a bachelorette cake on Friday. We have three cakes to do for Saturday, but two of them are simple vanilla party cakes. The third...

My hand freezes on the ticket. The third cake is Luca Fontaine's birthday cake. This is Dante's order.

Mama Pat frowns. She doesn't need me to explain why I've suddenly gone mute.

"Are we still making this one?" she asks. "Or should I toss the order?"

I've thought about tossing it a number of times since Dante first walked into this bakery, and despite the fact that I'm not sure whether or not I'm ready to see him yet—to see him ever again—throwing out his order feels petty. The integrity of my business is more important to me than personal pride. Besides, as much as I hate to admit it, we could always use the money.

"We'll do it," I say. I'm not sure if he's planning on picking it up or having us deliver it—we never got to the point where we were discussing such details—but either way, I can probably convince Jilly to deal with it. She'll probably even thank me for the chance to meet Dante Fontaine.

The rest of the orders are fairly straightforward. I leave Mama Pat to do some prep work while I clean up for my lunch with Jack. He should be here soon. I'm just hanging up my apron when Karen comes to grab me.

"Ash?" she says. "You, uh, have a visitor."

Jack's a few minutes early—which is unlike him. But I hope that means he's eager to make up. I owe him a big apology.

I toss my apron on the hook and grab my bag before heading out into the shop. But I only make it about three steps before I freeze in my tracks.

It's not Jack waiting for me. It's Dante.

My first thought is, Why didn't Karen warn me? But it's not her fault—I haven't been as open with her as I've been with Mama Pat. My second thought is, Run. I'm not ready for this.

But he's already crossing the room, and by the time I convince my feet to move he's right in front of me. I start to back away, but he grabs my hand.

"Dante, please... I can't..."

"I'm not releasing you until you talk to me," he says. His eyes bore into me. "I've been trying to get in touch with you for days, Ash." He looks... exhausted. Like he hasn't been sleeping. His hair is a mess. There are shadows under his eyes. Even his clothes are disheveled.

"I told you I needed some space to think," I whisper. In spite of the intensity of his gaze, his grip on my hand is gentle, if firm. I could pull away—should pull away—but I don't. His presence, as usual, has some sort of power over me. I'm caught under his spell.

"You have no idea how worried I've been." He rubs his face with his free hand. The entire bakery has gone silent around us, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. "After all that madness with the press, and those messages you've been getting... Fuck, Ash, I was afraid..." He drops his hand and catches me in his gaze. "Ash, you have no idea what these last few days have been like for me."

I don't know what I was expecting when I saw him again, but this desperate, haunted look in his eyes was not it. I've seen him upset before. Seen him angry. Seen him worried. But nothing like this. He looks half wild.

And before I can decide what I should say or do, he drops down onto his knee.

Someone in the bakery lets out a loud gasp. And a familiar voice by the door says, "Holy fuck." I look up just in time to see Jack's jaw drop—he must have just walked in—but then Dante is squeezing my fingers and my attention is drawn back to the man on his knee in front of me.

"I've made a lot of mistakes when it comes to you," Dante says. "And every time I see that look in your eyes, it kills me a little more. But I'm done making mistakes, Ashlyn. I'm done doing anything that makes you believe, even for a second, that you aren't the world to me. Because you are, Ashlyn—you are everything. You mean more to me than anything else, and even if it takes me my entire life to prove that to you, I'm not going to rest until I do."

I feel like I'm not getting enough air. "Dante... maybe we should go somewhere else..."

"I don't care if the whole world hears it," he says. "I don't even care if you turn me down in front of all these people. In front of the entire world. I love you, Ashlyn. I love everything about you. Your tenacity and your courage and every single one of your emotions. I love you whether you're laughing or screaming or crying. I love your impulsiveness and your unpredictability. My entire life I've trained to hide my true self from the world. To cultivate this perfect, controlled public persona. But being with you changes me, Ash. Ask anyone I know. You bring out the parts of me I try to hide, and I've never felt more alive in my entire life. I never want to go back to how things were before." He raises my hand to his lips. "Marry me, Ashlyn."

This can't be happening. Not here, not like this. This is too soon. This is too crazy.

"Dante..." I whisper. I can't make this decision with all of these people watching.

"I shredded that script," he murmurs against the backs of my fingers. "I told them to find someone else to rewrite it."

"You didn't have to—"

"I did. And I'd do it again."

Panic is rising in my chest. "Dante, if we could go somewhere a little more private..."

He brushes his lips against my knuckles. "I'll follow you anywhere you wish to go."

I pull him to his feet and lead him back through the kitchen, past a wide-eyed Mama Pat and straight into the walk-in cooler. I have no idea what I'm going to say or do. But the moment the door is shut behind us, I find myself sinking against his chest.

His arms come up around me—one around my waist, the other around my upper back, squeezing me to him as if he never intends to let me go. I press my face against his shirt.

"I'm scared," I whisper. "I'm so scared, Dante."

"Me too," he murmurs against my hair.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "You?"

"I'm fucking terrified. God, Ashlyn, if you had any idea..." His voice cracks on the last word.

For a moment, I just let him hold me. My cheek is against his chest, and his heart is thrumming hard and fast beneath my ear.

I'm not strong enough for these feelings.

"You shouldn't have shredded your script," I tell him softly. "That wasn't what I wanted. I shouldn't have gotten that upset, and I never expected you to—"

"Hush, it's done."

"It wasn't really about those notes," I rush on, feeling the need to explain myself. "I was just overwhelmed, and I..."

"No, you had every right to be upset. It was a shitty thing to do. And God, the look in your eyes... I never want to cause you pain, Ashlyn. Of any kind. I'd shred all of it again in a heartbeat." He weaves his fingers through my hair and pulls my head back so he can look down at me. "It was just a script, Ash. And there are a hundred screenwriters who could take my place. There will be other films. Damn it, I don't even like disaster movies."

His hand is skimming across my face, and I resist the urge to turn into his touch. There's too much we need to talk about.

"You shouldn't have said those things out there," I say.

"There a lot of things in my past I shouldn't have said. And a lot of things I shouldn't have written. But those words out there needed to be spoken. I meant every one." His eyes smolder. "And I needed to show you that I was willing to expose myself, to let the whole world see what you do to me."

"You can't be serious about getting married," I blurt. "We're hardly even in a relationship. And we've only been reunited for a few weeks, and—"

"And I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life. I've never felt like this about a woman, Ashlyn. And I know I'll never feel like this ever again." He slides his thumb across my bottom lip. "I meant it when I said you'd changed me. I used to think myself a very level, even-headed sort of man, but around you... Your emotions aren't a weakness, Ash. They're the things that make you fascinating and intoxicating and the most authentic woman I've ever known. They're the things that woke up the sleeping parts of me. The things that make us a perfect match for each other." His head dips lower. "They're a perfect part of you. And the fact that were willing to share them with me makes me want to be a better man."

He tries to kiss me, but I turn my face away. "I don't deserve this."

"God, wherever would you get that idea?"

"I'm not strong enough for any of this. I ran away from you because I was afraid, because I wasn't ready to deal with this. And then you come in here and say all these amazing things as if I weren't this melodramatic—"

"I say these things because I mean them. And if you're afraid, then I only have myself to blame for that. I hurt you after inviting you to be vulnerable with me. I'll never forgive myself for that. And if you're worried that you're not strong enough, it's only because we've both seen what we do to each other. There's no pretending this is ordinary, no pretending that we aren't connected by the rawest, truest parts of ourselves. We both feel too deeply to be anything less than everything to each other."

I promised myself I wouldn't cry over this man again, but his words hit a chord in my heart that I can't deny.

"I'm an idiot," I say.

"Not as big an idiot as me." He's still holding my face. "Tell me you'll at least give us one more shot, Ash."

There's no hiding now. No running away. He's bared himself to me, and I can't deny him—or myself. My fears be damned. I don't care how terrified I am—I'm going to be brave.

I nod. I can't seem to form words right now, but that gesture seems to be enough. Heat and relief flood Dante's eyes, and then he's kissing me.

God, how is it that his lips taste better every time? My mouth falls open beneath his, and my hands lace behind the back of his neck, holding him close. I never want to let him go.

When he pulls away, the wild, haunted Dante is gone, and in his place is a man who looks... well, almost goofy. He's grinning widely, looking happier than I've ever seen him, and I find that I'm smiling as well.

"I'm in this with you, no matter what," he says. "No matter where we go from here, no matter what challenges we face, I have your back."

"And I have yours," I whisper. "But... marriage? I love you, Dante. Don't ever doubt it. But this is all happening so fast—"

"Just promise me you'll think about it," he says. "I don't care how long I have to wait for your answer, as long as you let me wait for it by your side."

"And the press—"

"We'll face together. We might have to deal with some rumors after word gets out that I've dropped Cataclysm: Aftermath. But we'll manage. Maybe I can arrange for us to take an extended trip to Bali."

I laugh and wipe away a tear. "You know I can't leave my bakery for that long."

"Then we'll figure out something else. But we'll do it together." He sobers a little. "I want you to tell me if you get any more harassing messages."

"Only if you promise to tell me what's going on with your work." I look down at my hands on his chest. "I'm not trying to pry, I just..."

"I know." He tilts my face back up toward his. "We have a lot to share. A lot to keep discovering about each other." He twirls a loose strand of my hair around his finger, still looking far too serious. "You'll still have reporters and paparazzi poking around for a while, I'm afraid. I'm hoping that if I stay away from any high-profile projects, we might get a little privacy, but you never can guess with these things. Maybe it'll be better if you come stay with me for the time being."

It's a tempting offer, but I still don't want to rush into things. "I'll think about it, I promise."

He smiles. "At the very least, I hope you're still planning on coming to Luca's party on Saturday. I really want my family to meet you."

"I was actually just looking at the order sheet for the cake."

"I don't care about the cake. I just want you."

His expression makes me tingle all over—until a sudden thought occurs to me. "Is Emilia going to be there?"

"No. I believe she's doing a special photo shoot in Greece." He's frowning again, and he hooks a finger beneath my chin. "Ashlyn, I promise you there was no emotion involved in what happened between Emilia and me. There was so much pressure for Cataclysm: Earth to do well, and we were both dealing with a lot of stress. It could have been anyone—for either of us. Emilia and I just happened to find each other at the right time. No doubt Luca went and found some relief of his own."

"It still just seems so weird to me that Luca and Emilia's relationship is a sham."

"I can't imagine maintaining an act like that for so long—but then again, Luca is the actor, not me. And he and Emilia have this down to an art—Luca told me they have a contract in place stating what each of them can and can't do."

"And I thought we were complicated."

He laughs—God, that sound. "It isn't something I would choose. But maybe that's because I've already found the love of my life." He brushes a kiss against my brow before getting serious again. "But Ashlyn—I've told you the truth about Emilia. I'll tell you about all of the other women if you like—though I'm not sure that would be a particularly pleasant conversation for either of us. But if that's what it takes to make you trust me, I will."

"I trust you," I say, and to my surprise, I don't feel even a hint of doubt as the words slip from my lips. I gaze up into his gold-flecked eyes, and the expression I see there only confirms the truth I know in my heart.

"So you'll come on Saturday?" he asks again.

I nod. "I—"

A knock sounds at the entrance to the walk-in cooler, and the door starts to slide open.

"Please, please, please tell me you two are clothed," comes Jack's voice.

I laugh and flick the last of the tears from my cheeks. "We're dressed, Jack. You can come in."

The door swings all the way open, and my best friend stands on the threshold, looking from me to Dante and back again as if he can't quite decide what he thinks of the scene in front of him.

"I wanted to give you guys your space, but you've been in here for way too long," he says. "The way I saw it, you two were either screwing or she was murdering you, and there was no way I was leaving Ash to deal with the body alone."

I grin. "Everything's good, Jack. I promise." I glance back up at Dante. "We were just talking some things out."

"Well, you could have picked somewhere a little warmer." He rubs his arms. "Does this mean you're canceling our lunch?"

"Actually," Dante says, "I was just on my way out. It was never my intention to disrupt your plans." He pulls me toward him and gives me a kiss that makes my entire body throb with need. "See you on Saturday?"

I'm too dazed to do anything but nod.

He releases me and goes to the door—passing Jack in the process. Each of them gives the other a wary once-over, until finally Dante sticks out his hand.

"I don't believe we've formally introduced ourselves," he says. "I'm Dante."

"I'm Jack," my friend says, looking suspicious as he takes Dante's hand.

"I know we didn't exactly begin things on the right foot," Dante says, "but I hope we have the chance to start over. You work for Brockman, don't you?"

Jack nods, narrowing his eyes.

"We should do lunch sometime," Dante says. "I have a few project ideas I think your boss might find interesting."

He doesn't wait for Jack's response. He gives me a final wave farewell—with an accompanying smile that nearly makes me melt—before leaving my friend and me alone.

"Holy shit," Jack says. "What just happened?"

"He's trying to make amends," I say. "You better be nice to him." Having Dante Fontaine as a connection could do wonders for Jack's career.

"So what does this mean?" Jack says, swinging around to face me. "Are you two engaged? Did you actually accept his proposal?"

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. "He told me I don't have to answer him now. I.... God, I don't even know what to think right now."

"You two looked pretty cozy when I came in here."

"I know. I just... I love him so much, Jack. And every time I think things are over he does something that makes me fall in love with him all over again."

Jack looks almost amused. "I'll tell you one thing, if a guy ever proposed to me like that I'd have a very hard time refusing him. That was like something out of a fucking movie."

"So you've changed your mind about him?"

"Hey—you've changed your mind about him at least five times this month. You don't get to give me crap." He leans against the nearest shelf. "But seriously, Ash. Dante Fontaine was literally on his knees confessing his love for you. That's the sort of thing that only happens once in a lifetime."

I feel so happy I could almost float away. "So you don't think I'm being crazy?" I can't imagine doing any of this without my best friend by my side.

"Oh, you're being crazy. But Dante seems pretty crazy too, so I think this might just work out for the two of you." His grin widens. "I have to confess, though—I'm a little happy you didn't accept his proposal."

"You are?"

"Yeah, well..." He rubs the back of his head. "Can you imagine how stressed out we would be if we were trying to plan two weddings at the same time?"

It takes me a moment to understand what he's saying, but when the dots connect, I leap forward. "Are you serious?! Did you propose to Evan? Jack! This is amazing!"

I start to throw my arms around him, but he stops me.

"Hold your horses, Ash," he says. "It hasn't happened yet. I was actually planning to do it tonight. I was going to tell you about it over lunch."

"This is so awesome," I say. My smile is so wide my cheeks hurt. Could this day get any better? "You have to tell me everything. How are you planning to do it?"

"Let's go get our chili fries, and I'll run my ideas by you," he says, hooking his arm through mine and leading me out of the cooler. "I thought I knew what I was doing, but geez, Ash—after watching that little scene out there, I think I might need to step up my game."
CHAPTER ELEVEN

The mansion of Charles and Giovanna Fontaine is insane.

It's huge, of course. And gorgeous. And surrounded by grounds that make it look like we're somewhere in Tuscany. If I thought Dante's house was intimidating, it's nothing compared to this.

Though I'm sure the fact that I'm about to meet his parents isn't helping my nerves.

I'm a bundle of anxiety as Dante leads me through the front door. His arm is hooked through mine, his fingers offering a reassuring touch on my inner wrist.

"You look gorgeous," he murmurs to me as he leads me across the foyer and into the formal living room. "They're going to love you."

The rest of his family is already here, and my breath stops as I take them in. At least one of the advantages of dating a Fontaine is that I already know the names of many of the people here in this room—there won't be any awkward lapses of memory later. Still, meeting everyone at once is more than a little intimidating. It's not just the fact that they're Dante's family, or even that they're famous—every single person here has a presence, that undefinable trait that allows them to capture and keep the focus of all of your senses. Dante has always had that sort of sway over me, but I don't think it's a coincidence that this entire family has ruled Hollywood and the tabloids for so long. If there's such a thing as star power, everyone in this room has it.

We're hardly through the door when we're approached by the woman I know to be Giovanna Agosti Fontaine, Dante's mother.

"Darling," she says, hugging him. Then she turns to me.

"This is Ashlyn," Dante tells her. To me, he says, "Ash, this is my mother, Giovanna."

"Pleased to meet you," I say, thankful I have a voice. Dante's mother is stunningly beautiful—but how couldn't she be, to produce a son like Dante? Her long hair flows down over her shoulders, her famous gold locks threaded with streaks of silver. Her eyes are large and brown, set in a face that's wide and expressive while still capturing a very classic sort of beauty. She's the sort of woman who will look elegant until the day she dies.

"Lovely to meet you," she says, ignoring my outstretched hand and pulling me in for a hug. "We don't deal with those sorts of formalities in this family, my dear." She presses a quick kiss to each of my cheeks before releasing me. I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to return the kisses or not, but fortunately, Dante's father is just behind her.

"Ashlyn, this is Charles, my father," Dante says.

Charles is as intimidating as Giovanna is elegant. He's tall and broad-shouldered with the same coloring as his oldest son—though like his wife, he's started to wear the effects of age with pride. He greets me warmly—but thankfully without the cheek kisses. I'm still not sure how to handle those.

After that, we make a tour of the room. All of Dante's brothers and a few of his cousins are here, and many of them brought dates. He brings me first to Raphael, his second-youngest brother, who frankly looks a little underdressed compared to the rest of his family. But there's no denying he looks good in those dark jeans and leather jacket—if you go for that shaved-head, bad boy kind of look. Still, I can see the family resemblance, and with his rich, deep voice—deeper even than Dante's—I have no doubt he attracts his fair share of women. He's with a pretty, dark-haired woman I don't recognize, and he introduces her as a model he met on one of his recent shoots. Still, I don't miss the way his eyes skim over my body as Dante introduces us, and I know without a doubt that this one is trouble.

Orlando is next. He's Dante's youngest brother, probably no more than twenty-four or twenty-five, and he seems to have inherited his mother's coloring. His dirty-blond hair is a mop of curls, and though there's something still a little boyish about his smile, the gleam in his golden-brown eyes leaves me no doubt he's going to be a heartbreaker in a few years—if he isn't already. But I also notice a hint of something in his expression—a shadow, perhaps, or a hint of something darker—and I find myself wondering more about this youngest member of the family. Of all of the Fontaines, he seems to find his way into the gossip pages the least often, but whether that's by luck or intention, I couldn't say. From what I've heard, he's been following in his father's footsteps and dabbling a bit in directing, but I couldn't tell you what's become of any of those projects. I've spent the last few years trying to avoid getting any news about the Fontaines—but if I'm going to stick around, then I guess I need to brush up again.

Am I going to stick around? I glance around the room. This feels like an alien world. I don't belong in massive mansions or at celebrity parties.

But I belong with Dante.

There's no question of that, even now. But can I ever feel comfortable around these people? If I choose to be in a relationship with Dante, events like this might become a regular part of my life. Am I ready for that?

His question—his proposal—has been at the front of my mind all week. Yesterday, when I was putting the finishing touches on the bachelorette party cake, I actually found myself tearing up.

"Are you all right?" Mama Pat had asked me.

For once, the answer had been yes. The love of my life—the man who'd been at the center of my emotions for so long—asked me to marry him. I'm the happiest girl in the world. Now, I just have to find the courage to answer him.

Dante and I have finally made it around the room to Luca. The birthday boy is currently chatting with a couple of people I recognize as his cousins—though I'm not sure I could name either of them off the top of my head. The Fontaine family is something of a dynasty—Dante's father is the youngest of four siblings, each with their own kids, and many of the cousins ended up working in Hollywood as well—but some branches of the family tree are more famous than others. It's easy to lose track of who's who after a while.

But the young man and woman speaking with Luca notice Dante and me approaching and take their leave, giving the brothers space to greet each other—which they do, with some enthusiasm. I always guessed that Dante was closer to Luca than his other siblings, but the way he grins and claps his brother on the back confirms it.

"And this," Luca says, spinning toward me, "must be Ashlyn."

"Yes, I—" My words cut off as Luca grabs my hand and brings it to his lips. I was definitely not expecting this sort of greeting, and my cheeks get hot as Luca's mouth brushes my knuckles.

"Luca..." Dante's tone holds a warning.

"What? I was just being a gentleman," Luca says with a grin. But he releases my hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last."

"And you," I say, wondering about the words at last. Has Dante been talking to him about me?

My question is answered immediately.

"You have no idea what a twist you put my brother in," Luca says, still grinning at me. "The poor guy was going crazy looking for you last weekend. Never seen anything like it my whole life."

"Luca." This time Dante sounds even less patient.

"I mean, he's never gotten worked up over a girl before. I was beginning to think there was something wrong—" He yelps as Dante catches him in a headlock.

I leap back as the two brothers start wrangling. Dante has a pretty firm hold on his younger brother, but Luca is agile—he wastes no time in attempting to twist out of Dante's grip, sending them both slamming back against the side table behind them.

The contact with the table seems to bring both of them to their senses—and bring the attention of the rest of the room right to us. But Luca and Dante are both grinning as they put everything back in place, even if their father is giving them a rather exasperated roll of his eyes from the other side of the room.

"Try not to break my brother's heart," Luca tells me with a wink as he straightens his suit jacket. "I wouldn't know what to do with the poor fellow. Now if you'd excuse me, I think our father wants a word."

"I—happy birthday!" I call after him. Well, that wasn't exactly how I expected my first meeting with Luca to go, but I can't exactly say it went poorly.

Dante is shaking his head as I turn back around. "I apologize for him. He doesn't know how to speak with women when he isn't trying to flirt his way into their pants."

I glance back over my shoulder, watching the golden-haired Luca stride toward his father. With that smile of his, he probably doesn't have to work very hard to charm his way into anyone's pants.

"Is he seeing someone?" I find myself asking. When I look back at Dante and see the expression on his face, I quickly add, "Not because I'm interested, of course. I was just curious. You know, because of the whole Emilia thing."

Dante is watching his brother. "There's someone, that's for sure. But he won't tell me who." His mouth curls up into a subtle smile. "It's funny that he's the one accusing me of acting strange over a girl. He's been out of his mind for months, but he refuses to tell me a damned thing about her, whoever she is." He pulls me closer to him. "And he still flirts with anything in a skirt, at least when he thinks he can get away with it. It doesn't make sense. I can see why he'd hide a relationship from the press, at least while he and Emilia are putting on their act. But why would he hide it from me?"

"Maybe because he thinks you'd disapprove of the relationship," I say.

Dante looks down at me. "Why?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe she's married. Or otherwise off limits. There are lots of reasons."

"That's possible," he says. "But it still doesn't seem like him."

"The truth will come out sooner or later. It always does."

"You're right." He smiles down at me, his face softening again. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?"

"A couple of times." Still, I can feel myself blushing again.

"Well, I think it could be said a dozen more times." He dips his face down toward mine. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

His kiss is light and brief, but I can feel the heat behind it, and I'm all too aware of the fact that we're standing in a room with the bulk of his extended family.

"Maybe we should... walk outside?" I suggest.

His eyes gleam. "Sounds like a wonderful idea. Besides," he adds, lowering his voice, "I have something I wish to give you, and I'd prefer to do it in private."

My stomach explodes with butterflies—but I'm not sure whether I'm excited or anxious as he slides his arm around me and leads me from the room. This whole evening—this whole relationship—is a lot to take in.

He takes me out behind the house. The sun has gone down, casting the grounds in shadow, but from what I can see, the property is gorgeous. Like Dante, Charles and Giovanna have a large pool, but Dante leads me around the edge of the water to the terrace overlooking the gardens below.

I grab onto the wrought-iron rail and tilt my head back, looking up at the sky. It's a clear night, and though the lights of the city cast a green-gold glow on the sky, there are still hundreds of stars winking back at me.

Dante is quiet—too quiet. After a moment, I glance over at him, and I find him looking up at the sky with an expression I can't read. But he's got his lips pressed tightly together.

"What is it?" I ask.

One corner of his mouth drifts up. "I was just trying to think of the best way to do this."

My heart is in my throat. "Do what?"

I didn't notice his hand was in his pocket until now, but he slowly pulls it out, turning his wrist so that I can see what he holds in his fingers. A ring.

"I should have had one the first time," he says. "But I didn't realize until I was in front of you what I was going to do." He raises his hand. "Before you say anything—yes, I still stand by every single thing I said. And no, you still don't have to give me your answer yet. But I wanted to do this the right way."

I'm frozen as he sinks down onto one knee for the second time in less than a week.

"Ashlyn, I love you," he says. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I know I come with some baggage—and I don't just mean all the reporters and paparazzi, but everything—but nothing would make me happier than to have you by my side for the rest of my life." His hand curls around mine. "And I want to be there for you, through everything. I want to face all of our challenges together, as a team. I want to make you laugh when you're overwhelmed. I want to wrap my arms around you and pull you close when you're upset. I want to catch your tears when they fall." He rises, tugging me toward him. "And if I'm ever the cause of those tears, I want the chance to make it up to you in every way I know how. I want to face this world together, Ashlyn. Whatever happens, I will be by your side. I promise."

My heart feels so full I cannot bear it. I've been caught up in this man for over three years. Three years of desire and heartache, of passion and hatred, of lust and love. Even when I cut him out of my life and tried to forget him, he was never far from my heart. I have experienced every emotion in human existence at the hands of this man.

"You've always had such power over me," I whisper. "Even when I tried to fight it, even when I told myself I was better off without you, I was still under your spell."

"You have it all wrong," Dante says. "I'm under your spell, Ashlyn. I have been since the first time we sat on that beach together and you let the waves roll over you. I felt it again the first time we made love. And the second, and the third, and every time after that. But I didn't know it until you were gone from my life, until I saw what my existence was like without you. You are the brightest thing in my world, Ashlyn. You bring out the truest, deepest parts of me."

If I had any doubts about his feelings, any fears that he saw me as some weak, emotional mess, they're gone by the time he finishes speaking. Which isn't to say I'm no longer frightened—frankly, I'm terrified out of my wits—but the look in his eyes makes me feel like we could take on anything together. This is only the beginning of our challenges, I know—reporters and paparazzi are going to be part of my life now, and I'm sure there will be some growing pains as I learn to fit in with his intimidating family—but I know my heart. I might be fickle, emotional, and temperamental when it comes to this man, but my heart has always been sure.

"Yes, I'll marry you," I say.

His eyes widen as if he almost didn't expect me to say it. "You will?"

"Yes," I'm suddenly laughing through my tears. "Yes, I will. I love you, Dante. I love you so much." I fling myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him with everything I have. He holds me against him, but our kiss is soon broken by his laugh.

"I can't believe it," he says against my mouth. "You're not joking?"

"You're the one who insists that I'm a terrible liar. What do you think?"

He's grinning widely. "God, I love you, Ash." He releases me and holds up the ring again. "Can I put this on you?"

"Yes." I hold out my hand. I only shake slightly as he slides the ring down my finger.

"This belonged to my grandmother," he says, still holding my hand. "My mother let me have it. The others don't know anything yet."

"It's beautiful." I can't stop looking at my hand. I can't believe I'm engaged to Dante. But this is definitely not a dream.

Dante pulls me back into his arms. "I love you."

"I love you, too." It doesn't matter how many times we say it—it never gets old. But a thought occurs to me. "You said the rest of your family didn't know you were proposing?"

"No," he admits. "Though Luca, at least, probably won't be surprised. The rest... we'll have to see how they respond. I'm the first of my brothers to get engaged—legitimately engaged, I mean. This is new territory for my family. They're probably going to freak out—in the good way, of course."

"I hope they like me," I murmur against his jacket.

"That, at least, is something you don't need to worry about. They like you."

"They've only just met me."

"And they might all be performers, but they're still my family. I can tell when they like someone, and I promise you, Ash, they'll accept you with open arms. If anything, I suspect you're going to get fussed over quite a bit. My mother always wanted a daughter."

This is a lot to take in. When I marry Dante, I'm going to be one of the Fontaines—and I'm only just beginning to understand what that might mean.

But as I gaze up at Dante, at the hope and the promise and the devotion in his eyes, I'm ready to take on anything. Bring on the big celebrity family. Bring on the paparazzi and the harassing messages and all the challenges our relationship will bring. Dante is by my side, and together, we can face anything.

"In that case," I say, taking his hand, "let's go tell the world."
EPILOGUE

Luca

Luca smiled and sipped his martini as he stared at the couple through the window.

Well, looks like the old boy did it. Dante was engaged. The bright-eyed, red-haired Ashlyn was going to be part of the family.

It seemed fast, at least in Luca's eyes. But Dante had never been the sort of person to rush into things, so he must have been pretty damn sure about this girl. With the way Dante had been behaving these past few weeks, it was pretty obvious that she'd gotten under his skin. And Luca wasn't about to pretend he wasn't pleasantly surprised by that. It was about damn time Dante lost his head over a woman. Yes, this Ashlyn was going to be a nice addition to the family.

Their mother was going to be ecstatic, that was for sure. She'd been on her sons for years to find nice girls and settle down. This was Hollywood—at least one of them should have been on his second or third marriage by now. And his own staged, contractual engagement didn't satisfy her in the least.

Luca sighed and turned away from the window. Emilia should have been here tonight, if only for appearances' sake. Most of the family knew the relationship was a ruse, but some of the cousins didn't—and most of the dates and other guests certainly did not. They'd all be wondering where she was. And the truth—that she was on a photo shoot in the Mediterranean—seemed like a flimsier excuse with every passing second. What sort of woman went off on a job and missed her loving fiancé's birthday?

They should have been more specific in their contract. He'd thought he was being smart, breaking down all of the details of this arrangement in a legal document, but he should have been clearer about his expectations. They'd laid out every important relationship milestone to the week—when they were going to break up, when they were going to get back together, when he was going to make some grand romantic gesture—but he hadn't said that he expected her to be at his party. Sure, they'd agreed from the start that they wouldn't cross certain personal lines—it stated specifically in their contract that they were not allowed to have sex, since Luca knew from experience that that was the quickest way to complicate this arrangement—but surely an appearance at an event like this wasn't an unreasonable request.

Luca took another sip of his drink. There was something going on with Emilia—that he was sure of. But what? Was she seeing someone else? Outside relationships weren't forbidden by their contract—assuming those relationships were discreet, of course—but something about this situation wasn't sitting right with him. And it hadn't been sitting right with him for some time now. Why, there was even a point when he suspected she and Dante might be getting close, but if Dante had ever had more than a passing interest in Emilia, it was clear that his heart lay elsewhere now. As for Emilia... Luca felt a twinge of something unpleasant at even the suggestion that Emilia might have looked at his brother that way.

What are you doing? he thought. You're not getting jealous over her, are you? He and Emilia had a business arrangement, that was all.

Still, she should have been here.

He emptied his glass and put it on the side table. It was time to get back to the party—it was for his birthday, after all—and congratulate his brother and Ashlyn on their engagement. He'd worry about Emilia later.

I'll figure out what she's hiding, he told himself. And then I'll go back to feeling normal again.

Unless she was hiding a man, of course. In that case, all bets would be off.

~ * ~

Turn the page for a sneak peek at The Lies Between the Lines, starring Luca!

An excerpt from The Lies Between the Lines (The Fontaines, Book 2)

PROLOGUE – THE BEGINNING OF OUR STORY

Emilia

Once upon a time, a starlet fell in love with Hollywood's hottest hunk. They met filming a movie together, and it was love at first sight. He was the golden boy of the film industry, and she was an up-and-coming actress who was finally getting her big break. It was a love story straight out of the movies...

At least that's what they want you to think. The truth is a lot more complicated.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. This story technically begins over two years ago, when a bright-eyed young actress (that's me) finds herself at a screen test for what she's hoping will be her big break—Cataclysm: Earth, the disaster epic and pet project of two of Hollywood's biggest names, Dante and Luca Fontaine.

I'm sure you can imagine how terrified I am from the moment I walk into that room. I've spent the better part of the last three years struggling to get by, going to audition after audition and praying that someone will see something in me. I've been told everything imaginable—that I'm too curvy, too skinny, too "ethnic," too generic. My first manager tried to convince me to change my last name to something "less Mexican," explaining that since I'm "only" half Puerto Rican (and a much more "commercial" Scotch-Irish on my mom's side), he could probably get me into a broader range of auditions if I dyed my hair blond and adopted a more "American" last name.

Needless to say, I dumped his ass. And now I'm ready to take over the world.

I wipe my palms on my pants as I walk into the casting office. No reason for the people in this room to know how anxious I am. I have the bit of script they gave me folded up in my pocket, but I won't need it. I memorized it days ago.

Kyle Jacobs, the casting director, extends his hand to me when I enter.

"Emilia," he says, his close-trimmed mustache curling up as he smiles. "Thank you for coming in today. Everyone, this is Emilia Torres."

"Everyone" turns out to be a lot more people than I was expecting to see today. There are seven other people in the room, and I suspect many of them are very important—producers, studio execs, and perhaps even the director himself. None of them introduce themselves, but I recognize at least one person—Dante Fontaine, the film's screenwriter.

It's my understanding that screenwriters aren't usually around for any part of the audition phase, but Dante is a special case. His family basically runs Hollywood. His parents, Charles and Giovanna Fontaine, are industry legends, and now their four grown sons are making their own mark on the world of film—and the tabloids. Dante, the oldest Fontaine son, tends to make less trouble than his brothers, but he's still a regular fixture in celebrity news media simply for being rich and famous and possessing such dark, brooding good looks.

But Dante isn't the only Fontaine brother involved with Cataclysm: Earth. He wrote the part of Jax Walton specifically for Luca, his next youngest brother. Luca is arguably the golden boy of Hollywood. He's at the top of the A-list, a recurring star of the tabloids, and his acting chops are matched only by his inhumanly good looks. He's the perfect package. The very definition of a true movie star.

And as I stand there waiting for Kyle Jacobs to instruct me to begin, Luca himself walks into the room.

I know he's there even before I see him. Even though I've never met him before, I feel his presence the moment he comes through the door. It's like the entire atmosphere of the room changes—like I suddenly can't breathe. I've had actor friends tell me that some celebrities just have a magical something about them—a special quality that seems to affect everyone and everything around them. But I've never truly experienced it until this moment.

And I'm not prepared.

"Good morning," Luca says to the room.

I've heard his voice a hundred times before, speaking to me through movie screens. But in person, it's something else.

"Good morning, Luca," his brother says. "You're late."

Luca smiles, his mouth spreading into that trademark grin of his. He's not even looking at me, and yet my insides go all wobbly.

Why didn't they warn me he'd be here? Since Luca has already been cast, it's no surprise that they'd want me to read with him, but I wish they'd told me. It would have given me a chance to prepare. I don't like surprises, especially when it comes to my work.

Luca takes his time greeting the Important People, and I take a deep breath, remembering one of those silly "mindfulness" exercises my dad likes to force on me. It doesn't help.

Finally, he turns to me, but I'm still recovering from the shock of his presence. I swear my heart stops for a moment. That's the effect he has on people. It's like he's some sort of golden god come down to earth, and a mere human like me can't quite handle his heavenly aura.

He's absolutely beautiful. His hair is wavy and golden blond, a contrast to Dante's darker coloring. His eyes are a warm, pale brown—like buttery caramel. He's sporting the ideal California tan on his exquisitely proportioned body.

He's perfect.

His smile widens as he looks at me. He must know the effect he has on people—especially poor, desperate actresses who are ready to murder to get their big break.

"You must be Emilia," he says, stepping toward me and holding out his hand.

For a minute, I'm simply shocked that someone of Luca's importance has bothered to learn the name of an actress who hasn't even snagged the part yet. But somehow I manage to find the power to reach out and place my hand in his.

I expect him to shake it. Instead, he raises it to his lips.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says, dipping his head. His lips brush against the back of my knuckles, and his golden hair falls across his forehead as he looks up at me through those warm, bright eyes.

I'm pretty sure I gape at him for a full five seconds. And then I remember where I am and that my entire career hangs on me being able to perform basic speech functions around this man.

"Nice to meet you, too," I say. "Hopefully we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon."

Something in Luca's smile looks positively wicked. His fingers tighten slightly on mine.

"Yes," he says in that honeyed voice of his. "Hopefully we will."

If I'm not careful, I'm going to jump him right here in the middle of this room. Smiling, I gently pull my hand out of his and pray I still look relatively professional. At the end of the day, that's the most important thing—remaining professional. I'm here to build a career for myself, and I refuse to let anything stand in my way—even a smile like that. I've spent my whole life working toward this moment, and the past three years working here in Hollywood, scraping and scrounging for any bit of work I could get. When all of my buddies from acting class are going out to parties or trying whatever new designer drug is in vogue, I've been at home, practicing scenes in the bathroom mirror. All I need is for someone to take a chance on me.

"Let's start from right after Jax's line about the explosion," Kyle Jacobs says.

"Actually," Luca says, his eyes never leaving mine, "I have a few questions for Emilia first."

My stomach tightens. I'm trapped by that gaze, lost in the spell of Luca Fontaine.

Slowly, his eyes pull away from mine, drifting down my body. It's more of a curious, assessing look than a sexual one, but that doesn't keep my insides from going all warm.

After what feels like an eternity, his gaze finally rises to mine again.

"What sort of acting experience do you have, Emilia?" he says.

I'm confused. Everyone in this room already has that information. Shouldn't they have passed it along to him?

But no one else says anything, and Luca is staring at me expectantly, so I say, "I've been in four independent films. The most recent one won a number of festival awards last year. I've also had a few television roles, including one on the finale of American Crime Lab last season. And I've been in six nationally syndicated commercials—"

"Commercials?" Luca says. He shoots a look at the small army of Important People in front of us. "You brought in some nobody from television commercials?"

His abrupt shift in tone—from flirtatious to accusatory—is jarring. My heart stops.

Kyle Jacobs straightens in his seat and rubs his jaw. "She blew it out of the park in her previous auditions, Luca. And we did discuss wanting to bring in someone who's relatively unknown—"

"There's relatively unknown, and then there's completely obscure." Luca glances back at me with a shrug. "Sorry, love, but we need someone with a little more experience than that. This is a major franchise, and I can't be expected to act opposite someone who can't keep up with me." He takes my hand again, bringing it back to his lips for another kiss. "It truly was a pleasure meeting you. I'm sorry things didn't work out."

I silently curse at myself for experiencing even a shiver of response at the touch of his mouth.

Luca drops my hand, turning back to the Important People.

"Call me when it's time for the next one," he says. "And please, gentlemen, don't waste my time again."

And then, without another glance at me, he strides back toward the door.

For a second, I'm completely speechless. We haven't even been in the room together for two minutes and he's completely written me off. Without even bothering to do the scene with me. My dream is slipping through my fingers, and he won't even give me a chance.

I don't know what comes over me then. Maybe it's all the stress surrounding this audition—I hardly slept at all last night—or maybe it's just years' worth of desperation finally bubbling up to the surface. Either way, I'm not about to let him take that away from me—not without at least letting me audition.

I run to the door.

"Luca!" I yell after him.

He stops and turns slowly, one eyebrow raised quizzically. "Yes, my dear?"

"This is bullshit." The words that come out of my mouth shock me. And they appear to shock Luca, too, because his eyes widen.

"Excuse me?" he says.

I know this is a mistake, but I can't stop myself. "You heard me. This is bullshit. BULL. SHIT. So what if I don't have that much experience? I guarantee you won't find anyone better for Isabel. I've spent my whole life preparing for this moment. And even if it takes the entire rest of my life, I'm going to make you regret walking out of this audition. I promise you."

No sooner have the words left my lips than my entire body goes cold. I just yelled at Luca Fontaine. Luca-freaking-Fontaine. The guy whose family practically owns Hollywood. I'm probably going to get blacklisted from the industry forever.

I can't believe I snapped like that. Sure, I've been known to throw a few curse words around, but I rarely yell—if I'm mad at someone, I usually just stew and give them the silent treatment. Now I've lost it at the worst possible moment.

All I know is that I have to get out of here—fast. Unfortunately, my purse and car keys are back in the room, which means facing the Important People one more time before I can make my escape.

Don't show any shame, I tell myself. Don't let them think they've broken you. The only thing I have left is my dignity.

I keep my head up high as I march back into the room. I look right at the Important People as I stride over to the chair where I left my purse—saving a special glare for Dante, since he looks almost amused by this whole situation. Well, fuck him.

I snatch my purse and turn around, ready to make a graceful exit, but to my surprise I find Luca in the doorway, flashing that charming, million-dollar grin right at me.

"Well," he says to the room, "I think we've found our Isabel."

I freeze in place, stunned. "What?"

"Cancel the other screen tests," he says to the Important People. "This is her. You already said she was at the top of your list. I don't even need to see the others."

I'm surprised to hear that Luca has that much power over the casting decisions for this film—but perhaps I shouldn't be. The other people in the room are rising from their chairs, and Kyle Jacobs comes over to me, extending his hand.

"It's not official until everything's signed," he says, "but welcome to Cataclysm: Earth, Ms. Torres."

I blink at his outstretched hand. "What's going on?"

A bright laugh sounds behind me, and I turn to see Luca looking quite pleased with himself.

"Why don't you and I have a chat, Emilia?" he says. "Just the two of us?"

He leads me out of the room, and I can't decide whether the heat in my chest is from anger or embarrassment or something else.

"Emilia," he begins, "...I may call you Emilia, right?"

"Sure," I say, trying not to think about how lovely my name sounds in that voice of his.

His smile broadens, and a small flurry of butterflies erupts inside me. Keep it professional, Em.

"Emilia," he says again, "I trust those people in there when it comes to your acting ability. Which means today was about two things—making sure we'd have on-screen chemistry, and confirming that you could keep up with me. As you know, they specifically wanted an up-and-coming actress for Isabel, but it defeats the purpose if she's just going to fade into the background next to her more well-known co-stars. It also defeats the purpose if she's too nervous and inexperienced to speak up for herself. We wanted someone who could hold her own—and I wanted someone who had the energy and vibrancy to match me scene for scene."

"Oh," I say, finally understanding.

"You passed my test," he says. "Quite well, in fact."

"But that only proved that I can stand up to you," I point out. "Not any of those other things."

"The rest of it was apparent even before my little test." He leans a little closer, trapping me against the wall. "I knew from the moment I walked into the room that you have the necessary presence. Something about you draws the eye, Emilia—but I'm sure you know that already."

My presence is nothing next to his—surely he has to recognize that.

He goes on, leaning even nearer. "You won't fade into the background. In fact, I have a feeling you will light up the screen. Trust me, Emilia—after this film launches, everyone in Hollywood will want you."

The way he says "want" sends a shiver through me. I look away from him, embarrassed again. I'm having a hard time believing that Luca Fontaine, of all people, thinks these things about me.

"You also said we needed chemistry," I say, trying to shift the subject away from my alleged presence. "How can we know that before we've even acted together?"

I risk a glance up at him, and the curl of his lips is positively mischievous.

"Trust me," he says, reaching up and brushing a stray bit of hair away from my temple. "When you've done this as many times as I have, you just know." One side of his smile creeps a little higher, and the effect is devastatingly handsome. "You can feel it. Frankly, I'm surprised that you don't feel it, too." His hand slides from my temple down to my jaw. He hooks a finger beneath my chin, tilting my face up toward his. "I think we're going to have a lot of fun together, Emilia."

I can't speak. My thoughts are all in a jumble.

Luca drops his hand, but his eyes are still bright and wicked as he steps away from me.

Oh, girl, you're in trouble, I think as he walks back to the room.

And it only takes a month before I learn exactly how naïve and idiotic I truly am.

*

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

Some mornings, it feels like there isn't enough caffeine in the entire world to turn me into a normal human being. Fortunately, my on-set makeup artist is a miracle worker.

I sip my giant coffee as I survey myself in my trailer's full-length mirror. The rising sun is just starting to peek through the trailer's curtains, but I've already been here for over two hours, being transformed from just-rolled-out-of-bed Emilia into a badass warrior chick who looks like she's been through hell and back. You'd think after two years of working in major feature films I'd be used to showing up to work at 4 AM, but it still usually takes a shot of espresso or two before I stop being a zombie. I thought I was exhausted during the production of Cataclysm: Earth, but so far the filming for its sequel, Cataclysm: Aftermath, has been even more grueling. We just wrapped up filming in the Mojave Desert last week, and now the rest of the movie will be shot in a soundstage here in Los Angeles.

You ready for today, Em? I ask myself in the mirror. The answer is a resounding, "No!" but I fight it down. I'm a professional, and I can handle any challenge this job throws at me.

I think.

I grab my robe and pull it on as I walk over to the sofa. My arms and legs are streaked with reddish-brown "apocalypse dust"—as Violet, my makeup artist, likes to call it—and though my body makeup is unlikely to go anywhere, I'd rather not stain the upholstery. I pull the robe snugly around me as I sit down and grab the television remote.

It's become a morning ritual of mine—watching old sitcom reruns as I wait for them to call me to set. It might still be another hour or so before they're done setting up all of the lights and everything, and in the meantime I can't bear to sit around in the silence, thinking about today's scene. I don't even really pay attention to the show. I just find the noise soothing.

I take another long, slow sip of my coffee. I didn't sleep much last night, but that's nothing new. I'm coming to learn that I just don't sleep well during the two to three months we're in production—I'm too wound up. Too focused on my work. The caffeine probably doesn't help, but it's also the only thing getting me through the day.

My cell phone buzzes on the table beside me, but I ignore it. I know it's just my mom calling me again, wanting to talk about Sara's wedding some more. My older sister and her long-term boyfriend have finally decided to tie the knot, and my mom has been calling me twice a day for the past two weeks wanting to discuss details. Moms—even when they're university professors like mine—apparently don't understand phrases like "I've been working grueling twenty-hour days," or even just, "Please, can we save this conversation until my next day off?"

Honestly, though, my hours are just an excuse. As happy as I am for Sara—it's about damn time those two made it official—I get a knot in my stomach every time my mom calls to talk about the upcoming nuptials. And today, of all days, I don't think I can handle her not-so-subtle questions about when my wedding is going to happen.

She has no idea that my engagement—like so much of my life these days—is one big, fat lie.

I lean over toward the table, adjusting the silver-framed picture sitting next to a vase of red roses from Luca. The photo is of me and my family at my little brother's high school graduation. It's from five years ago, just before I moved to L.A., but it feels like even longer. Javy still had braces then, and Sara hadn't gone blond yet. Dad was still trying to pull off those weird sideburns, and my mom was about fifty pounds heavier than she is today. Still, we all look so happy. It's one of my favorite pictures of all of us.

I shift the frame, positioning it so it's still visible even when I lean back on the couch. My family still lives in Atlanta—except for Sara, who's currently working on her Ph.D. at NYU. We're about as far away from each other as we can be in the Continental U.S., but it helps a little to have this photo close.

A knock sounds on my trailer door, startling me out of my thoughts.

"I've got your breakfast, Ms. Torres," comes the familiar voice of Briana, one of the production assistants.

I leap up off the couch and go over to the door. Briana is there with a large paper bag in one hand and a tray of coffees in the other.

"Come on in," I tell her with a smile, moving aside so she can enter.

Briana steps past me, masterfully juggling the food and drinks without even wobbling on her electric purple heels. Her shoes match the single purple streak across the bangs of her retro platinum bob. She's got a Forties-style cat eye going on today, and her lipstick is a deep berry red. How she manages to look so cute and put-together at this hour is beyond me. She's fresh out of film school, and her enthusiasm is insane. I swear she doesn't even sleep—and yet unlike me, she still has boundless amounts of energy.

"You ready for your big scene today?" she asks cheerfully as she sets everything down on the table and starts sifting through it.

My eyes are on the fresh coffee she brought for me, and I hardly register her question. "Hm?"

"Your big scene. With Luca." She gives me a wink as she hands over my drink.

Oh, right. I've been trying not to think about that—and failing miserably. Today Luca and I are filming our first sex scene together. My first sex scene ever.

"I'm ready," I tell her with a smile. I can't tell her the truth—that I'm so nervous I threw up twice last night.

"Speaking of Luca," she says, reaching into the bag of food, "do you know where he is? Isaac asked me to ask you."

"He's late?"

Briana looks at me in surprise, and I realize my mistake right away.

"I... We didn't spend last night together," I say, my tongue tripping over itself. "Big scene today and all. We both thought it was better to get some sleep."

"Oh," Briana says, smiling again. "I totally understand." Her eyes slide to the vase of roses on the table. "Are those from him?"

"Yes," I say, glad she accepted my lame excuse. "He's so sweet, isn't he?"

"It must be so nice to work together," she says, pulling my breakfast out of the bag for me. Today I've got an egg white omelet with some raw spinach. "I've always wanted to ask you—is it weird kissing him in front of the cameras? You know, since you two are...?"

Engaged? Doin' it? Deeply and madly in love? She might have finished her question in a dozen different ways, and every single one of them would have been a lie.

But only Luca and I know that. For the past two years, since about a month after I was cast as Isabel in the Cataclysm: Earth franchise, he and I have been involved in what has proved to be the greatest acting challenge of my life so far: convincing the world that we're in love.

It was Luca's idea. Nothing sells a film like some good drama between co-stars, and he wanted Cataclysm: Earth to be huge. He had a contract and everything, spelling out what we could and couldn't do, breaking down exactly when all of our dramatic "relationship events" would take place, laying out exactly what was expected of me. I knew this was my chance to really make it big, so I signed it.

And it worked. Our little show began the moment my signature was dry on the contract, and Luca and I have been in the spotlight ever since—one day making out on the beach, the next breaking up, the next starting baby rumors...and over and over and over again until I was convinced people would be bored with us. Instead, it only made them more obsessed.

And now I have a rock the size of a golf ball to wear on my finger.

My engagement ring is currently locked in my safe here in the trailer—I can't exactly wear it during filming—but I can still feel the weight of it on my finger.

"Ms. Torres?" Briana prompts. I remember she asked me a question.

"It's a little weird to kiss him in front of the cameras," I say, "but you get used to it. It's our job."

Actually, kissing isn't the issue here—Luca and I have done that plenty of times before. The issue is that today he and I are supposed to do a lot more than kiss, and we have no experience there—at least not with each other. In fact, our contract expressly forbids it. Absolutely no sex allowed. Luca was adamant about that part of our legal arrangement—claiming that based on his experience, sex just complicates things—and I know how to take a hint.

Briana smiles warmly at me, and I feel a yawning emptiness in my gut. Some days I'd give anything to tell someone—anyone—the truth. To give up the illusion for an hour. To have one person in my life with whom I can be completely genuine. Part of me thinks that under different circumstances, Briana and I might have been real friends. But I know I couldn't bear to keep lying to her then, and my contract with Luca has some pretty strict rules about who we can and cannot tell.

My eyes fall again to the photograph on the table. Luca's family knows the truth about us, but I haven't had the heart to tell mine. My parents—especially my mom—would never understand. They don't know how relationships work in this industry, and they definitely wouldn't get why I willingly entered into such an arrangement. My parents have been madly in love since the first time they laid eyes on each other on their first day of college, and now they're professors at the same small university. Things work differently here—assuming I want a lasting career in this business.

"Well, I should go give everyone else their breakfast," Briana says, picking everything up again. "Have fun today." She gives a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows.

"Fun" is probably the last word I'd use to describe today, but I'll fake it. Just like I fake everything else in my life.

Don't get me wrong—I love my job. From the first time I ever attempted acting—in a nativity play at church when I was six—I loved it. It was like the ultimate game of make believe, one where everyone else watching believed it, too. As I got older, I sought out every chance I could to act—I auditioned for every play at school, attended drama camp every summer as a teenager, even appeared in a couple of commercials for local car dealerships. One day I was playing Mercutio in my high school's production of Romeo and Juliet, and the next I was showing off the features of the latest Honda Civic. Every minute of it was pure fun—every day I got to be a new person, try on a new life. I was determined to make a career of it.

So here I am, living the dream. Which today means rubbing up on the guy I'm fake-engaged to and pretending to have the best orgasm of my life in front of a gazillion cameras.

You know—just your average Tuesday.

I look down at my sad little omelet. I'd give anything to stress-eat some donuts this morning, but Roxie, my nutritionist, has me on a crazy-strict diet right now.

My phone buzzes again. My mom sure is being extra persistent today.

Maybe it's not your mom, I think, remembering what Briana said about Luca being late. Maybe my "fiancé" is calling to tell me where he is. Luca is many things, but he's never late. He's as professional as they come. And he's put me in a very tricky position, as far as our little relationship act goes.

Of all days for him to be late, he has to pick today. The day when I'm already so flustered and nervous I can hardly think straight.

I grab my phone and shove it beneath my ear. "Hello?"

But though it's a male voice that greets me, it's not Luca. It's Javy, my little brother.

"Em," he says breathlessly. "Em, you have to help me."

I thought the knot in my stomach couldn't get any bigger, but I was wrong. "What's wrong? What happened?" My mind is already racing—are Mom and Dad all right? Is someone in the hospital? Javy is a twenty-three-year-old dude. He doesn't call one of his sisters unless there's an emergency.

"I...I need money, Em," he says.

"For what? What happened? Are Mom and Dad—"

"They're fine. But I might not be." He lets out a long breath. "Please, Em. You have to help me."

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"I can't. I just... Em, I need twenty thousand dollars—"

"Twenty thousand dollars? What the hell have you done?"

"I can't tell you now. But please, Em—"

"Javier Torres, you're not getting a dime unless you tell me what's going on. Do Mom and Dad know?"

"No. And you can't tell them." He's sounding more and more desperate by the second. "Please, Em. I'll explain everything later, I promise. I just need twenty thousand. That's nothing to you."

I close my eyes. He certainly knows exactly which buttons to push. Since being cast in Cataclysm: Earth, I've tried many, many times to give my family money—God, do they need it—but every single one of them has either been too stubborn or too proud to accept it. Until now.

"Tell me what you need it for," I urge again.

"I can't, Em—"

"Tell me."

A knock sounds on my trailer door, and I mutter a curse under my breath.

"I have to go," I tell him. "They're ready for me on set. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Please, Em. Don't tell Mom and Dad."

"I won't," I promise against my better judgment. "But you better tell me what this is all about. Are you in any immediate trouble?"

"Just call me back later."

The knock sounds again.

"I'm coming!" I call to whatever PA was sent to fetch me. To Javy, I say, "I've got to run. Call you later."

I throw my phone down on the sofa and jog over to the door, staring down at the shaggy-haired PA they call Bug.

"Isaac says they're almost ready for you, Ms. Torres," he says.

"Thanks," I tell him. "I'll be right there."

As he darts back to the soundstage, I force myself to take a deep breath. Between Javy's call and Luca's tardiness, my nerves have gotten even worse, but I'm determined to pull myself together before I walk on set.

These past two years have been a crash course in surviving this industry. Every step of the way, I've been determined to prove that I can keep up with the big boys, that they made the right choice in taking a chance on me. They liked me enough to keep me on for the sequel, at least, but that doesn't mean I can't still fuck this up.

You can do this, I tell myself as I head out the door. This is just like any other day. Any other scene. Stay professional, do your job, and you'll be just fine. It's not that different from what you and Luca do every time you step out in public together.

Except it is. Yes, our characters had an on-screen romance in the first Cataclysm: Earth movie, but the sex was all fade-to-black. For the sequel, though, the producers apparently decided we needed to go bigger, badder, and dirtier. It doesn't help that Dante Fontaine pulled out of the sequel for personal reasons—even though he cited wanting to spend more time with his new fiancée, I suspect he and the other Important People were having a lot of creative differences over the direction they've decided to take this franchise.

In spite of everything, though, I'm a little relieved that Dante Fontaine is no longer heavily involved with these projects. Months ago at the Cataclysm: Earth premiere, before Dante and his fiancée were together, he and I slept together. It was a moment of weakness, the result of months of stress and loneliness, and I knew even then it was a mistake. He and I never meant anything to each other—I think we were both just desperate for a little release from all the pressure. Still, I'm grateful to not have to face him day after day on set, especially since he and his fiancée, Ashlyn, are so happy together. Even though the three of us are the only ones who know it happened—Ashlyn walked in on it happening, which ironically is what led to their reunion—it would still be super awkward, and I'm not sure I can handle awkward right now.

If I'm being honest, I find the whole situation a little humorous. What would the world say if they found out that the only Fontaine brother I've ever slept with is not the one I'm engaged to?

Of course, my main job today is to convince everyone that Luca and I have gotten down and dirty many, many times.

I did everything I could to prep for this scene. I've been practicing for weeks, recording myself making various moans and whimpers and then playing them back to myself. I've never walked onto set without being completely and totally prepared. I might not be as experienced as many of the people I work with, but I work twice as hard.

When I reach the set, people are still rushing around and making their final adjustments to everything. Isaac Hillebrand, our esteemed director, is chatting with Leena, the set decorator, but as soon as he sees me, he makes a beeline right over.

"Luca's put us behind schedule," he says, his irritation plain on his face. "Is there something going on with him I should know about?"

After working with Isaac for two films, I'm used to his directness, but I'm not really sure how to answer his question. It is really weird for Luca to be late, but I haven't the slightest idea what's going on.

So I try redirection.

"Has no one been able to get in touch with him?" I ask.

"He's finishing up in makeup right now," Isaac says. "But he should've been there two hours ago." A fat, pulsing vein has appeared on his forehead, the way it always does when he gets stressed. "You two have a fight or something?"

"Not that I'm aware of," I say. We're not scheduled to have another big public fight for two months, right before awards season.

Isaac gives me a pointed look. Not for the first time, I wonder if he knows the truth about Luca and me. Fake celebrity relationships aren't exactly unusual here in Hollywood, and most people in the industry know how to spot the publicity stunts. But every once in a while, a real relationship emerges from all of the glitz and glamor of the film world, and those have their own special kind of power over people. Everyone wants to believe in them—including those who should know better—and so they do.

Or, as I'm starting to suspect, after working in this industry for decades, people stop being able to tell the difference between what's real and what's fake.

And speaking of fake...my fake fiancé has finally decided to make his appearance. I sense his presence before I see him. Even more than two years after meeting him, he still has that effect on me—on everyone, I suspect. Isaac and I both turn at the same time.

Luca, as usual, causes something of a stir simply by existing. Whatever his reasons for being late, he shows no signs of being frazzled. Despite the layers of "apocalypse dust" all over his body, he still seems to glow. He flashes that million-dollar smile and greets the crew members by name as he passes. He's laying the charm on extra thick today—I swear, if this were an animated movie his grin would sparkle and people would be swooning into dead faints at the sight of him.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I may have been taken in by that charm the first time I met him, but I've learned my lesson. It's all an act, just like everything else in his life. After two films and two years of pretending to be in a relationship with him, I still have no idea who the real Luca is—I'm not sure anyone does. The character he plays in his personal life isn't any more genuine than the one he plays on set. Honestly, sometimes I'm convinced the character he plays on set is more real—I swear, I feel more genuine emotion from him when we're doing a scene together than I do any other time.

Luca's grin widens when his eyes land on Isaac and me. He must know that he has something to answer for.

"Morning, love," he says when he reaches me. He grabs my hand and pulls me into his arms.

I don't resist, even though I'm ticked at him right now. I have a role to play.

He folds me into his chest, and I tip my head back as he leans in for a kiss. His soft lips come down on mine, and his hand spreads against my lower back, holding me tight against him.

One thing I'll give him—Luca is a fucking amazing kisser. Even knowing full well that this is fake, it's still impossible to keep my body from reacting in tiny ways. Warmth ripples through me, even though I try to fight it.

He smells different today, I find myself noticing. Like the ocean. I've spent enough time in close contact with Luca to pick up on little things like that. I pull back from the kiss, curious about this subtle change.

What I see in his face surprises me. His usual charming mask is still there, but beneath it I sense something else—something troubling. I can't put my finger on what it is, exactly—a shadow in his eyes, perhaps, or a slight tightness at the corner of his mouth—but something is off. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was stressed or worried about something.

"Enough with the mushiness," Isaac says behind me. "Let's save it for the scene, hm? You two ready?"

Luca's grin widens, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm ready," he says. "Emilia?"

There's a challenge in his eyes. I wonder if he realizes how nervous I am about today.

"I'm ready," I say, lifting my chin.

Still, the wooziness returns the moment he releases me. I try another one of my dad's mindfulness breathing exercises.

You can do this, I tell myself one more time. Just don't throw up all over the set and you'll be fine. I'm a legitimate movie star now. This should be a piece of cake. And, most importantly, This is exactly where I want to be. Making movies. As my dad likes to remind me, The secret to happiness is gratitude.

As I follow Luca onto set, however, I suspect this is going to be one of the longest days of my career.

Need more? The Lies Between the Lines is now available!

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BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

THE FONTAINES

The Secret to Seduction

The Sweet Taste of Sin

The Lies Between the Lines

The Mystery of You

The Thrill of Temptation

THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

His Wicked Games

Truth or Dare

Sweet Victory

Her Wicked Heart

Take You Away

Lost and Found

Completely (short story)

Their Wicked Wedding

A Cunningham Christmas

Their Wicked Forever

ROYAL HEARTBREAKERS

Royal Heartbreaker  
Royal Mistake

Royal Arrangement

Royal Disaster

Royal Escape

THE DEVIL'S SET

Jackson

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Billionaire Escape Plan

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ember Casey is a twenty-something writer who lives in Atlanta, Georgia in a den of iniquity (or so she likes to tell people). When she's not writing steamy romances, you can find her whipping up baked goods (usually of the chocolate variety), traveling (her bucket list is infinite), or generally causing trouble (because somebody has to do it).

For more Ember Casey news, updates, and extras, check out http://embercasey.com. You can also reach her at ember.casey@gmail.com or join her new release list at http://embercasey.com/newsletter/.
