Before you get down on bent knee...

...you should be pretty darn sure the answer will be yes. For ten years, Connor O’Rourke has been waiting for Jessica Dunn to take their on-again, off-again relationship public, and he thinks the time has come. His restaurant is thriving, she’s got her dream job at Blue Heron Vineyard—it’s the perfect time to get married.

When he pops the question, however, her answer is a fond but firm no. If it ain’t broke, why fix it? Jess has her hands full with her younger brother, who’s now living with her full-time, and a great career after years of waitressing. What she and Connor have is perfect: friends with an excellent benefits package. Besides, with her difficult past (and reputation), she’s positive married life isn’t for her.

But this time, Connor says it’s all or nothing. If she doesn’t want to marry him, he’ll find someone who does. Easier said than done, given that he’s never loved anyone but her. And maybe Jessica isn’t quite as sure as she thinks...

Praise for Kristan Higgins’s Blue Heron series

THE BEST MAN

~Named a Best Book of the Year by Amazon, Library Journal and Kirkus Reviews~

“A deliriously funny story.... The Best Man is Kristan Higgins’s best book—and that’s saying a lot.”

—Eloisa James

“You’ll adore every bit of this story...Higgins’s latest is sexy, screwy, funny and fulfilling—a simply radiant read.”

—USA TODAY

“Emotional resonance balances zany antics in a powerful story that feels completely real.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review

THE PERFECT MATCH

“Higgins offers readers a journey filled with tears and laughter and the best kind of sighs, proving she only gets better with each book.”

—New York Times

“Zingy dialog and hilarious asides...make this refreshing riff on the classic marriage-of-convenience plot a delightfully unorthodox, captivating winner.”

—Library Journal

WAITING ON YOU

“Fans should take care not to read this one in church or anywhere else a gut-busting laugh would be inappropriate.”

—New York Times Journal of Books

“Embodies everything fans of contemporary romance are looking for.”

—RT Book Reviews

IN YOUR DREAMS

“Higgins exhibits her storytelling artistry with another stunning romance that includes her trademark touches of laugh-out-loud humor and tear-jerking pathos.”

—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“A spirited, truly funny, and emotionally satisfying romance you won’t want to put down. Humor and heart in one stunning package.”

—Library Journal, starred review

Anything for You

Kristan Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to Catherine Arendt, my wonderful friend since our very first week of college, godmother to my daughter and a true-blue pal all the way.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“GET UP, DOOFUS.”

Though the words were said with a smile, they definitely weren’t what Connor O’Rourke was hoping to hear. He was, after all, on a bent knee, holding up a diamond ring.

“I just asked you to marry me, Jess,” he said.

“And it was adorable.” She ruffled his hair. That didn’t bode well, either. “The answer is no, obviously. What were you thinking? And boy, I’m starving. Did you call for pizza yet?”

Okay. Granted, Jessica Dunn was...different. They’d been dating for the past eight months—or ten years, depending on how you counted it—and getting her to this moment had taken as much strategizing as, oh, D-Day. Still, he hadn’t quite anticipated this.

He tried again. “Jessica. Make me the happiest man on earth and say you’ll be my wife.”

“I heard you the first time, big guy. And I did wonder about all these candles. Nice touch, if a little on the fire-hazard side of things.”

“And your answer is?”

“You already know my answer, and you knew it long before you asked anything. Now come on, Connor. Upsy-daisy.”

He didn’t move. Jess sighed and folded her arms across her chest, giving him a patient look, eyebrow slightly raised.

Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her pocket, because she always checked her phone, no matter what they were doing. “Iron Man is killing all the bad guys in the cave,” she said, deadpan.

This was normal—her brother dictating text updates on whatever movie he and Gerard, his occasional babysitter, were watching. It could be funny. At the moment, not so much.

“Can we be serious here?” he asked.

“I’m really hungry, Con.”

“If I feed you, will you say yes?”

“No. So up you go. Let’s have a nice night, okay? Weren’t we gonna watch Game of Thrones?”

Hail Mary, full of grace, she was really turning him down.

He didn’t get up. With the hand that was not holding the little black velvet box, he rubbed his hand across his jaw. He’d shaved for this and everything. The diamond winked in the candlelight, taunting him.

“Look, Jess,” he said. “I’m tired of feeling like you pay me by the hour. I’m tired of you breaking up with me. Why don’t we get married and stay together for the rest of our lives?”

“You ever hear that expression, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?”

“Do you see me here on one knee with an expensive ring in my hand?”

“Yes. You’re hard to miss. And it’s very pretty. But I get the feeling you think you should love me for the simple reason that we’ve been sleeping together on and off for so many years—”

“No, it’s genuine love.”

“And secondly, you know how things are. I can’t marry you. I have Davey.”

“Well, I have Colleen, and she’s a lot more trouble than your brother.”

“Funny.” Jessica’s three feet away face was erasing any emotion. It was a face he’d seen all too often in the past two decades, as if she was saying, very politely, keep three feet away from me or you’ll lose an arm.

His knee was getting sore. “I know how things are with your brother, Jess. I don’t think you’re supposed to martyr yourself because of it.”

“Don’t go there. I love my brother. He comes first.”

“So you basically have a life sentence.”

“Yes,” she said, as if she was explaining it to a two-year-old. “Davey’s life. My life. They’re inseparable. You think I should put him in a kennel for you?”

“Did I say the word kennel? No, I didn’t. But I think you could tell him you’re getting married and he can come live with us.” Or in the group home in Bryer, which seemed like a very nice place. Yes, Connor had checked it out.

Her phone buzzed again. Again, she checked it. “Iron Man can fly.”

“Jessica. I’m asking you to marry me.” His jaw was getting tight.

“I know. And really, thank you. It’s very sweet. Are we going to eat?”

“So you’re not saying yes, is that it?”

“Yes. I’m not saying yes.” She pushed a strand of silky blond hair behind her ear.

Jaw at one hundred percent lockdown. “Then it’s a no.”

“Sadly, yes, it’s a no. Which I’m sure doesn’t come as a huge surprise to you.”

She was really turning him down.

Somehow, he’d seen this all going a bit differently.

Connor stood up, his knee creaking a little. Closed the little black velvet box and set it carefully on the table. He’d gone into Manhattan to buy that ring—a simple and flawless emerald-cut diamond that suited her, because she was simply, flawlessly beautiful, too. Not a drop of makeup on, her long blond hair in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt that said Hugo’s on it, she was still the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen.

“Shall I call for pizza?” she asked.

He sat down across from her. In the fridge were two lobsters, scallops, potatoes au gratin, artichoke and arugula salad, a bottle of Dom Perignon and pots de crème au chocolat, since his plan was to slide the ring on her finger, make love to her and then cook her the best meal of her life.

He did not want pizza.

He did not want a rejection.

His pulse was throbbing in his temples, a warning sign that he was mad. Brain-Vein, his irritating twin called it. He took a slow breath, looked around the room, trying not to lose his temper. The dining room...maybe that had been a mistake. It wasn’t exactly warm and romantic. No pictures on the walls. His whole house looked like a furniture showroom, now that he thought about it.

Certainly, there were no pictures of him and Jessica.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “How do you see us going forward, Jess?”

She was as cool and still as a stone in Keuka Lake. “What do you mean?”

“You and me, our future, our relationship, not that you can really call sneaking around at the age of thirty-two a relationship.”

“I see us doing this. Getting together when we can. Enjoying each other’s company.” She wasn’t the type to be goaded into an argument, that was for sure. Pity. A little yelling and some Olympic make-up sex would be more Connor’s style. And that ring on her finger.

He made sure his voice was calm. Jess didn’t do anger. “Do you ever think about us living together or marrying or having kids?”

“No. This works for me.” She twisted the silver ring she wore on her thumb and gave him a pleasant smile.

“It doesn’t work for me. Not anymore, Jess.”

A person would need a magnifying glass to see any reaction from Jessica Dunn, but Connor was something of a student of her face. Right now her lips were pressed together the tiniest bit, indicating a disturbance in the Force.

“Well, thanks for letting me know,” she said smoothly. “I’m sorry to hear that. You said you understood how things were and how they had to be. Nothing in my life has changed, so I’m not sure why you thought things would be different now.”

“Davey can adjust.”

“No, he can’t, Connor. He has an IQ of fifty-two. And he hates you, or have you forgotten that? He can’t even see you in the grocery store without having a meltdown. You remember the head-banging when he saw you with our dog?” Yes, Connor remembered. It had been one of the scariest moments of his life, as a matter of fact. “I don’t have room for marriage and kids,” Jess continued. “My brother is my responsibility in more ways than you could ever know. I’m surprised you brought marriage up at all. We’ve had this conversation a million times.”

“Actually, we’ve never had this conversation.”

Her cheeks were getting pink. Finally, something more than calm, cool and collected.

Good. It didn’t seem fair that he was the only one feeling something here.

“Well, I thought you knew,” she said. “I’ve always been very clear.”

Blood thrummed through his temples, too hard, too fast. Another slow breath. “You’re using your brother as an excuse. He’ll adjust. He’s held you hostage for years now.”

“Do not go there, Connor.”

“What I mean is—”

“What you mean is, put him in a home.”

She was really digging in now. “No, I don’t,” he said. “I bought this house with you in mind. There’s an apartment upstairs, in case you forgot. It’s for him. I love your brother.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve never even had a conversation with him, and he certainly doesn’t love you. And let’s not rewrite history. You decided to buy a two-family house without even talking to me.”

Fair point. But it had seemed like a perfect solution; him and Jess downstairs, Davey upstairs. Instead, his sister had moved in after Jess turned him down.

Jessica sighed, some of the steel leaving her posture. “Connor, look. I think it’s sweet that you made this gesture. Maybe it’s because your sister’s pregnant and you’re feeling sentimental, but this just can’t work. And I also think you’re saying it because you’re sure I won’t say yes, and you’re right. I won’t.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you to say yes, Jessica.”

Her phone buzzed again. She looked at the hateful device. “Great. Davey clogged the toilet, and Gerard can’t get the valve to shut off. The last time the bathroom flooded, and I had to pay to replace the whole floor.”

“Jess, I want you to marry me.”

“I have to go. I’ll see you Thursday, okay? This was a nice thought, Connor. I appreciate it. I really do.” She stood up, kissed him on the head like he was a dog—which he basically was, just some half-brain Labrador retriever you could ignore until you were lonely, and it was always happy to see you and would cheerfully forget the fact that you’d locked it in the cellar for a year or so. She grabbed her denim jacket from the hook by the door.

“Jessica.” He didn’t look at her, just stared at the candles flickering on the table. “This will be the last time you break up with me.”

Well, shit. He hadn’t really planned on saying that, but now that the words were out, they sprang up between the two of them like an iron door.

She froze for a second. “What do you mean?”

His head was killing him, every heartbeat stabbing behind his eyes. “I’m talking about all the times you’ve broken up with me, all the times you said life was too complicated, and you couldn’t make any changes. I want a wife and kids and to be able to kiss you in public. If you leave now, make sure you mean it.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” She actually sounded indignant.

“I’m proposing!”

“Well, I have no idea why!” she snapped back. “You know this is the best I can do.”

“Okay, then.” His jaw clamped shut.

Her mouth opened a little. “Really.”

“Yep.”

“Fine,” she said. “Do what you want.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

She gave him a long look. “Have a nice night, Connor.”

And with that, she left, and he picked up the stupid little black velvet box and threw it across the room.

CHAPTER TWO

Twenty years before the proposal...

CONNOR MICHAEL O’ROURKE fell in love with Jessica Dunn when he was twelve years old.

The feeling was not mutual.

He couldn’t blame her. After all, he killed her dog.

Well, he didn’t actually kill him. It just felt that way.

The fateful, terrible day had been a Friday afternoon in April, and he and Colleen had been riding their bikes home from school, a new privilege, and one their parents gave only if they rode together, which took away much of the thrill. It was the curse of being a twin, Connor often thought. It would’ve been so much cooler if he could’ve ridden to the village, maybe bought some candy at Mr. Stoakes’s store or found a snake by the lake to put into Coll’s bed.

Instead, they were together. Colleen talked all the time, usually about things he didn’t have much interest in—which of her friends had gotten her period, who flunked the math test, who liked whoever else. But that was the way it was—Coll talking, him half listening, the occasional mild sibling violence that marked a healthy childhood.

But even if she drove him crazy most of the time with her talk of magical twinsy bonds, which yeah, they did have, and the way she followed him around all the time, he couldn’t imagine it any other way. And he did have to look out for her; she was his little sister, even if they were only three minutes apart in age.

Connor and Colleen had about as normal a life as could be had. They had a nice house, a two-week vacation most years, and recently, Connor had become aware of the fact that they were pretty well-off, something you didn’t really notice when you were little. But his father drove expensive cars, and if Connor wanted the latest Nike running shoe, his mother never suggested he get something a little less expensive. He was his mother’s favorite. His father... Well, his father was kind of tricky. Tense and—what was that phrase? Full of himself, that was it. Only happy when he was the center of attention and admiration, and even then, only happy for a few minutes.

If Connor was Mom’s favorite, Colleen seemed to get all of Dad’s approval. These days especially, it felt like Connor was either at fault or invisible, his only value coming from his role as Colleen’s protector. “Watch out for your sister,” Dad had said just this morning, giving Colleen a hug. There was no hug for Connor. Which was okay and all. He was a boy. A guy, even. He wasn’t supposed to want hugs anymore.

But today was a good day. The apple blossoms had popped, and the breeze was warm, finally. He’d gotten three tests back, A+’s on all of them, much to Colleen’s chagrin; Connor never studied. And all day, there was the thrill of the bike ride home. Friday afternoon meant they could take their time, maybe stop at Tompkin’s Gorge and climb up the top and listen to the roar of the waterfall and find bits of mica and quartz.

Colleen rammed his back tire. “Whoops, sorry, brainiac,” she said, not sorry at all.

“Not a problem, simpleton.”

“Did you eat the pizza at lunch today?” she asked, pulling alongside him. “It was nasty. I mean, you could wring out the oil, it was so wet and disgusting. You should show them how to do it, Con. Your pizza is the best.”

He suppressed a smile. Whenever their parents went out, Connor cooked for Colleen. Last weekend had been pizza, the dough made from scratch. They ate a pizza each, it was so good.

He heard a car coming behind them and pulled ahead of his sister, his bike wheels hissing on the damp pavement, the wind in his face. He and Colleen had taken the long way home, the better to enjoy their freedom. Once you left the Village section of town, there wasn’t much out here, mostly woods and fields. West’s Trailer Park was just up ahead, and then nothing for a good mile. Then they’d round up the back side of the Hill, where all the vineyards were, and wind their way home.

After the long winter, it felt so good to be outside. He pushed harder, lengthening the space between him and Coll. He’d had a growth spurt over the winter, and it was easy to outpace his sister. He felt the satisfying burn in his muscles and answered the call for more speed. He’d wait for Coll at the top of the hill. She was lazy, after all.

And then he heard a noise he couldn’t place—was Colleen coughing? Was it a motor? No, that wasn’t—

Then there was a brown blur streaking at him, and he was falling before he even realized it hit him, his bike on top of him. It wasn’t Coll making the noise, it was a dog. The brown thing was a dog, and it was furious.

There was no time to react, no time even to be scared, just hard pavement under his shoulder and hip and his hands trying to keep the dog’s head away from his throat. The world was full of sound—angry, raging snarls and Colleen’s screams. Was she okay? Where was she?

All Connor could see was the dog’s mouth, huge, gaping and snapping, its neck thick and strong, and that mouth went way, way back like a snake’s, and he knew once those teeth bit into him, he’d be dead. It was trying to kill him, Connor realized distantly. This might be the way he died. Not in front of Colleen. Please.

Before the thought was even finished, teeth sank into Connor’s arm, and the dog shook its head, and Jesus, it was so strong, Connor was just a rag the dog was whipping around, and he couldn’t yell or fight; he was nothing compared to the muscular fury of the dog. Colleen was screaming, the dog snarling, Connor silent as he tried to hold on to his arm so it wouldn’t be torn off.

Then Colleen was hitting the dog with her backpack and kicking it, and no cars were anywhere. It would’ve been so great if someone stopped and helped; he wanted a grown-up so badly right now. His arm was on fire, and there was blood, and still the dog pulled and shook, as if Colleen wasn’t even there.

The dog finally released his arm and turned toward Colleen, who kicked it square in the face. God, she was brave, but what if it bit her? And then in a flash, it seemed to do just that, and Connor kicked it in the leg, and it turned back toward him—good, good, better than Colleen—and then it was on him again.

His face this time, and this was it, he was going to die. Those huge jaws clamped down, and a searing burn flashed and throbbed, the whole left side of his face. The dog didn’t let go. Colleen was hysterical now, kicking and kicking the dog, and Connor could see her eyes, open so wide he could see the whole gray circle of her irises.

Get out of here, Collie. Run.

He was passing out. Colleen’s screams were fainter now.

Then there was a yelp, and the dog was gone, and Connor instinctively held his hand up to his cheek, which was hot and throbbing and way too wet.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Colleen sobbed, dropping to her knees to hug him. “Help us!” she screamed to someone.

“Are you okay?” Connor asked, his voice odd and weak. Was his face still on? “Coll?”

She pulled back, shaking. “You’re bleeding. It’s bad.”

They were in front of West’s Trailer Park, where the poor kids lived. Tiffy Ames and Levi Cooper and Jessica Dunn.

And there was Jess now, holding the dog by its collar, trying to lift it up. Her brother, who had something wrong with him, had latched on to the dog, sobbing and saying one word over and over. Cheeto or something. “Is she okay?” Connor asked, but his voice was too weak to be heard. “Is her brother okay?”

“Call the ambulance,” Colleen yelled, her voice high and wobbly.

“Are you all right, Collie?” he asked. The gray was back.

“I’m fine. But you’re...hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Bad. But it’s okay. You’re okay.” Tears dripped off her cheeks onto him.

“Am I gonna die?”

“No! Jeez, Connor! No!” But he could tell she didn’t know. She wadded up her sweatshirt and pushed it against his jaw, making him see black-and-white flashes of pain. His hand was shiny and slick with dark red blood. “Just take deep breaths,” she said, biting her lip.

It helped. The sky became blue again, and Colleen’s shirt was pink. And bloodstained. The town siren went off, such a good sound...but so far away, it seemed.

“They’re coming. Just hang on. Help is on the way,” Colleen said. She sounded way too adult. Tears were streaming down her face, and her lips were trembling.

There was a bang of a door, and Connor looked over. Jessica Dunn’s father had come outside. “What did you kids do to my son?” he asked, staggering a little, and Connor couldn’t help feeling bad for Jessica. Everyone knew her parents were drunks.

“Get that fucking dog inside!” Colleen shouted.

Yikes. He’d never heard her swear before. It made him think that his face was pretty much gone, and he might in fact be dying.

Jessica pushed her little brother aside, finally, then bent down and picked up the dog. It was heavy, Connor could tell. Connor knew.

“Chico!” her brother screamed. “Don’t take Chico away!” He ran after Jessica, punching her on the back with his fists, but she went into the trailer—the rattiest, dirtiest one—and closed the door behind her.

Then Levi Cooper’s mother came out, a toddler on her hip, and seeing Connor, ran over to him. “Oh, my God, what happened?” she said, and Connor realized he was shaking, but at least there was a nice grown-up here now.

“The Dunns’ dog attacked him.” Colleen said, her voice breaking. “It came out of nowhere.”

“God,” Mrs. Cooper said. “I’ve told them that dog is a menace. You just lie still, honey.” She patted Connor’s leg.

It was weird, lying there, Mrs. Cooper telling him not to move, Colleen’s sweatshirt pressed against his throbbing face, the Dunns standing in their yard. The father was loud and kept saying things like “That dog wouldn’t hurt a fly,” and “Why were those kids in my yard anyway?” and Colleen was holding his hand too hard.

When the ambulance did come, it was both embarrassing and such a relief he almost cried. There was fuss and questions, gauze and radio. “Minor child, age twelve, attacked by dog,” Mr. Stoakes said into the radio. Minor child. Cripes. Everyone was shooting dirty looks at the Dunns.

They put a neck brace on Connor and packed him onto a gurney. Mrs. Cooper said she’d called Connor’s mom, and she’d meet him at the hospital. Colleen rode in the front of the ambulance, sobbing.

In the ER, he was told he was very lucky, and that it could’ve been so much worse. He ended up with eleven stitches in his jaw, eight under his eye. “Don’t worry about the scar,” said the hip young doctor who was doing the job. “Chicks love scars.” Another sixteen stitches in his arm, but it was the bite on his face that was the big concern. A bump on his head, road rash on his back where his shirt had ridden up. He was a mess, in other words. Everything stung, throbbed or burned.

Mom was weepy all that night. Connor was woozy from the pain meds. Colleen made him a get-well card without any insults, which made Connor think he must look worse than he realized. “You saved me,” he told her, and she burst into tears.

“I didn’t,” she said. “I tried, but I couldn’t.”

“It ran away, though.”

“Jessica threw a rock at him. Got him right in the head.”

Huh. He was too bleary to think about it further. Good aim, though.

His father was icy with fury. “Those fucking white-trash scumbags,” he said, peering into Connor’s face, then got on the phone in his study and didn’t come out until Connor was in bed. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, putting his hand on Connor’s shoulder. Suddenly, the dog bite felt worth it. “You were very brave, I heard.”

“It was scary.”

Crap. Wrong answer. He should’ve said something about it not being a big deal. Sure enough, the hand was withdrawn. “It could’ve been worse, though,” Connor added quickly. “At least it wasn’t Colleen.”

Because if something happened to his sister, Connor would’ve killed the dog himself. The flash of rage and terror was unexpected.

“Tomorrow we’re going to see the Dunns,” Dad said.

“Oh, Dad, no.” The memory of Jess lugging the dog into the house... There was something wrong with that image, but Connor couldn’t say what it was.

“You have to man up in situations like this,” his father said. “I’ll be with you. Don’t worry. They owe you an apology.”

The next day, sure enough, Dad made him get into the Porsche and go back to West’s Trailer Park. His face was swollen and sore under the bandages, and his arm ached. The last place he wanted to be was here.

Dad knocked on the door, hard. Jessica answered, her eyes flickering over Connor’s face. She didn’t say anything. A TV blared in the background, one of those court shows with a lot of yelling.

“Are your parents home?” Dad asked, not bothering with politeness.

“Hi, Jess,” Connor said. Dad cut him a look.

She slipped away. A second later, Mrs. Dunn was at the door. “What do you want?” she said sullenly. Connor was abruptly grateful for his own mother, who always smelled nice and, well, wore a bra and clean shirts.

“Your dog attacked my son,” Dad said, his voice hard. “I’m here to inform you that Animal Control will be here this afternoon to have him put down.”

“You don’t get to say what happens to my dog,” she said, and Connor could smell her boozy breath from the steps.

“What’s put down?” asked a little voice.

Connor flinched. Davey Dunn was peeking out from behind his mother’s legs. He was five or six, and had the longest eyelashes Connor had ever seen. Everyone knew he had something wrong with him, that skinny head and eyes so far apart, but Connor wasn’t sure what it was. The kids on the bus had a word for it, but Connor hated thinking it. Davey just wasn’t quite...normal. Cute, though. Jessica reappeared next to her brother, her hand on his head, staring at Connor, her face expressionless.

He and Jess were in the same class. He couldn’t say she was nice, exactly; they didn’t have the same friends, but she hung out with Levi Cooper, and everyone liked Levi.

And Jessica Dunn was beautiful. Connor had always known that.

“What’s going on here?” Mr. Dunn appeared in the doorway, rumpled and skinny. And suddenly, the dog was there, its big brown head, and Connor jumped back, he couldn’t help it. Dad grabbed the animal by the collar, roughly. “Put down,” he said to Davey, “means your dog has to go somewhere and never come back, because he was very bad.”

“Chico’s not bad,” Davey said, putting his thumb in his mouth. “He’s good.”

“Look at my son’s face,” Dad snapped. “That’s what your dog did. So he’s going to doggy heaven now.”

Silence fell. Davey pulled his thumb out of his mouth and blinked.

Dad could be such a dick sometimes.

“He’s gonna die?” Davey asked.

“Yes. And you’re lucky he hasn’t torn your throat out, son.”

“Don’t talk to my boy,” Mr. Dunn said belatedly.

“No!” Davey wailed. “No! No!”

“Here they are now,” Dad said, and sure enough, a van was pulling into the trailer park.

“Chico! Come on! We have to hide!” Davey sobbed, but Dad still had the dog by the collar.

“Dad,” Connor said, “maybe the dog could just be... I don’t know. Chained up or something?”

“Have you seen your face?” his father snapped. “This dog will be dead by tomorrow. It would be insane to let it live.”

“No!” Davey screamed.

There were three animal control people there, and a police car, too, now. “We need to take the dog, ma’am,” one of them said, but you could hardly hear anything, because Davey was screaming, and the dog... The dog was licking Davey’s face, its tail wagging.

“Dad, please,” Connor said. “Don’t do this.”

“You don’t understand,” his father said, not looking at Connor.

“Screw you all,” Mrs. Dunn said, tears leaking out of her eyes. “God damn you!”

It was Jessica who picked Davey up, even though he flailed and punched. She forced his head against her shoulder and went deeper into the gloomy little trailer.

Mr. Dunn watched, his mouth twisted in rage. “You rich people always get your way, don’t you? Nice, killing a retarded boy’s pet.”

There was the word Connor wouldn’t let himself think, from the kid’s dad, even.

“Your pet almost killed my son,” Dad snarled. “You can apologize anytime.”

“Fuck you.”

“Dad, let’s go,” Connor said. His eyes were burning. Davey could still be heard, screaming the dog’s name.

It was a long walk back to the car. The Porsche, for crying out loud. A car that probably cost more than the Dunns’ entire house.

Connor didn’t say anything all the way home. His throat was too tight.

“Connor, that dog was a menace. And those parents can’t be trusted to chain a dog or fence in their yard. You saw them. They’re both drunks. I feel bad for the boy, but his parents should’ve trained the dog so it didn’t attack innocent children.”

Connor stared straight ahead.

“Well, I give up,” his father said with a sigh. “You want to worry about that dog coming for you? You want to take the chance that it would go for Colleen next time? Huh? Do you?”

Of course not.

But he didn’t want to break a little kid’s heart, either.

By Monday, most of the swelling had gone down in his face, and his arm was stiff, rather than sore. But he still looked pretty grim. Colleen was over the trauma, already calling him Frankenstein and telling him he was uglier than ever. The doctor had said he’d have a scar on the underside of his jaw, where the dog had taken a chunk, and one on his cheek, near his eye. “It’ll make you look tough,” Connor’s father said, examining the stitches Sunday night. He sounded almost pleased.

Connor’s stomach hurt as he went into school.

Everyone had already heard. In a town this small, of course they had. “Oh, my gosh, Connor, were you so scared? Did it hurt? What happened? I heard it went for Colleen first, and you saved her!” Everyone was sympathetic and fascinated. He got a lot of attention, which made him fidget.

Jessica didn’t come to school that day. Not the next day, or the day after that. It was Thursday before she made it. Granted, she was absent a lot, and everyone knew why—her parents, her brother. But Connor couldn’t help feeling like this time it was because of him. The bandage on his face came off the night before; the swelling had gone down, though there was still a good bit of bruising.

Jessica played it cool. She didn’t talk much; she never did, except to Levi and Tiffy Ames, her best friends, and she managed to spend all day without making eye contact with him, despite the fact that their school was so small.

Finally, after school when he was supposed to go to Chess Club, he saw her walking down the school driveway. He bolted down the hall and out the door. Her pants were just a little too short—highwaters, the snotty girls had said at lunch—and the sole of one of her cheap canvas shoes flopped, half-off. “Jess! Hey, Jess.”

She stopped. He noticed that her backpack was too small, and grubby, and pink. A little girl’s backpack, not like the one Colleen and her friends had, cheery plaid backpacks with their initials sewn on, extra padding on the shoulder straps.

Then she turned around. “What do you want?” she said. Her eyes were cold.

“I...I just wanted to see how your brother was doing.”

She didn’t answer. The wind gusted off Keuka, smelling of rain.

“I guess he’s still pretty sad,” Connor said.

“Uh...yeah,” she said, like he was the stupidest person on earth. He did feel that way. “He loved that dog.”

“I could tell.”

“And Chico never bit anyone before.”

Connor had no answer for that.

Jessica stared at a spot past Connor’s left ear. “My father said that in most cases, Chico would get another chance, but since Pete O’Rourke told the mayor what to do, our dog is dead now.” She cut her eyes to his. “Davey hasn’t stopped crying. He’s too upset to go to school, and he’s wet the bed every night this week. So that’s how he’s doing, Connor.”

She made his name sound like a curse word.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispered.

“Who cares what you think, O’Rourke?” She turned and trudged away, her footsteps scratching in the gravel, the sole of her shoe flopping.

He should let her go. Instead, he ran up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Jessica. I’m—”

She whirled around, her eyes filled with tears, fist raised to hit him. Jess got into fights all the time, usually with the oafs on the football team, and she could hold her own. But she paused, and in that second, he saw the past week written on her face, the sadness and anger and fear and helplessness. The...the shame. He saw that she was tired. That there was a spot of dirt behind her left ear.

“You can hit me,” he said. “It’s okay.”

“I’ll pop your stitches.”

“Punch me in the stomach, then,” he said.

Her fist dropped. “Leave me alone, Connor. Don’t talk to me ever again.”

Then she turned and walked off, her head bent, her blond hair fluttering in the breeze, and it felt like someone was ramming a broom handle through the middle of Connor’s chest.

She was so beautiful.

A lot of girls were pretty—Faith Holland and her red hair, Theresa DeFilio and her big brown eyes, Miss Cummings in the library, who didn’t seem old enough to be a grown-up. Even Colleen was pretty, sort of, when she wasn’t annoying him.

But Jessica Dunn was beautiful.

Connor felt as though he’d just stepped on a bluebird, crushing its fragile, hollow bones.

CHAPTER THREE

Eleven years before the proposal...

WHEN JESS WAS very little, before Davey, her parents had taken her camping once. Real camping, in a tent patched with duct tape, blankets making a nest on the ground. She had loved it, the coziness of the tent, the smell of nylon and smoke, her parents drinking beers and cooking over the fire. Had it been Vermont? Michigan, maybe? It didn’t matter. There’d been a path down to a lake, and the stars were a heavy swipe of glitter across the inky sky. She got seventeen mosquito bites, but she didn’t even care.

That was it for vacations.

When the senior class trip to Philadelphia was announced, everyone had gone wild with excitement. They’d be staying overnight, seeing the sights, then given four precious hours of freedom to wander. Jeremy Lyon, the newest, hottest addition to their class, had an uncle who wanted to take Jer and all of his friends out for dinner. There was talk of going to the Reading Terminal Market, which was filled with places to eat. The Museum of Art, so everyone could run the stairs like Rocky. Everyone wanted to get a cheesesteak sandwich.

The trip cost $229.

Jessica had been to New York City on the sixth-grade class trip, but it was just for the day. She was pretty sure her teacher had paid her fee so Jess could go.

But in Philly, they’d be staying in the city, and the thought of it made her heart bounce like a rubber ball. Based on those five hours in Manhattan, she was pretty sure she loved cities.

Her parents didn’t have $229 for field trips, though they might have it for booze. Asking them didn’t even cross her mind; she had her own money saved, squirreled away in a hole in the wall behind her bed, secured in a little tin box she’d found by the creek that ran behind the trailer park. At eighteen, Jess wasn’t naive; she knew her mom was a helpless alcoholic. Powerless was the word used at Al-Anon. Her father was less extreme, but he was cunning and sneaky. Either parent would use her money for themselves, no matter how you cut it.

So she hid her savings. She’d wait until the house was empty then sneak her tip money and pay into the red tin. Her parents generally didn’t go into her room, and they sure didn’t move the bed away from the wall to clean or anything.

She’d go on the trip. She’d room with Tiffy and Angela Mitchum, maybe sneak out with Levi...maybe for a walk, maybe for sex, though she often felt like that was habit more than anything for the both of them.

Growing up in the trailer park with Tiffy and Levi and Asswipe Jones—born Ashwick, and really, did his mother hate children?—it bonded people. They were the have-nots, some having less than others. You recognized each other, knew the strategies of eating a big lunch at school, because school lunches were free if you were poor enough. You knew how to glue the soles of your shoes when they started to come off, how to keep an eye on the Salvation Army thrift shop. You might even know how to shoplift.

Things like ski trips or island vacations, dinners out and hotel stays...that was foreign territory for the Dunns. Bad enough that Jess’s father couldn’t keep a job, and Mom had four prescriptions for Vicodin from four different doctors. Add to basic poverty Davey’s special programs and doctor’s appointments and new meds that might help with his outbursts but were never covered by Medicaid...there was always less than nothing.

But Jess had almost a thousand dollars saved. Her job at Hugo’s earned her more than her father made, and when Davey needed a helmet so he wouldn’t hurt himself during a head-banging rage, she was the one who’d paid for it. The private summer program that gave him something to do—away from their parents—ditto. His clothes, bought new, also funded by her, because while she’d been able to handle the middle school mean kids who’d make fun of her wearing Faith Holland’s hand-me-downs, Davey deserved better. He already had a big strike against him; he wasn’t going to wear used clothes, too. She bought groceries and special vitamins that one doctor thought might help raise his IQ. She paid the gas bill last March when the cold just wouldn’t let go and they had no heat, and she’d paid for the repair on the crappy old Toyota that got her to and from work.

Even so, she’d managed to stash $987.45 in the three years she’d been working at Hugo’s and, for once, she was going to spend some of it on herself. She was a senior, and college was out of the question. For one, she couldn’t leave Davey, and for two, well, she had neither the money nor the grades for a scholarship. She’d try to take a class at Wickham Community College, but her plans for the future were pretty much her plans for today. Work. Take care of Davey. Keep her parents from getting into too much trouble, and when that failed, bailing them out or paying their fines.

But this trip...something in her rose up at the thought of it, something bright and clean. She could see another part of the country. Picture a future, magical version of herself, working in the city, living in a townhouse, holding down a great job. No parents, just her and Davey. The Mid-Atlantic. It sounded exotic, so much cooler than western New York.

Whatever the case, she ran all the way home from the bus stop, fueled by excitement and...well, happiness.

“Hey, honey-boy,” she said as she came into the kitchen, bending to smooch Davey’s head, then frowned. “Did you cut your own hair again?” It was practically shaved in spots, making it look like he had a disease.

“No,” he said. “I let Sam do it.”

“Honey, don’t. I’m the only one who cuts your hair, okay?” That little shit Sam would be getting a talk from her, and if he peed his pants in terror, that’d be fine. The boys were eleven, for God’s sake. This wasn’t innocent “let’s play barbershop” stuff. This was bullying, and it wasn’t the first time Sam had decided to pretend to be friends with Davey so he could humiliate him.

“What’s for supper?” Davey asked.

“I don’t know. Where’s Mom?”

“I don’t know.” He bent over his coloring book. Still loved Pokémon.

Jess glanced in the living room, where her father was in the recliner, watching TV. He seemed to be asleep.

Good. She went into the bedroom she shared with Davey and closed the door quietly. Pulled the bed back from the wall, bent down and stuck her fingers in the hole.

No tin.

It must’ve fallen back, even if that had never happened before. She stuck her whole hand in, groped to the left, then the right.

It wasn’t there.

Her heart felt sticky, its ventricles and valves clogged with dread.

On the wobbly plastic table next to his bed, Davey had a keychain with an LED light on it, in case he got scared in the middle of the night. Jess grabbed it and pointed it at the hole.

No tin. Not to the left, not to the right. It wasn’t below, and it wasn’t above. It was just gone.

She went back into the kitchen. “Davey, honey, did you find a metal box in our room? In a little hole behind the bed?”

“There’s a hole? What’s in it?” he asked. “Is there mice in it?”

“No. I had a little metal box in there.”

“What color?”

“Red and silver. And there was some money inside.”

He chose a blue crayon, its paper soft and furred from use. “I don’t know where it is.” Davey didn’t know how to lie. “Will you make me supper tonight?”

“I have to work.”

“But Mom’s not home!”

Jess took a deep breath. “Okay.” She glanced at the sink; the dishes from breakfast and lunch were still there, waiting to be washed. Seven empty beer cans, too.

So she wouldn’t be going on the class trip. She’d just say she had to work. Or that Davey had a thing and she couldn’t go. No, she couldn’t blame Davey, even if he always did have an appointment and a fear of being left alone. She’d just say the trip wasn’t her thing.

Except it was.

Well. She probably didn’t deserve it, anyway. Selfish, to be thinking about leaving her brother for the weekend.

She put on some water to make spaghetti and opened a can of tomato sauce. Not much nutrition, but that was about all they had. She’d have to go grocery shopping tomorrow. Then, glancing at the clock, she did the dishes as fast as she could. She had to go to work soon.

Dad had probably taken it. Mom was a little more decent that way. Every once in a while, Jess’s grandmother would send Jolene some cash, and Mom would take Jess and Davey out for ice cream...then head for the Black Cat and drink the rest away. If she’d known about Jessica’s stash...well, it was hard to believe that she would’ve taken it all, in one fell swoop. It’d be more Mom’s style to filch it bit by bit, just enough to buy a few vodka nips and get her through the day.

So it wasn’t Mom.

That left Dad, and he wouldn’t admit it with a gun to the back of his head. The money might still be around, but he was too smart for Jessica to ever find it. And he’d never give her an honest answer if she asked, just feign ignorance and blink his big blue eyes...and then go out and buy a hundred lottery tickets or go to the casino. If he ever won something, he always managed to find a way to blow that, too.

She’d bet her life he wasn’t sleeping, even though he just lay there, eyes closed.

Sometimes, she wished he’d just die. Without him being a bad influence, such a casual drunk, maybe Mom could get sober. Without him, Davey wouldn’t have such a shitty role model. Without him, there’d be one less mouth to feed.

A few days later, Jeremy Lyon gave her a ride home in his expensive little convertible. It was raining, so the top was up, and it was so cozy and clean and pretty in that little car that Jess wanted to live there.

With Jeremy. She loved him. Everyone did.

But boys like Jeremy didn’t go for Jessica Does—as in Jessica Does Anyone—class slut, poor white trash. Sure enough, Jeremy had fallen hard for Faith Holland, otherwise known as Princess Super-Cute, one of the rich girls—a little dim, it seemed to Jess, and someone who never wanted for anything.

“So I heard you’re not going on the trip,” Jeremy said.

“Oh, right,” Jessica answered, pretending it had slipped her mind. “I have something going on that weekend.”

“Well, here’s the thing,” he said. “You know how I am. Incapable of having fun if my friends aren’t all with me. Curse of the only child or something. So I was thinking, if cost was the issue, please let me cover you, Jess. You’d be doing me a favor, because it won’t be any fun without you, and I’ll be miserable and lonely the whole time.”

The guy was such a prince, it hurt her heart sometimes. He was also a liar. He was best friends with Levi, in love with Faith in such a sappy way that it was a shock that bluebirds didn’t follow them around. Jer was friends with everyone he’d ever met.

As they pulled into West’s Trailer Park, Jess let herself imagine that Jeremy was her boyfriend. That he’d dump Faith and fall for her, and love Davey—he was already good to Davey—and take care of them for the rest of their lives.

“What do you say, Jess? Will you do that for me?”

She cleared her throat. “That’s really nice, Jeremy, but it’s not the money. Philly’s really not my thing, you know? Plus, I’m working that weekend. But thanks.” She blew him a kiss and ran inside before the casual act slipped.

That Friday night, when her classmates were in the city of brotherly love, a huge party of middle-aged fraternity brothers came into Hugo’s, and Hugo gave the table to Jess. They left her a tip of $250.

Too little, too late.

On Sunday she took Davey to the fair in Corning and bought him corn dogs and popcorn and root beer. She screamed on the roller coaster, and he put his arm around her, laughing with glee. He loved when she was the one who was scared and he got to protect her. They both ate candied apples and then scraped the gunk off their teeth with their fingers, Jess more successfully than Davey.

When he wanted to play Shoot the Balloon, she made sure the carny got a good look down her shirt so that Davey won a huge stuffed animal, even though he only managed to pop one balloon.

It was the best day she’d had in a long time.

“I love you,” Davey said sleepily on the car ride home.

In that moment, she was so glad to be exactly where she was, with her brother, her best bud, the boy who’d had an uphill battle since the day he was born.

A battle which was largely her fault.

“I love you, too, honey-boy,” she said back, her voice husky.

Nothing was ever more true.

But as Davey slept, his head against the window, snoring slightly, Jessica couldn’t help wondering about the view she might’ve seen from that hotel, and the little soaps and shampoos, which she had fully intended on bringing home to her brother.

* * *

WHICH IS WHY, at the age of twenty-one, Jessica Dunn had never stayed in a hotel before.

It was three years past graduation, and Jess and Angela Mitchum were the only ones who hadn’t left Manningsport. Angela was a mother now, having gotten knocked up senior year. She lived on the hill with her parents and was going to school part-time to become a nurse. Sometimes, the Mitchums came to Hugo’s for dinner, and Jess always admired the baby, who was really cute.

Jess was doing what she’d always been doing—waiting tables at Hugo’s, doing a little home health aide work on the side, looking after her brother. She still lived in the trailer park, but that was going to end soon; she now saved her money in a bank, and in four more months, she’d have enough to rent a decent place in town. Two bedrooms, because of course she wasn’t leaving Davey at the mercy of her parents’ negligence.

Lately, Dad had been offering him drinks, which Davey was only too happy to take. For some completely unfathomable reason, he worshipped their father, who thought it was funny to see Davey tipsy. Mom wouldn’t like Jess taking Davey, but in the end, she’d give in. Her Vicodin was now supplied by the grungy guy at the laundromat, since the doctors had finally figured out that there was nothing wrong with Mom except addiction.

It was October, always a poignant time of year for Jess. The leaf peepers, those tourists who came up by the busload to see the foliage and drink Finger Lakes wine, were heading home, and aside from the Christmas Stroll, Manningsport would soon be quiet. Hugo closed the restaurant after Veterans Day, so Jess would have to see if she could get more hours as an aide. It didn’t pay nearly as well as waiting tables, but she didn’t have a lot of other options.

Hugo called her into his office before she started her shift that night. “I want you to take a wine class,” he said without preamble. “Felicia kills you in bottle sales, and the markup is incredible. What do you think?”

“Um...sure,” Jess said, scratching her wrist. “But I don’t really drink.”

“I know, honey.” He knew about her family. Everyone did, and just in case they didn’t, Dad crashed into the restaurant at least once a year, asking where his “baby girl” was and wondering if old Hugo would give him a drink on the house. “But you’re twenty-one now. You should know about wine. What goes with different kinds of food, how to talk about it, what to recommend.”

“I just recommend the really expensive stuff,” she said.

“Which I appreciate. Still, I want you to do this, kid. It classes us up if you can talk knowledgeably about what people are drinking.”

“Yeah, okay.” It was true. Felicia could sell a bottle of wine to just about anyone, and was full of phrases like “that particular region of France” and “long, lingering finish with notes of fresh snow and blackberry.” It sounded pretty ridiculous to Jess, but Felicia’s clients spent more, and that meant bigger tabs, which also meant bigger tips.

“Blue Heron Winery is having a class next week,” Hugo continued. “You went to school with Faith Holland, didn’t you? Want to go there?”

“I’d rather not take that one,” she said easily. “If that’s okay. Next week is a little packed.”

Hugo nodded. He’d hired her to bus tables when she was fifteen, promoted her to waitress and was now teaching her to bartend. He never asked why she didn’t go to college like all the other Manningsport kids, or enlist, or leave town to find something other than a waitressing job.

He knew why. He probably knew more than she wanted him to, including why she’d try to dodge a class at Blue Heron.

“Okay, kid,” he said with a nod. “I’ll see what else is around.”

“Thank you.” The words didn’t come easily to her, but she rubbed the top of his head, said, “Lucky bald spot,” and went back to work, stuffing down her feelings.

Manningsport was a moderately wealthy town. Full of vineyards and families that went back generations, like the Hollands, or wealthy transplants, like the Lyons, or families whose parents earned a lot of money, like the O’Rourkes.

And scattered in between, like weeds in a garden, were families who were poor, and had tussles with the law, and had drinking problems or drug problems and always, always had money problems. Families where the mother was milking the system, claiming a lifetime disability from a vague knee injury she got four days after being hired at the high school as a lunch lady. Families where the father couldn’t hold a job and had been driven home in a police car more times than a person could count.

Her family, in other words.

But she had Davey. If not for him, she would’ve left Manningsport the second she could drive, moved somewhere far away from anyone who knew why she was called Jessica Does. Maybe she’d live in Europe. Italy, where she’d fall in love and learn the language and become a clothing designer or something.

But there was her brother, and he was her responsibility and hers alone, so none of those thoughts were worth more than a few seconds. Davey made staying worthwhile and then some.

A week later, Hugo handed her some papers and walked away. “Don’t say no,” he said over his shoulder. “You can figure it out.”

The first page confirmed her enrollment in a day-long wine class at the Culinary Institute of America, down in Hyde Park, a good four hours’ drive.

The next page was a hotel reservation at the Hudson Riverview Hotel.

He was putting her up overnight.

Hands tingling, Jess went into the office, which was empty, and Googled the place.

It was beautiful. A four-star hotel overlooking the Hudson. Full complimentary breakfast and a welcome cocktail. The beds were king-size; Jess still slept in a twin in the room she shared with her brother. A huge tub and a fancy, glassed-in shower. A flower arrangement in the lobby the size of a small car.

She turned around and saw Hugo, smiling sheepishly. “I thought you might like to get out of town.”

“Hugo,” she began, but her words stopped there.

“Just promise you’ll go. I can even check in on your brother, okay? And don’t you cry! Are those tears in your eyes? Don’t you dare, or I’ll fire you.”

A few days later she kissed her brother, pried his arms from around her neck, told him Chico Two would take good care of him, warned her parents to stay sober, reminded her mother of the heating instructions for the casserole she’d cooked the night before and got in the car.

She was going to a hotel. The class would be fine, sure, but she was going to stay in a hotel.

The four-hour drive flew by, and as the miles passed, Jessica felt...light. Yes, she was worried about Davey, but she’d be back tomorrow afternoon. She fully intended to sleep late and eat that breakfast. But she would be staying in a gorgeous hotel near the Vanderbilt Mansion and the Culinary Institute of America. She planned to have dinner in the hotel dining room, and if there was a wedding there this weekend, she might peek in the ballroom—because her hotel had a ballroom! A bath in that tub, definitely. Her house didn’t have a tub, just a shower with mold growing on the caulk, no matter how much bleach she sprayed on it.

When she finally got to the hotel, it was even prettier than the internet pictures. Her heart pounded as she walked in. She should’ve brought a suitcase, rather than her backpack, but hey, it was fine. She looked casual, that was all.

“How are you today?” asked the older man behind the counter.

“I’m just fine,” she said. “Jessica Dunn.”

He clicked a few keys on his computer. “And I see all expenses are covered by a Hugo’s Restaurant?”

“Oh. Um, yes. My employer.”

“What do you do for them?”

For a second, she was tempted to say she was a manager, or the sommelier, not that Hugo had one, or the chef. “I’m on the waitstaff.”

He gave her a quick once-over, then handed her a key. “I’ve upgraded you to a junior suite,” he said. “Enjoy your stay with us. I’m off at seven. Perhaps I can buy you a drink.”

“I’m afraid I have plans,” she said, “but thank you. I really appreciate the offer.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he said.

The one thing her parents had given her was good looks. That, and Davey. She knew she was beautiful, and at this moment, she was glad. Sure, the horny old guy was hitting on her. But it had gotten her a junior suite, whatever that was. It sure sounded amazing.

And it was. It was flippin’ huge. There was a couch—a sleek gray couch with orange pillows, and the bed was like an ocean of white with an orange throw draped across the end. Flat-screen TV! There was a Gideon’s Bible in one night table drawer, and an “intimacy kit” in another—condoms and massage oil. Ahem. There was even a minibar! Not that she drank, but it was pretty anyway, all the top-shelf booze and snacks. Nine dollars for a pack of M&Ms, imagine that.

The towels were pure white, and the bathroom had so many light switches—one for the shower, one for the mirror, one under the counter like a night-light or something. And holy heck, a bathrobe made of cotton so soft it was like a cloud. Slippers! And the shampoo and shower gel and conditioner were all L’Occitane, which Jess assumed was really expensive and sure smelled that way.

She went to the window, which overlooked a small park and the Hudson River. The day was gray and a little cold. It was maybe the prettiest view Jess had ever seen.

She went back into the bathroom and turned on the faucets in the enormous tub.

This was going to be the best weekend of her life.

As the tub filled, she called home. As expected, Davey answered. He was a total phone hog.

“Hey, Davey,” she said.

“I miss you. When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow. You know that. You want to hear about my hotel?”

“Okay.”

“It’s got a big bed. Really big. Bigger than Mom and Dad’s.”

“Did you jump on it?”

“Not yet,” she said with a grin. “And a tub. I’m going to take a bubble bath.”

“That sounds fun.”

“We’ll have a tub in our new house.”

“Okay! What else is there?”

“Room service, where they bring you food on a tray.”

“Did you get some? Do they have cheeseburgers? And cake? That’s what I would get!”

Someday, Jess thought as she talked to her brother, she’d bring Davey wherever he wanted to go. Disney World, probably, and they’d stay in a nice hotel like this one.

But this weekend was just hers, and to someone who didn’t have a lot that fell into that category, it was a very nice thought, indeed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Eleven years before the proposal...

WHEN JESSICA DUNN walked into the room where Connor was teaching Wine 101 at the CIA his senior year, he didn’t recognize her at first.

Instead, he felt an instant crush of heat and attraction. It took him a full three seconds to realize who it was—three seconds of Holy Mary, she’s beautiful before he realized who it was. Not that she had changed; just that it was so strange to see her here, at his school.

The other thing that surprised him was the surge of happiness that followed the knee-jerk attraction.

Most of the students for this kind of half-day class were older people, interested in wine now that they had some time on their hands and money to spend. A lot of couples, a lot of girlfriends looking for something fun to do.

He would guess that Jess wasn’t here for any of those reasons. She drifted near him, clearly alone in this class of pairs and groups.

“Hey, Jess,” he said when she was within three feet of him.

She was equally unprepared to see him, it seemed, because she jumped a little, her cheeks turning pink. “Hi, Connor. I...I forgot you came here.”

“It’s my last year. How are you?”

Almost without thinking—almost—he hugged her. She didn’t pull away but she didn’t exactly hug him back, either, just patted his side.

“Sorry,” he said with a grin. “It’s good to see a face from home.”

“Yeah,” she said, but something flickered in her eyes.

Right. She never did like him.

Since the day her dog bit him—well, since the week after her dog bit him—Jessica had given him a wide berth, which made him a rarity among the males of their class. She was never rude to him after that one aborted punch, but she never talked to him, either. Not willingly. Even so, it felt as if an invisible copper wire connected them, occasionally flaring with electricity and light. He could sense her sometimes, just on that particular buzz.

If she felt it, too, she was excellent at ignoring it.

During chemistry their junior year, they were lab partners, and she talked to him then. But only about the lab, and after class, she’d always zipped out, always moving fast, always on her way to meet—and possibly sleep with—some other guy.

Yeah, she was the class slut...very well-liked by the guys because of it. The girls, not so much. Connor couldn’t figure her out. She was tight with Levi, and they slept together, too, but she was never Levi’s actual girlfriend. And even though she slept around, she had that aura around her—Connor thought of it as her three feet away face. Her personal space bubble that was only ever entered with blatant invitation. For someone with the nickname Jessica Does, she sure was...aloof. She worked more than most kids in their class. She never seemed bitter, though...just busy. And she never really spoke to Connor if she could avoid it. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like him; it was as if he were invisible.

Until chemistry. God, Connor loved chemistry. It was a tough class, and when their final exam results were given back, Connor watched her as the teacher passed their reports. “Only two of you managed to understand the assignment,” Mrs. Riordan said wearily. “I’m very disappointed in the rest of you.” She handed Jessica her paper, and Jess glanced at the grade then covered it with her hand. Peeked at it, covered it again.

Then she looked over at him and smiled, and it felt like all the blood in his body stopped for a minute, then flooded through him in a torrent.

Connor was used to As. He had the feeling Jessica wasn’t. She was never on the honor roll, and yes, he always looked. But she was smart, and he’d been careful to let her do her share of the work, not just carry her, make sure she understood the Krebs cycle in all its glory without overtly teaching her.

That smile made him feel like he’d just won the World Series.

Then Big Frankie Pepitone said something—something dirty, probably, because it was about all he said—and Jess turned to him.

And that was pretty much the end of their interactions. She sure as hell never slept with him, something that a couple of the other guys mentioned once in a while. Nope, Jess might raise her chin at him or say hi in a group, but otherwise, nada.

Wine lovers were milling around them, sitting at the rows of counters in the test kitchen.

“So are you the teacher?” she asked.

“Yep. I’m actually filling in for a buddy of mine. It’s a pretty basic class, though. Plus, growing up where we did, we all know way too much about wine, anyway. You probably don’t need to take the class. It might be boring for you.” He could hear Colleen’s voice telling him he had no game. In this case, she’d be dead-on.

“Hugo wanted me to come,” she said.

“Oh. Right. Well, I guess I should get started.” Real smooth.

He went to the front of the class, cleared his throat and smiled. Three women sat up a little straighter. “Thanks for coming to the CIA,” he said, and for the next two hours, he talked about grapes and regions and the different characteristics of wine. Poured and schmoozed, praised people for their excellent use of adjectives—though someone used the word dewdrops to describe a flavor, and even in wine circles, that was a little extreme.

Jessica took notes and tiny sips, unlike the rowdy group from Connecticut, a book club, they cheerfully told him. He served cheese and bread made at the school, talked about the texture of wine, the legs, the nose, the body, finish and color and mouth-feel, clarity, harmony. If he felt a little bit like a huckster at a carnival, it was okay. Everyone was happy.

He tried not to look at Jessica too much. It wasn’t easy; she was so still and gorgeous, focused on the task at hand, occasionally answering the couple next to her with a smile. He’d seen her two summers ago at the Cork & Pork festival, which was a wine and barbecue event in Manningsport. Her brother was with her; the kid was a teenager now, or close to it. When Davey saw Connor, his expression tightened, so Con didn’t bother saying hi, just kept going, feeling like dirt.

But he was teaching this class, so he bent over her shoulder and looked at her notes. Jam, black licorice, kind of smoky, she’d written for the shiraz.

“Good comments, Jess,” he said, and she looked up at him.

Her eyes were green and clear, like sea glass.

“Thanks,” she said. “I thought I was just making it up.” Then she smiled, just a flash, there and gone.

“Not at all.” At least, that’s what he thought she said, but she smiled at him, and just like in chemistry class, his blood seemed to stall then rush cheerfully south.

“What would you pair this with?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. He could smell her hair, a lemony, clean smell, and see the different shades of blond, from almost white to honey-colored, straight and smooth and, he’d bet, silky to the touch, the kind of hair that would run through his fingers like water.

“Uh...sorry. Leaner red meat, brisket, lamb, bison, just about any kind of beef, really. There’s a nice spiciness to the wine, so you need a meat that will stand up to it. Sausage.” Great. He sounded like an ass.

“So not with KFC, then.”

She was joking. With him. “No, that’d be a white, maybe a rosé.”

“Connor?” asked one of the women who’d been eyeing him. “Can you give me some advice on a nice wine to bring to my parents?”

“Duty calls,” Jess murmured, writing something else in her notebook.

He tried to think of a clever comeback and came up empty, but he put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze as he left.

Glanced back.

She was looking at him.

When the class was over, Connor made sure those who seemed tipsy weren’t driving, shook hands, accepted compliments and recommended local restaurants. Jess was putting on her coat. He hesitated for a second then said, “Would you like to have dinner?”

She hesitated.

“It’s okay if you don’t. It was just good to see you. Someone from Manningsport. You know. But if you don’t, that’s fine.” There was the babbling again. And to think he made fun of Colleen for the same thing.

“Are you homesick, Connor O’Rourke? I’d think your sister would be here every other weekend. And your mom, too.”

“Not really. I mean, yeah, Colleen’s a pain and shows up here from time to time, but my mom... Oh, you were joking.”

She gave a small smile, and his stomach tightened.

“Is that a no?” he asked.

She fixed the collar of her jacket and flipped her hair out of the collar. “Well, the thing is, I’m staying at a really nice hotel, and I kind of want to soak it up, you know?”

“The Riverview?”

“Yeah.”

“Great place. I interned there last year.” Not that she’d asked. But she hadn’t rolled her eyes and walked out, either, so what the hell. “Did you drive over?” The Riverview wasn’t more than a mile from campus.

“No.”

“Maybe I can walk you back, then.”

She hesitated. “Sure.”

It was nearly dark outside, and they walked side by side, shoulders occasionally bumping. Connor racked his brain to ask an innocuous question, but everything seemed loaded. How’s your family, what have you been up to, how’s work, got any plans... Everything seemed wrong.

“Do you like going to school here?” she asked.

“I do. I love food.”

She laughed, and there it was again, that tugging sensation in his gut. “Most people do, I guess.” She looked up at him, her hair fluttering in the cold wind. “I would’ve guessed you’d end up in law school or medicine or something with your grades. Never saw you as a chef.”

“Neither did my parents.”

“Are they mad?”

“‘Extremely disappointed’ was the phrase my father used.”

She didn’t say anything at that.

“I wouldn’t think you’d need this class,” he said, more to keep the conversation going. “You must know a lot about wine.”

“I didn’t grow up in that part of Manningsport, Connor. Wine tastings in the trailer park were few and far between.”

“I meant working for Hugo’s all these years, Princess Defensive.”

She gave a half smile of acknowledgement. “I know a little. I don’t sell enough wine, though, so he thought this would help.”

They’d reached the hotel’s long driveway, which meant his time with her was winding down.

“How’s your brother?” he heard himself ask. Kind of hard to stay away from the subject, after all.

“He’s good.” Another pause. “How’s Colleen?”

“She’s good, too. Jessica...” He stopped walking. “I always felt so bad about your dog.”

She looked at the ground. “It wasn’t your fault. Actually, it was mine. I tied Chico up that day. I knew the railing was rusted.”

“You’re the one who got him off me. Probably saved my life.”

She looked up, her face unreadable. “Let’s not talk about it, okay? What’s that up there?” she asked, pointing ahead.

“Oh, that’s really cool. It’s an overlook. Want to see it? There’s a great view of the Hudson.”

He heard Colleen’s voice in his head. Trying too hard, idiot. Yep. And why would Jessica want to hang out with him? She was just being polite, letting him walk her back to her hotel, where some rich George Clooney older guy would ask her to have dinner with him, and he’d order a $500 bottle of wine, and by the end of dinner, he’d want to marry her and Jess would become his trophy wife, and who could blame her, she’d drive around in a little BMW and have a maid and go to Turks & Caicos and—

“Okay,” she said.

It was freezing now, and already the late October wind had gone from damp and raw to razor. She was only wearing a denim jacket. He should’ve noticed that before. He slipped off his peacoat and gave it to her.

“I’m fine.”

“Take it, Jess.”

She did. “You’re not cold?” she asked.

Not as long as he was looking at her. “Not at all.” He took her hand, which was cold and small in his, and rubbed it with both of his. Though it was hard to tell in the dim light, she might’ve blushed.

No one else was out on the hotel grounds, probably because their survival instincts had kicked in and they didn’t want to freeze to death.

But Jessica sure looked cute in his coat, which came down to her knees and past her hands. Her hand slipped out of his as she leaned her arms on the railing and gazed out at the mighty river. Lights winked from the opposite shore, and the wind gusted.

Say something, idiot, his brain instructed. He had nothing.

A barge passed beneath them, almost silent, the motor just a low growl.

“You ever wonder where they’re going?” Jessica asked. “What it’d be like to crew on one of those, where you’d sleep, the places you could see?”

“All the lives you could live,” he said.

She looked at him sharply then returned her gaze to the river. The barge kept going, downriver toward Manhattan, and from there, anyone’s guess.

“I’m sorry if I was rude before, when I first saw you,” she said, not looking at him. “I didn’t expect to see someone I knew.”

“You weren’t rude,” he said.

“It’s just... No one in the wine class knew my reputation, or that I’m just a waitress, or that I still live in a trailer park. For a second, I just got to be some good-looking chick from upstate, maybe a restaurant manager or sommelier or something.” She pushed some hair behind her ear. “When I saw you, I was Jessica Does again.”

There was a whole lot of history in that statement, and Connor was wise enough not to answer right away.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “you were always Jessica Doesn’t where I was concerned.”

She laughed, surprised, and looked at him. He smiled.

She shifted her gaze back to the river. “Do you remember the time you said I could punch you? After Chico bit you?”

He blinked. “Yes.”

“That...” She straightened up and looked at him. “That meant a lot to me.”

Hell’s bells. The wind howled down the river, gusting into the bridge.

She looked away. “I’m freezing.”

“Let me walk you back to the hotel,” he said. Nice going, he told himself. She gave you an opening and you stood there like a tree.

They didn’t hold hands on the way back, and though the wind was bitter and the smell of creosote from the railroad tracks was sharp, Connor was awfully sorry when they got to the lobby.

“I hope you have a good time tonight,” he said as she took off his coat and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” she said. She just looked at him for a long minute, her clear green eyes as mysterious as the dark side of the moon. For a second, he thought she might just turn and walk away.

But then she said, “Yes, by the way.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

God was smiling on him, that was for sure. He grinned and let her lead the way to the dining room.

“Connor O’Rourke,” said Francine, the restaurant hostess, a fiftysomething-year-old woman who had flirted with him all last summer, “what are you doing back here?”

“Francine, this is my friend Jessica. She’s a guest at the hotel.”

“Very nice to meet you, Jessica. I hope everything is to your liking.”

“Everything is wonderful,” she said.

“Table for two?” she asked.

And here was the thing about being a good-looking, amiable guy who always had time to flirt with the restaurant hostess. It got you the best table in the house, in front of the fireplace. And being a hard-working sous-chef who’d tolerated the rages and hissy fits of his stereotypical French boss got them a visit from the self-same diva, who came out to their table to greet them and sent over a bottle of wine and a lobster-and-avocado appetizer that wasn’t on the menu.

“Mademoiselle, a pleasure to have you dine at my humble establishment,” Raoul said, bending over her hand, and Jess smiled at him then raised an eyebrow at Connor.

“You always get treated like this?” she asked him. Raoul still held on to her hand.

“I think you’re the one who’s getting treated like this. Watch out for Raoul,” he said, separating the chef’s hand from hers. “He loves beautiful women.”

“Ah, it’s true, it’s true,” Raoul said, completely charming. “My wife, she suffers, but what can she do? She throws things and screams, then I cook for her, she is helpless in the face of my great talent, and everything is happy again. Mademoiselle—Jessica, if I may? Jessica, I would love to cook for you, just the two of us—”

“The kitchen needs you, Raoul.” Connor smiled at his old boss. “Go. I smell a filet being cooked well-done.”

“Mon Dieu,” Raoul said. He bowed again to Jess, then winked at Connor, and then they were alone again.

Jess gave him a small smile then took a tiny sip of wine.

“You don’t drink much,” Connor said.

“I have two alcoholic parents,” she answered mildly. “I’d be stupid to start.”

He nodded.

“So what kind of classes do you take?” she asked, and he told her about the CIA, and what he was good at and where he wasn’t so hot.

“What’s your dream job?” she asked as their dinners were served.

He hesitated. “I’d like to own my own place,” he said.

“Something fancy, like this?”

“No, no. Something small and humble but with great food. Really thoughtful food, you know? Not just burgers and nachos, but with the best burger you’ve ever eaten, nachos with three kinds of cheddar and fresh tomatoes and jalapeños. A place with a really good wine list, and specials based on what was in season and what looked good at the market that day. Nothing frozen or premade, nothing that came shipped in a plastic bag and was offloaded from a trailer, you know?”

Shit. Hugo’s had food that came off a trailer.

But she didn’t take offense. “It sounds good. Where would you do it? Manningsport?”

“Maybe.” He hadn’t really thought about it too much; if he followed the course of most CIA chefs, he’d sous-chef somewhere terribly impressive and uptight for a couple of years, probably in Manhattan or Europe. He was one of the best students in the class. He could go to Paris or Milan or Sydney, easily.

“What about you, Jess? What’s your dream job?”

She took a deep breath. “Oh, I don’t know. Not a waitress. Something where I could make enough to take care of Davey.”

His Catholic guilt shot up into the red zone. “Will he ever be able to...uh...live on his own?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “He’ll always be with me.” She didn’t seem bothered by that in the least.

Connor never did know what caused Davey’s handicap. It seemed too personal to ask.

“He has fetal alcohol syndrome,” Jessica said, pronouncing the words carefully, as if she wasn’t used to saying them.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “He’s the best thing in my entire life.”

“Sorry,” Connor said again then winced. Jess gave him a wry look and then smiled.

Dessert was brought out without their ordering it, as well as two cappuccinos. “Raoul made this special for the two of you,” said their server, a girl Connor didn’t recognize. “It’s a tartin des pommes de terre with caramelized ginger, served with clotted cream, and he said if that doesn’t make you believe in God, he doesn’t know what will.”

“Please thank him for us,” Jessica said.

Happiness was watching her take a bite, close her eyes and lick her lips. “Oh, God, that’s incredible,” she said.

If he could make her look like that—and not because of dessert—

Better cut that thought off right there. Jess had more than enough men lusting after her.

But come on. Jessica eating that dessert was complete and utter food porn. And he was a chef. It’d be wrong not to enjoy the way her eyes fluttered closed, the little smile, the quiet moan of pleasure.

When the bill came, he grabbed it.

“No, no,” Jessica said. “Let me.”

“Not on your life,” he said.

“At least let me pay my half.”

“Nope.”

“But Hugo—”

“I’m buying you dinner, Jessica. Live with it. And thanks for tolerating me.”

“It was very tough.” She smiled. “It was nice to see you, Connor. I didn’t think it would be, but it was.”

Huh. Mixed praise.

He followed her through the restaurant, noticing the looks she got from men and women both, and wondered if she knew how beautiful she was. He didn’t think so. Or if she did, it didn’t make a lot of difference to her.

At the elevators, she turned to him and thanked him once again.

“Maybe I’ll see you at home,” he said.

“Probably,” she said. “Small town and all that.”

He looked at her another minute. “Take care of yourself. And Davey.” Then he hugged her for the second time in his life, and this time, her arms went around his waist.

Her hair was as silky as he thought.

He turned his head just a little, to breathe in the smell of her lemony shampoo, and then he felt her cheek against his, and he wished he’d shaved today, because her skin was so soft.

Then their lips were touching, just brushing, not really a kiss at all, and that wouldn’t do, not when he was so close to finally, finally kissing Jessica Dunn.

He cupped the back of her head and went for it. Her lips were full and soft under his, a perfect fit, and it was so, so good.

And she kissed him back. Her mouth was lush, but the kiss was innocent and gentle and a little shy, and Connor didn’t want anything more than that—such a lie—but it was enough, it was so much... Jessica Dunn against him, her lips on his.

Then she stepped back.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat.

“I should... I...” She ran a hand through her hair, not looking at him. “Sorry about that. A guy buys me dinner, I guess it’s a reflex.”

He wasn’t sure she was insulting him or herself. Her hand was shaking, he noticed.

“It was good seeing you,” he said.

“You, too.” She pushed the button for the elevator. “Take care.”

He nodded once then turned and walked away.

Shit, shit, shit. Whatever he’d just done had been all wrong. She probably hated him more than ever now. She told him she’d wanted a night alone, but he’d gone ahead and accepted what had probably been an obligatory offer, and then he’d kissed her as if he deserved something, and seriously, he would never get it right where she was.

“Connor?”

He turned so suddenly he almost fell. She was still there, looking at him, not smiling. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to come up?”

She was very still. Frozen, really. Then she bit her lip.

She was nervous.

“Yes,” he said, very, very quietly. “If you’re sure.”

The elevator doors opened behind her. She glanced back, then looked at him again. “I am.”

And much to his surprise, she smiled, and it caught him right in the gut, as strong as a punch and almost painful.

Almost not trusting her words, he walked back to her, and she grabbed the pocket of his coat and pulled him into the elevator, pushed 11, and they were kissing again before the doors even closed, and she tasted so good, like apples and lemon and that hint of wine, and he was already drunk with wanting her before they hit the eleventh floor. When the doors opened again, he just picked her up and carried her out into the hall, smiling as she laughed against his mouth.

She fumbled for her room key, inserted it upside down, then got it right, and they were inside. She stopped for a second. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said then kissed him again, shoving his coat off his shoulders, and Connor had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her. She was lean and strong and soft in all the right places, and she smelled so good and clean, like lemons and cilantro. He kissed her neck, tasting her skin, and she yanked his shirt out of his jeans.

“Wait,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“There are condoms in the drawer,” she said. “Full-service hotel.”

“Just...wait.”

He was already breathing hard, his heart crashing against his ribs. His body was telling him to just tumble her back on the bed and get her naked and into her as fast as possible.

“Change your mind?” she said, and there was an edge in her voice.

“God, no.”

“Then what?” The three feet away face was already in place.

“I want to look at you,” he said.

Something in her eyes flickered.

He stepped forward again. His shirt was open, thanks to her quick fingers, but she was completely dressed. Her sea-glass eyes slid away from his, then back, and he cupped her face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs across her high cheekbones. Her lashes were soft and feathery. He touched her lips with one finger, then bent to kiss her, softly, softly, then the corner of her mouth, her cheeks, her nose, and back to her soft, pink mouth.

When Connor was a kid, he’d seen a coyote take a rabbit from the woods near their house. He ran after it, even knowing the rabbit was already dead, only to find a baby rabbit there in the leaves, its sides heaving with terror. Connor picked it up and felt its heart flying under his fingers, the animal terrified, but safe. He took it home and fed it from an eyedropper. It had taken a week before the animal trusted him.

It was kind of the same feeling now.

Jessica, for all her bravado and impenetrability, seemed to be a little...scared.

He kissed her neck, gently, slowly, and slid his hands under her sweater. Unhooked her bra and skimmed her skin, then slowly pulled the sweater over her head. Looked at her.

She was perfect. The pulse in her throat was visible, and fast.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, and then he sat on the bed and tugged her down with him. He held her hands over her head, and kissed her for a long, long time, tasting her, learning her mouth. Then he let her hands go, smiling as they buried into his hair. Bit by bit, he undressed the rest of her, taking his time, tracing every bit of skin he saw, tasting it.

“You’re killing me here,” she whispered, her breath ragged, and he lifted his head and smiled, and after a second, she smiled back. It wrapped around his heart, that smile, hot and tugging. “Hurry up, Connor O’Rourke.”

This was one of those moments of honest-to-God perfection, and he wasn’t going to rush through it. No.

He took his time instead.

There were no complaints.

* * *

JESS WOKE UP on her stomach, her head under a pillow. The sun was bright behind the curtains, which they’d thought to draw around 2:00 a.m. after the third round of sex—against the wall, good God.

Very slowly, she turned to see if Connor was still there.

He was.

So that was a first.

In fact, it had been a night of firsts. First night in a hotel, for one. But it was hard to think about the hotel with a rather large, beautiful male in her bed.

He was lying on his back, one arm over his head, looking ridiculously perfect, like an ad for Alpha Male Cologne. His lashes were long and curly, and his jaw was dark with razor stubble. Full lips, and a slight dimple in his chin. Just under his jaw was a divot from where Chico had bitten him, with a faint, corresponding scar curving from his eye to the top of his cheekbone. For a guy who spent all his time eating and cooking, he was pretty damn chiseled, with long muscled arms and a broad, lightly furred chest. Beautiful flat stomach thick with muscle. Those magical V-lines above his hip bones that led to Happy Land.

She knew he was gorgeous. She’d known that all her life, in fact.

It was his smile that was his secret weapon.

And his words.

I want to look at you, he’d said last night, and Jessica had gone from feeling rather lusty and a little irritable when he stopped kissing her to something completely different.

Exposed.

Because when Connor O’Rourke looked at her, she felt...different. She wasn’t the type to stop and feel the feelings all the time, because that was dangerous. In that moment she’d felt something she wasn’t used to feeling.

Scared. Just a little bit.

A lot, really.

And then he’d kissed her as if she’d never been kissed before. As if he’d been waiting his whole life to kiss her, as if she was the most precious thing in the world.

Another first.

There was no screwing, as she used to call it back in high school when she was a slut. It wasn’t just a guy looking to get laid and making use of her reputation, a guy she’d be using just as much as he’d be using her. It was something else entirely with Connor O’Rourke, giving and hot and sweet and just dirty enough and then sweet again, and he’d smile at her, and that smile slid like a hot knife right through to her unprotected heart.

This was not screwing as Jessica knew it. The feelings were not feelings she’d had before. Oh, sure, she’d...well, she’d done plenty back in the day. But it had always been hard to turn off her brain. Sex was never just sex, of course. She’d always had an agenda before, with the possible exception of Levi Cooper, who had always been a friend with benefits and nothing more—or less.

So this was another first. Inviting Connor up...just because... She’d never done anything like that before.

Even last night, it hadn’t been easy. There was no reason to sleep with Connor other than the fact that, as he’d walked away from her last night, she hadn’t wanted him to go.

I want to look at you.

Just the memory of those words made her chest feel tight. Because when he looked at her, she didn’t feel like Jessica Does at all.

She felt new.

It was scary, and it was exhilarating, and Connor knew what he was doing, and he could kiss, and he knew where to touch, and he wouldn’t hurry, but when he was finally on top of her, and they were finally together, she came to the edge...and stopped, hanging there, stuck.

And then he used his words again. “Trust me,” he’d whispered against her mouth, and she was gone, lifted on a wave of purple and red with flashes of white, a feeling of her body not being her own, and being held safe at the same time.

Another first. The trust part. The safe feeling.

What to do now was a complete and utter mystery. Should she get up? Should she move closer to him? This bed was enormous. Brush her teeth? Call for coffee? Hide?

Connor took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Turned his head to look at her.

“Hey,” she said.

He didn’t speak. Just gave her a sleepy smile that made her girl parts tighten and thrum. He reached out and took a piece of her hair between his fingers. “Hey, Jessica Does,” he said.

Her heart stopped. She felt it crack the second before it was abruptly encased in ice.

“Oh, shit,” he said, bolting upright. “I did not mean that.”

“Time for you to go,” she said, and her voice was calm.

“Jess, I’m sorry. I didn’t— I’m just— I really shouldn’t be allowed to speak without coffee—”

She got out of bed, consciously not taking the comforter with her. So she was naked. So what. He’d seen everything last night. Walking into the bathroom, she kept her breathing calm. No big deal. No big deal. She pulled on the hotel bathrobe and cinched it too tightly around her waist.

No big deal.

“Jessica,” Connor said, standing in the doorway, boxers on. “Please forgive me for that stupid-ass mistake.”

“It’s not really a mistake, though, is it?” she said, picking up her toothbrush. “I put out, as you know. Welcome to the club. Go home and tell the gang another one bites the dust. But at this moment, you need to leave.” She started brushing her teeth, not looking at him.

He came to stand behind her. She stared at her own reflection, not looking at his. “Look, that just...came out,” he said. “I’m not exactly a virgin, either, you know.”

“And now you’ve slept with me, like half our graduating class. You should’ve just asked. The whole dinner thing was unnecessary.”

“Jessica.” There was a reprimand in his voice that infuriated her.

“I have other things to do, Connor. Can you get dressed, please?”

“Okay, since you brought it up, why did you sleep with all those other guys?”

“None of your business. Excuse me.” She pushed him out of the bathroom and closed and locked the door. Checked her reflection again. Normal enough, she thought, though it was sort of like looking at a stranger. Her throat was killing her, clamped tight, impossible to swallow.

Jessica Does.

That fucking name would follow her the rest of her life.

“Jess,” Connor said through the door, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it. It just kind of... It was just a reflex. But last night was—”

She opened the door. “Save it for the next girl, okay? I have to get going. I’m working tonight.”

“I don’t want there to be a next girl. I just want to erase the last five minutes.”

“Too bad you can’t. Take care. Thanks for dinner.”

Then she closed the door again, locked it and turned on the shower.

* * *

WHEN SHE GOT home that day, her brother was sitting on the steps, waiting for her. “Was it fun?” he asked as she stopped to hug him and pet Chico Two. “Did you eat room service?”

“I did,” she lied. The truth was, she’d fled right after her shower, as soon as she was sure Connor had left. “I brought you the little shampoos and bath stuff. They smell really good. Wait till you take your shower tonight.” Davey hated showers; maybe the new stuff would entice him into cleanliness.

See? She was back to normal, thinking about her brother. She went into her bedroom.

There was a bouquet of flowers on her bed.

“The truck man said these were for you,” Davey said. “They smell nice.”

Irises and roses and a fat lily and a bunch of other flowers she didn’t recognize. They were just about the prettiest things she’d ever seen, a riot of purple and pink and red.

The card said, Please forgive me. No signature.

“Why don’t you give them to Mom?” she asked her brother, ruffling his soft hair. “I have to run.”

* * *

AT LEAST HE couldn’t call her. Jess was so, so glad Connor didn’t have her phone number. He sent a note, but she tossed it. And for the next couple of months, she did what she did best—she didn’t think about something that was too painful to think about. She just worked. At Christmastime, his entire family came into Hugo’s, which opened for the holidays. And yes, her stomach flipped when she saw them. But hey. She was a waitress; they were her customers. Nothing else. “Hello, Clan O’Rourke,” she said amiably. “How’s everyone tonight?”

“Pull up a chair and chat with us, Jess,” Colleen said.

“We’re really busy, but thanks,” Jessica said. It wasn’t a lie. She passed out the menus, took drink orders and checked on her other patrons.

About halfway through their dinners, Abby Vanderbeek spilled her root beer for the second time that night, and Jess mopped up the table, had Felicia get the kid another pop, then went to the bathroom to wash her hands. When she came out, Connor was standing there.

“Jess, I’d really like to explain my idiot comment,” he said.

“No explanation necessary,” she said. Gave him a noncommittal smile, the one that she’d been using since forever, the don’t worry, I’ve got this, everything’s fine, no hard feelings smile that made her face ache.

“So a one-word mistake has ruined any chance I might’ve had with you forever.”

It wasn’t a one-word mistake, she wanted to say. It was my reputation, it was “Jessica Does Anyone,” it was “That white-trash Jessica,” it was my entire past when I’d already told you that this was my chance, my one chance, to be someone other than that stupid, slutty Jessica Does. “Don’t be melodramatic, okay? It was a fun night, and it’s over.”

“I would really like to see you again.”

“Sorry.” She let that sit a beat, then added, “I have to get back to work now.”

His eyes narrowed. “Okay, Jess. It’s your call.”

“Yes. It is. Happy holidays.” It was as bland as she could possibly get, and it worked.

After all, he deserved bland. That smile, those eyes, his kisses...those were just tricks to get her into bed, and boy, did they work. There’d been candles and dessert and a beautiful hotel, and Connor had figured Why not? Jessica puts out. This is an easy lay just waiting to happen.

And she played right along, had been Jessica Does again to him and to herself.

It would’ve been stupid to forget it.

And no one had ever called her Jessica Dumb.

CHAPTER FIVE

Eight and a half years before the proposal...

THE SECOND TIME Connor and Jessica hooked up was almost exactly two years after the ill-fated first time.

In the time that passed, Connor had surprised himself by moving back home. While at the Culinary Institute, he’d traveled quite a bit—internships in France, Miami and then a prestigious stint at the only restaurant in Manhattan ever to earn three Michelin stars. And while he learned immeasurably, the big, glitzy restaurant scene wasn’t for him. Food presentation bordered on the ridiculous...filet mignon topped with a circle of half-inch, precisely cut white and green asparagus tips arranged in a yin-yang symbol; symmetrical dollops of red beet paste making a half circle around a brick of polenta with the restaurant logo branded onto it.

The food was amazing, but it wasn’t the type Connor wanted to make. He wanted to make ordinary food taste extraordinary. It was all about flavor and the experience. Happiness should be part of the meal, and at Vue des Anges, where dinner for two could easily cost more than $500, there weren’t a lot of happy patrons. Snobby patrons, definitely. Patrons trying to impress their companions. Bored patrons, sullen patrons, patrons a little stressed by the high-pressure dining experience.

What he wanted, especially now, was a place for normal people. A place that served perfect meals without the pressure. Lasagna made with veal and pork and cream and four kinds of cheese and homemade pasta—not fussy, not ridiculous...just perfect, thoughtful, fantastic. Yes, they’d serve hamburgers, which would probably enrage Etienne, his former boss, but hamburgers made with Angus beef and shallots and flat-leafed parsley and garlic-infused butter. His sister’s weakness, nachos, served with Cotija cheese and wafer-thin slices of radishes and charred tomatillo salsa.

A place that was home in a way that his own home had never really been.

On the surface, the O’Rourkes had always seemed like the classic American family—two kids, two cars, parents who were still married.

Underneath, though, ran a tension that only Connor felt. Well. Connor and his father.

Connor had never felt particularly close to his father, ever. The dog bite had only cemented that feeling. Pete O’Rourke was too busy being Manningsport’s answer to Donald Trump. Growing up, Colleen had always been Daddy’s little girl, the more outgoing twin, always with some funny, fast remark, always getting attention. She could do no wrong in their father’s eyes. Her grades weren’t as good as Connor’s, but Dad never seemed to notice or mind... Collie was never told to study harder or help their mother more. She was simply adored.

And Connor was largely ignored, except when they were out in public. Then it was Pete and his gorgeous kids, leave it to Pete to have twins, weren’t they just great, good-looking kids, both of them, and on and on and on.

Jeanette, their mom, thought Dad walked on water, never minding his slight, and not-so-slight, condescension toward her, his long workdays and lack of reciprocity in the affection or praise departments. No, the O’Rourkes were a sitcom family, starring Dad as The Hardworking Businessman; Colleen, the Sassy and Beautiful Daughter; Mom with a supporting role as Slightly Dim Housewife; and Connor as...

As not that much. As Colleen’s twin. Barely a walk-on role, at least in his father’s eyes. No matter what, Connor always seemed to disappoint his father, and somewhere along the line, he’d stopped trying. Mom was so grateful for any affection or attention that Connor made a point of being her ally, complimenting her when she got dressed up, because his father always had some not-quite-nice comment for her, or watching a TV show with her, rather than have her sitting in the living room, alone.

Connor knew his father was something of a slimy businessman not above some questionable business deals. Pete used money and influence and favor-trading to get his way.

And Connor knew his father cheated on his mom...at least, he strongly suspected it. When he was fifteen, he’d been walking past an empty storefront Dad owned, and there was his father, kissing a much younger woman.

Connor wasn’t an idiot. He knew grown men didn’t kiss a woman without hoping to go all the way. And the woman sure didn’t seem to mind. For weeks afterward, Connor gave his father the cold shoulder...not that his father noticed or cared.

Just before Connor and Colleen had graduated college, their father had announced that he was leaving their mother for his girlfriend. The fact that he even had a girlfriend had shocked Colleen and Mom.

It hadn’t shocked Connor.

However, Dad’s piece on the side was pregnant...and that was a shock.

Mom fell apart. Colleen, too, was struggling; not only was her image of their father utterly smashed, but she’d dumped her longtime boyfriend and had been walking around like a ghost all summer.

And then Connor got the call from Sherry Wong, who was the commercial loans director at the local bank, and whom Connor had taken to the prom. The Black Cat, a nasty, run-down bar right on the Manningsport green, had gone into bankruptcy. She’d heard that Connor was a chef... Any chance he might want to buy it?

There was. The building was his before it even went on the market, in a move that surprised and displeased his father, who seemed to own every other commercial building in town.

His maternal grandmother had died the year before and had left him and Colleen each a sizeable nest egg. Con asked his twin if she wanted to be half owner, and she was game. All of August and September, they overhauled the place, sanding the old maple-plank floors, spending an entire day driving to a salvage yard in New Hampshire to buy a gorgeous old bar, hammering and sawing and keeping each other company as their mom fell apart and Gail “the Tail” Chianese—who was a whole four years older than they were—gestated their half sibling.

Oddly enough, it was good to be back. While Connor never quite imagined settling down in his hometown, it felt right. Manningsport was as beautiful a town as they came, perched at the base of Keuka Lake, surrounded by hills and farms-turned-vineyards, filled with families who went back generations. Three seasons a year, the tourists flocked in to taste wine and exclaim over the quaintness of the village, filled with shops and a really good bakery and Hugo’s French Restaurant.

And now, there’d be O’Rourke’s. Colleen came up with the simple name and message—You’re very welcome here. It would be the only restaurant open year-round, and in that way, it would give the residents of Manningsport a place to gather in the long, cold winter months. Connor would run the kitchen with the help of Rafe, a less-ambitious friend from the Institute who was happy to live in wine country and work as a sous-chef. Colleen would manage the place and bartend. Two of their cousins asked if they could waitress. In fact, forty-nine people applied to work there.

Jessica Dunn was not one of them. Connor had half hoped she’d be interested, but while she continued to treat him politely if they crossed paths, that was it. The three feet away face was always in place.

On a Wednesday night in October while Connor was alone at the restaurant, bolting booths to the wall, Colleen called him. “We have a sister,” she said, her voice husky. “Savannah Joy, eight pounds, two ounces. I’m going to the hospital. Wanna come?”

He paused. It was nine o’clock, and he was sweaty and grimy. “No. I’ll go tomorrow. Uh...everyone’s healthy?”

“Yep. That’s what Dad said.” His sister was silent. He knew what she was thinking. You won’t make the baby grow up lonely, will you? Just because Dad’s an asshole?

Give me some credit. “A sister. That’s nice. Hopefully, she’s not as ugly as you are, Collie Dog-Face.”

“Me? You’re the one who’s so ugly, you have to put a bag on your head to get the dog to hump your leg.”

“Do you still own a mirror, or did that get too sad?”

“You know what, Con? You’ll never be the man our mother is.”

That one always got him. He laughed. “You win.”

“I always do.”

He rolled his eyes. “And yet you work for me.”

“Ha! Brother mine, you work for me.”

“Keep telling yourself that. I’m hanging up now because you’re annoying me.”

“How?”

“By breathing.” He paused. “You gonna tell Mom about the baby, or am I?”

“I will, coward. I live with her, after all.” It was true. In a glorious spasm of Catholic martyrdom, Colleen had moved back in with their mother. Connor, who felt this only proved he was the smarter sibling, lived in the tiny attic apartment above the bar.

He rubbed his eyes. “Tell them I said...” He sighed. “I guess congratulations. Tell Gail, anyway.” He almost felt sorry for Gail. Almost.

“Tell them yourself, dumbass. Love you, even when I hate you.”

“Ditto.”

He hung up the phone.

A baby sister, just shy of twenty-three years younger than Connor and Colleen.

Christ.

He went upstairs and took a shower. The apartment wasn’t much; stifling hot in the summer, and soon to be freezing cold, but it was fine for a single guy who worked a lot. A futon couch, a chair, a TV, a bed and several crates of books. When the restaurant was turning a profit, he’d look into buying a house.

He pulled on some clean jeans and a T-shirt and briefly contemplated visiting his mother. She’d be a wreck about this, the poor thing. She still held out hope that Pete would see the error of his ways and come home again.

That wasn’t going to happen. Everyone could see it except Mom.

And while Connor had known his father was cheating, he sure hadn’t pictured Gail the Tail as his stepmother. Pete had married her nine days ago, the day after his divorce was final.

He grabbed his motorcycle helmet and went out. Yeah, yeah, he owned a motorcycle. The gas mileage couldn’t be beat. Colleen called him a cliché, but so what? It was fun. He had a small pickup truck for winter.

Where he was headed, he wasn’t quite sure. The area didn’t offer too many places for anonymity, and that was exactly what Connor wanted. A place to sit in the dark, have a beer and not think.

He thought about calling someone to join him—one of his high school pals, maybe. Levi Cooper was on leave from Afghanistan, and Big Frankie Pepitone was always up for a beer. Then he opted against it. Solitude was the order of the night. He was Irish—brooding was the song of his people. Colleen would kick him into a good mood tomorrow, as he’d been kicking her for the past few months.

His Honda purred its way up the Hill and along the lake. Penn Yan wasn’t far; maybe something would be open there. The wind was clean and cold, and his thoughts focused on driving.

The dark miles blurred past, the quiet engine of the bike soothing.

Up ahead was a cement building that every male in a fifty-mile radius visited at least once in a lifetime: Skylar’s VIP Lounge.

A strip club, in other words.

Perfect. Beer and boobs.

Connor went in. He’d been here for a bachelor party last year, and it was exactly what you’d expect. Crappy drinks, worse food, health department violations by the dozen and nearly naked women, a few of them even good-looking.

The place was mostly empty tonight, a few men sitting around the runway. The requisite pole was being humped by a very lithe and extremely overweight woman in a glittery Wonder Woman outfit, who kept flipping off the customers. It was Tuesday; Connor guessed the management saved the under-fifty strippers for the weekend.

Connor took a seat, ordered a Sam Adams (bottled, so as to avoid having to use a glass from the kitchen). The waitress brought it, and he took a pull. Wonder Woman looked familiar.

“I can’t believe you’re still stripping,” one of the guys down in front said. “A little long in the tooth, aren’t you?”

“Take a bite, Ernie. If your dentures are in, that is,” said the stripper. “And you,” she said to another guy. “Give me a tip or I’m kicking over your beer. You think my job is easy?”

Mrs. Adamson. That was it. Her son had been a year ahead of him in school.

Connor took another sip of his drink.

A baby sister. Savannah Joy.

He’d look after her. Poor kid, with those two morally bankrupt assholes as parents. Yeah. He and Colleen would make sure Savannah turned out okay.

A small part of him, though, couldn’t help feeling just a little more invisible.

At least he wasn’t eleven, hoping for a few crumbs of his father’s approval.

And a little sister...that might even be fun. He could teach her to play baseball and cook.

The beer was mellowing him. Colleen always laughed about what a lightweight he was.

“Let’s hear it for Athena, Goddess of the Hunt,” said the DJ. Connor frowned. She was supposed to be Wonder Woman, after all. Costume aside, he’d have to leave her a tip, and a good one. She’d made the best cookies, back in the day.

“When do the women start?” called one of the runway patrons.

“You people suck,” said the stripper, walking off the stage.

“Making her debut tonight, please welcome the beautiful Jezebel,” said the DJ. “Take It Off” by Kiss started up—not the most imaginative song. Connor reached for his wallet. Time to head off before his old catechism teacher showed up.

Then, onto the runway, wearing very high heels and a microscopic bikini, came Jessica Dunn.

Connor froze, his wallet halfway out of his back pocket.

She wobbled down the runway, then stopped.

She was shaking.

“Now we’re talking,” said Ernie. “Go ahead, sweetheart, start dancing.”

She tried. She took a few steps, looking like a little kid. A bob. A bend of her knees. Step to the left. Step to the right.

From behind her, Athena, Goddess of The Hunt, called out, “Try a hair toss, hon!”

Jess tried. It wasn’t hot. It looked like she wrenched her neck. Another knee bob.

“Grab the pole. It’ll help,” said Athena.

“Yeah, sweetheart, just wrap yourself around the pole. We don’t need a lot,” said Ernie.

Connor closed his mouth. He was fairly sure Jess hadn’t seen him, because she was looking straight ahead, as if staring down the angel of death. She had on a ton of eye makeup and red, red lipstick, and Connor had the sudden flash that as exposed as she was, she was trying to hide herself.

“Relax!” called Athena. “You got this!”

She really didn’t. She held on to the pole with both hands, like she was strangling it, and shuffled her feet, her ankle wobbling in the heels.

All that perfect skin, those long legs, the gorgeous body, her breasts barely covered by the tiny scraps of fabric.

Connor suddenly wished he had a blanket.

One of the men held up a bill. “Bend over, doll. Do you do lap dances, by the way?”

Connor was on his feet before he realized he was moving, but Jess had already turned, bolting down the runway and behind the curtain.

“Nice. You scared her to death, assholes,” Mrs. Adamson called with a hearty double-fisted salute.

“Last call,” said the bartender.

Connor jumped lightly onto the runway and followed Jess. No one stopped him, so he went behind the curtain.

There was a little hallway that led to the bar on one end, a small room (closet, more like it) on the other. Mrs. Adamson was talking to someone in the bar and barely flicked an eyelid at Connor.

The dressing room door was slightly ajar. Con opened it a little more.

There she was, face in her hands.

“So rhythm isn’t really your thing,” Connor said, leaning in the doorway, and she jumped out of her chair like he’d tazed her.

“Shit.” She grabbed her jeans and flannel shirt. “What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling on her clothes. She dashed her arm across her eyes.

“I’m a scout for Dancing with the Stars. Sorry, we’ve had to rule you out.” He smiled.

Her eyes flickered, then she shrugged, her face neutral. “I needed some extra money.”

“Really? It’s not your dream to be a stripper?”

“Shut up.” She might’ve been thinking about smiling. He was almost sure of it.

“So, Jess,” Mrs. Adamson said, thundering down the hall. “You’re fired. Sorry, kid. Stripping’s not for everyone.”

“You were quite good, though, Mrs. Adamson,” Connor said. He handed her a twenty.

“Oh, Connor O’Rourke! Look at you, all grown up! Thanks, sweetheart.” She pinched his cheek and took the cash. “We’re closing. Off you go, kids.” She strutted back down the hall, the floor trembling under her weight.

Jessica tied her hair into a ponytail with a smooth, quick movement. “So you go to strip clubs a lot?” she said.

“No. This is my second time.”

“Why tonight? You stalking me?”

“Not consciously.” He looked at her for a long minute, taking in the fact that she was jamming things into her bag, moving as fast as she could. “That was really brave, Jess.”

She looked up sharply.

“And I won’t tell anyone.”

Her gaze dropped back to her bag. “Thanks.”

“You want to get a drink?”

“It’s almost eleven. Nowhere’s open.”

“O’Rourke’s might be. I know the owner.”

She hesitated, then met his eyes. “I could use a drink. Which is probably why I shouldn’t have one.”

“How about a Coke, then?”

She nodded.

The fresh air was welcome after the beer-scented fog of the club. Connor waited till Jess got into her car. She turned the key, but there was only a click. “This night seems to be cursed. Can you give me a jump?”

“I only have my bike.” He gestured to his motorcycle. “I’ll give you a ride home, though. After your Coke.”

She got out of the car. He took off his leather jacket and handed it to her.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

“Put it on. This, too.” He gave her the helmet, and after a second, she did what he asked.

Mentally thanking the gods that had chosen this night for her battery to die, Connor got on the bike. Jess climbed on behind him and put her arms around his waist.

Driving through the dark, Jessica pressed against his back, was about the best thing that had happened to Connor in years. The drive had seemed long on the way out; now, it was way too short.

He parked the bike behind O’Rourke’s, then unlocked the door. “It’s not quite finished yet,” he said needlessly, turning on just the light behind the bar.

Jessica slid out of his coat and put the helmet on the bar.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. She took a long look around, then ran her hand over the bar. “You’re gonna put a dent in Hugo’s business, that’s for sure.”

“Well. It’s...it’s just a pub.”

“Looks like a lot more than that to me.”

Connor saw it through her eyes—the U-shaped bar, the booths with the carefully chosen lighting and comfortable leather seats, the tables that he’d paid extra for so they wouldn’t wobble, unlike 98% of all restaurant tables everywhere. The wide-planked floor and tin ceiling, the amber lights that hung over the bar.

Hopefully, yes, it would be a lot more than a pub.

Jess went to sit down on one of the stools, then stopped. “You live upstairs, right?”

“Right.” His residence wasn’t a secret, but he was surprised Jess knew.

“Would it be all right if I took a shower?” Her voice was businesslike, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah, of course. Right this way.” He brought her upstairs, abruptly wishing his place didn’t look like a dorm room. He got a clean towel and handed it to her, feeling awkward. “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs.”

He went back down, trying not to think about the fact that Jessica Dunn was taking off her clothes in his apartment. Stepping into his shower. Naked. Wet. Soap suds streaming down her long, smooth—

“Snap out of it,” he muttered to himself.

He went into the kitchen, since the kitchen was where he did his best thinking.

He didn’t know too much about what Jess had been doing these past two years. She was still at Hugo’s, he knew that. Lived with her brother in a little house over near the factory, at the very edge of the residential part of town, where the houses were covered in sagging vinyl siding and the sidewalks were cracked.

A neighborhood that was far better than the trailer park.

He broke three eggs into a bowl and started whisking. Chopped some parsley and cilantro, hoping Jess wasn’t one of those people who hated cilantro. Got out the nonstick frying pan that had cost a fortune, turned on the gas and put a dollop of butter into the pan. As it melted, he opened the cupboard where he’d already arranged his salt collection, chose some Peruvian sea salt and added a few flakes, waiting till they dissolved. Sliced two hearty pieces of the peasant bread he’d bought from the Mennonite market that morning and put them in the toaster.

Above his head, he heard the shower turn off.

He told himself that he shouldn’t be so happy that tonight had been an utter failure for her, that her car was a piece of crap.

He could still feel her arms around his waist from the ride here.

He added a quarter cup of heavy cream to the eggs and whisked gently. Poured it into the pan, added the herbs and ground in some Tellicherry black pepper, waited twenty seconds, then began folding the eggs gently. Buttered the toast, plated the eggs, added a sprig of parsley and brought it out, just as she came into the bar.

The makeup from earlier was gone, and her wet hair looked darker, pulled back into its ponytail.

She looked about fifteen years old, except for the way she filled out her clothes.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said.

“I know. Would you like a glass of wine instead of that Coke?”

She hesitated. “Okay. Just a small one.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t care.”

“Now, now. You took my class. I expect better from you.”

She sat at the bar and smiled a little. “Fine. A fumé blanc?”

“An excellent choice.” He winked at her and poured her a six-ounce glass. One for himself, too, so she wouldn’t be drinking alone, then sat down next to her.

“You’re not eating?” she asked.

“Not right now. I’m just a voyeur.”

“Pervert.” She smiled slightly, then took a bite of the eggs. “Oh, my God, these are incredible,” she said, closing her eyes. “Are they really just scrambled eggs?”

Her eyelashes were dark brown and feathery. “Thanks,” he managed. “Uh, yeah.”

Watching her eat made his chest hurt from happiness. Her hands were efficient and neat, and she savored the food, really tasting it, not like some people, like Colleen, who ate like a starving coyote; not like his mother, who ate with the careful rhythm of a chronic dieter and then binge-ate junk food later.

No. Jessica tasted. She savored. Her tongue slipped out to lick a little crumb of toast from the corner of her pink mouth, and when she swallowed, he had to look away. He took a pull of his wine or beer or orange soda or whatever the hell he was drinking. It was cold. He should probably pour it in his lap.

“So I figured stripping would be easy money,” she said, and he looked back. She was talking to her glass, apparently, because she didn’t make eye contact. “There’s this new medicine they’re trying for kids with fetal alcohol syndrome, and it’s expensive, and of course Medicaid doesn’t cover it.”

“What kind of medicine?”

“It’s something to help with impulse control and outbursts. This bread is fantastic, too.”

“The Mennonite market.”

“Right. Anyway, I figured I could strip for a few months and pay for it. It was harder than I thought.” She took the last bite of eggs and wiped her mouth with the napkin. “Those were the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever had. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused. “Jess, I could always—”

“No. But I appreciate the offer.”

Sure, he’d been about to offer her money. Who wouldn’t? “Do you want to pick up some shifts here?”

“No, but again, thank you. I have a job. And another job, too, actually.”

“Okay.” If she didn’t want to work for him, well...he got that. She’d always been proud.

She sipped her wine, then set the glass down, her movements controlled and precise. Now came the moment that she’d thank him and leave.

She didn’t. “How are things with you, Connor?”

The ordinary question sounded extraordinarily intimate, given the amber lighting and the late hour. “Well,” he said, “I’m a big brother. My father and his new wife had a baby girl tonight.”

“Wow. Congratulations.”

“Yeah. My dad’s been divorced from my mom for ten days. Married to Gail for nine.”

“Speedy.”

“He didn’t want the family honor stained by bastardization.”

Jess laughed. “Interesting definition of family honor. Not that I’m one to talk.”

“I’d say you know quite a bit on the subject.”

She swallowed. Took another sip of wine, and put the glass back down exactly in the spot it was in before.

“Are your parents still married?” he asked, more because he was afraid she was going to leave than because it mattered.

“Yep.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“That’s not the word that leaps to mind. At least I got Davey out of there. My father thinks it’s funny to get him drunk, and my mom was teaching him to make cocktails.”

Jesus. His own father didn’t seem so bad, suddenly. “You’re an awfully good sister.”

She gave him a wry smile. “So I’m brave, I’m honorable, I’m a good sister... Where’s my Nobel Prize?”

“You’re also incredibly beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes. “Freak of genetics.”

So mentioning her looks was off-limits. “And smart.”

“I almost flunked out of high school, Connor.”

“Good grades don’t mean much. I was valedictorian, and I’m a cook.”

“I thought Jeremy Lyon was valedictorian.”

“No. Salutatorian.”

“You sure? Jeremy’s so perfect. I can’t see you beating him out there.”

Fucking Jeremy. Every female in town, from Connor’s own mother to his three-year-old cousin, was hung up on him. Oh, hang on. Jess was smiling. She was teasing him. Got it.

She was finished with her meal, and had drunk half her wine. But she wasn’t making any noises about leaving, either.

Connor had had a few girlfriends in the two years since they’d slept together. Two. He’d had two. One and a half, really. No one who’d really...impacted him, as much as he would’ve liked that.

Not like Jess.

He looked at her a long minute. “Remember when we, uh...hooked up? When you came to the Institute for that class?”

“No, Connor, you were just another notch on my bedpost.” She straightened out her fork and knife to the three o’clock position on the plate. “Yes. Of course I remember.”

“I didn’t sleep with you because of what you said, you know.”

“What did I say?”

“That I slept with you because I could. Because you were Jessica Does.”

“But that is the name you used.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, still keeping up with the cool-chick-with-an-edge attitude.

“It just...came out.” A crap answer, and yet the truth. That stupid name had been given to her young, and it had been liberally used throughout high school. Jess herself had used it.

“So why did we sleep together?” she asked.

“Is ‘because we’re both red-blooded American heterosexuals’ a good enough answer?”

The corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. “I mean, why did you bother? I’m guessing you have to beat the women off with a club.”

“Some days, sure. I try not to be too rough.”

“So why me, then?”

Was she serious? “I liked the way you ate dessert.” No game, he had absolutely no game. “And you smell nice.” Proof of his sorry, no-game state.

“Right now I smell like Irish Spring. You’re really living the cliché on that one, by the way.”

“A present from Colleen.”

“Ah. Well, most of the time, I smell like restaurant food and other people’s wine and whatever Davey’s wiped on me.”

“I like food. And wine. Not sure about what Davey’s wiping, so I’ll have to stay neutral on that. But you and I have a lot in common, Jess. We both work in restaurants—”

“Don’t. You’re a Culinary Institute–trained chef who has his own restaurant at the age of twenty-three. I’m a waitress.”

“So? It’s hard to be a good waitress.”

“It’s really not,” she said.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you. I bet you’re a horrible waitress.”

“Just stop saying nice things.”

“Okay. You’re a really shitty dancer.”

She laughed.

She didn’t laugh enough. Or maybe she did, but he didn’t get to hear it enough.

“And your outfit had no imagination,” he added. “Mrs. Adamson, at least she tried.”

Jessica Dunn laughed again.

Before he’d really planned on it, he leaned in, slid his hand around her neck and kissed her as gently as he knew how. Her lips were soft and full, and he was an addict, just like that, not just wanting to kiss her, but needing it like he needed breathing.

Then she kissed him back, and light seemed to spark through his veins, hot and electric, and God, she felt so good, her slender, vulnerable neck, the silky, damp hairs there. He teased her mouth open and tasted her, and she was suddenly gripping his shirt in both hands.

He probably shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe this was...uh...what was the phrase? It was hard to think with his mouth against hers, their tongues sliding...

Oh. Right. Taking advantage.

He pulled back. Ran his fingertips along her jaw, the tender, smooth flesh just below.

Her pupils were dilated, making her eyes look darker, and her mouth was slightly open.

And then, just like that, she was back to the three-feet-away zone. Without so much of a flicker of an eyelash, the wall came down.

Someday, he was going to figure her out.

“Connor,” she said calmly, “you don’t want to sleep with a stripper.”

“You’re not a stripper. You got fired.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. Twice. The Irish Spring smelled better on her.

She swallowed. “I should get back to Davey.” But she didn’t leave, either. And she was staring straight ahead, at his chest, not at his face. It was as though she was waiting for him to convince her otherwise.

In fact, it was almost like she was shy.

Jessica Dunn, who’d beaten up boys twice her size in middle school, then slept with most of them in high school, and yet who also seemed like an ice princess, totally untouchable...seemed shy. Even if her tongue had been in his mouth a few seconds ago, even if his shirt had been fisted in her hands.

She liked him. He was almost sure of it.

He wanted to say a hundred things, about taking care of her, and wanting her so much he ached, and how his chest felt punched when she came out onto that runway tonight, and how if he didn’t kiss her again, fast, it might kill him, and if he couldn’t sleep with her again, it would definitely kill him.

“Who stays with Davey when you’re out?” he asked instead, his voice a little hoarse.

“Gerard Chartier. They’re the same mental age.”

“Can Gerard stay a little longer?”

There was a long pause, and Jessica was very still, and Connor’s whole being clenched with wanting, with hope, with please say yes.

She nodded.

Connor didn’t wait. He stood up, lifted her onto the bar and kissed her, a different kiss this time, hungry and full, his tongue against hers, his hand pulling out her ponytail and sliding his fingers through her long, damp hair.

She wrapped her legs around him and kissed him back, and that thrum of electricity became a lightning storm of white heat, and all that mattered was Jessica, her mouth, her neck, the shoulder blades that shifted under his hands, her long, beautiful spine and perfect ass.

He stopped kissing her for a second. “I live upstairs,” he muttered against her neck.

She answered with a little smile, and that smile, it just killed him. “I guess I should walk you home, then.”

Rather than let her walk him anywhere, he just lifted her up and carried her up the rickety stairs to his apartment, kissing her as he did. Kicked open his door, set her down and started on the buttons of her shirt, kissing her neck as he worked. His hand seemed to be cupping her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipple hardened against his palm, and there it was, that blinding, stunning flash of want.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait. Hang on.” She pulled back a little, gripping his hands in hers. “This has to be a secret, okay? Because Davey will... He might... You know.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Right now she could’ve said You have to cut off your right arm before we do this, and he would’ve answered Hey, not a problem! “Don’t worry. We can take it slow.” Slow. And fast. And hard. And—

“I don’t want your sister to be—”

“Nope. Me neither.” Because Colleen would be insufferable if she knew.

Jess looked at him, and for the first time all night, she really looked at him, and Connor got the impression it wasn’t easy.

Then she reached up and touched the scar on his cheek, and her fingertips slid down to the place under his jaw that dented in. The scars from Chico, all those years ago.

“Take me to bed,” she whispered, and Connor couldn’t help thinking that God did exist and was smiling on him for no good reason.

He’d take it. He’d take anything Jessica Dunn and the universe saw fit to give him.

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