Copyright © 2025 REGRETFULLY YOURS, CAIN by Maya Alden

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or

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written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.

CONTENTS

Story Description

Trigger Warning

1. Morning After

2. The Nightmare Begins

3. Believe It Or Not

4. Burn It All Down

5. Prisoner

6. There is No Evidence

7. Homeless

8. The Weight Of Warmth

9. A Sturdy Rock Bottom

10. What They Say, What I Know

11. What’s Left Of Her

12. Nothing To Give

13. The Truth You Buried

14. You’re On Your Own

15. Not Yours To Fix

16. A Hollow Apology

17. The Case For Staying

18. Bar Confessions

19. Regretfully Yours, Cain

20. Sweet Thing

21. Just No!

22. Come Inside

23. I’m Ready

24. Velvet Knives

25. Everything We Never Said

26. Back To Hurt

27. Fire Doesn’t Flinch

28. Weight Of Justice

29. The Last Line

30. Giving Thanks

31. The Quiet Yes

She’s Like The Wind

1. Gage

2. Naomi

Best In Class

1. Dom

2. Luna

The Mountain Echoes

1. Aria

2. Maverick

Also by Maya Alden

About the Author

STORY DESCRIPTION

REGRETFULLY YOURS, CAIN

She trusted him with her heart—he repaid her with handcuffs.

When Faith Baker takes a job at Cain Ripley's restaurant in small-town Oregon,
sparks fly—and so does the cash drawer. Accused of stealing, Faith is arrested,
humiliated, and betrayed by the man she trusted most.

Cain says he’ll drop the charges if she returns the money. Only one problem: she
doesn’t have it, because she didn't take it.

As Faith's name is dragged through the mud and her future crumbles, Cain clings to
his version of the truth—until a deeper betrayal is uncovered.

But it may be too late; Faith is not the same woman Cain wronged, and forgiveness
has a price.

Cain is part of Regretfully Yours, a short-story series, and includes your favorite
tropes:

Second Chance

Small Town

Wrongly Accused

Other Woman Drama

Betrayal & Grovel

Short Story/Novella (35k words)

Trigger warning: This story contains depictions of domestic abuse, including

physical violence, emotional manipulation, and references to past trauma and
assault. Scenes involving memories of past beatings, gaslighting, and psychological
distress are portrayed in the context of the main character’s recovery journey. If
these topics trigger, please do not read this book. Your mental health and well-
being are important, and I request that you take care of yourself.

TRIGGER WARNING
Dear Reader,

This story contains content that may be distressing to some readers, including
graphic and emotional depictions of domestic violence, intimate partner abuse, and
post-traumatic recovery.

The story explores themes such as physical assault, emotional manipulation,

psychological trauma, gaslighting, and the long-term impact of abuse on identity
and trust.

Since the heroine’s past is an integral part of her emotional journey, scenes
involving her trauma, including memories of past beatings and moments of triggered
fear, are woven throughout the narrative. They do not occur in isolated or clearly
marked chapters. The pain she carries is central to her arc and is revealed
gradually, as it is for her. For this reason, specific chapter-by-chapter warnings
are not going to be tenable.

If you find such topics difficult or triggering, please prioritize your well-being
and consider whether this book is right for you at this time. In fact, I recommend
you pass on this book and read some of my others.

This story is, at its core, about survival, resilience, and healing from abuse—and
the path to that healing is not gentle or clean.

To those who choose to read, I thank you for trusting me with your time and heart.

—Maya Alden

MORNING AFTER

FAITH

Iwake up to the weight of his arm draped across my waist. Heavy. Warm. Like it
belongs there.

Sunlight filters through the curtains, painting lazy golden lines across Cain’s
bare chest. The sheet is tangled low around his hips.

I can’t believe I’m in his bed. My boss’s bed.

I flush at the thought.

Last night was special. The best night of my life. And that isn’t hyperbole.
His fingers trace my skin with reverence, over the scars he can’t see or feel.

“Are you sure, sweet thing?” Cain whispers, his breath warm against my neck, those
kind blue eyes searching mine for any hesitation.

I nod, unable to find words as my heart hammers against my ribcage. It's been so
long since I've been touched without flinching, since I've invited someone into
this space—my body, my broken places.

“We can stop anytime,” he promises, brushing a strand of hair from my face with
such gentleness that tears spring to my eyes.

“I don't want to stop,” I whisper back, surprising myself with the certainty in my
voice, my heart.

When his lips meet mine, there's no demand, no taking—just an offering. His hands
cradle my face like I'm something precious. I never had that before. Ever.

Now, in the light of the morning when passion isn’t fueling me, I’m so grateful
that he’s here. I didn’t know it could feel like this, a quiet hum of belonging.

His breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck, and I smile again, feeling safe,
warm, whole.

When you grow up in foster care, you don’t have anyone permanent in your life—
everything is transient, transactional.

His hand curls possessively over my stomach. I feel a shiver run through me. The
faint stubble on his jaw brushes my temple when he shifts, murmuring something
half-asleep and unintelligible.

Last night had been something out of a dream.

It isn’t just about the way he touched me—it was that he sees me and still wants
me.

I close my eyes again, letting myself believe this could be the beginning of
something.

That it’s not just lust.

Not just a fling.

Something more.

Something real.

A few hours later, reality snaps its jaws shut.

2
THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS

FAITH

Itie my apron, still walking on air. It’s the best day of my life—because of how it
started.

My heart feels full to bursting.

I work for Cain at his restaurant slash diner, Ripley’s Eat It Or Not. The name is
an ode to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not and fits perfectly with Cain's sense of humor
and this small town’s quirky charm.

Six months ago, after Seattle spat me out broken and bruised, I stumbled into
Silverton, Oregon, population five thousand, hoping to catch my breath. Instead, I
found something more—a safe harbor where I could exhale.

With just two hundred dollars in my pocket, I got off the Greyhound in a town I’d
never heard of before.

My legs were stiff, my back sore, and my heart running on empty.

I had a ticket all the way to Los Angeles—figured I could find work in a city, and
it was far enough away from Seattle.

I wasn’t supposed to get off here or even stay, but when I missed my bus and
decided to get something to eat while I waited for the next bus, I ended up on Main
Street. I was drawn to Ripley’s, thought I could at least get a coffee and maybe a
little something to eat. Spend a few dollars from my stash.

My eyes brightened when I saw the help wanted sign on the door. I ordered coffee
and asked for an application form.

The woman who gave it to me had gentle eyes.

Georgia O’Keeffe, “not the painter,” she joked in her gruff voice.

Then there was the man who came to talk to me after I filled out the application
form. I’d worked in several restaurants and diners in Seattle. I had not mentioned
one place on my application because if they called for references, I didn’t want my
ex to find out where I was.

He gave me the job.

Cain Ripley became my boss first.

Then we became friends because of our shared love for books.

Last night, we made love for the first time.

This morning, he kissed me long and deep before I left his place to change at mine
and come into work.
I have a job. An apartment. And a boyfriend who hasn’t ever raised his voice at me.
One I am certain would never hit me.

I touch the scar above my eyebrow to feel the bump, to remind myself how far I have
come.

Faith Baker is not a victim. She’s happy for the first time in her life.

I’m about to take an order from guests who were just seated when I see two deputies
pushing through the front doors. One of them is Kyle Brewer. He’s Cain’s sister,
Paula’s boyfriend.

I smile and walk to them as there’s no one at the hostess table. “Table for two?”

“Faith Baker?” the older man, the one I don’t know, asks.

“Yes.” I’m confused. Kyle knows who I am.

Kyle nods. “You’re under arrest for theft. Please turn around.”

My heart drops so fast I can’t breathe.

“Sorry—what?” I laugh, except nothing about this feels funny. “Theft? What?”

“Please turn around,” the older one says, his tone bored.

When I don’t because I’m rooted to the floor, Kyle moves in behind me. He cuffs me
with enough force to make my heart thud louder than my thoughts. Cold metal closes
around my wrists. The cuffs bite into my skin. I look wildly around, my voice
cracking.

“Cain!” I cry out.

He comes out of his office, his arms crossed, anger flashing in his eyes.

Was he watching me get arrested and doing nothing about it?

His sister, Paula, stands next to him, venom in her eyes. She smirks at me. She
doesn’t like me. But it never bothered me. It happens. Not all people can like you—
actually, most people don’t, which is why you have to savor and hold onto those who
do.

I look at Cain. I wait for him to say that this is all a stupid mistake, but he
doesn’t.

His eyes are flat. There is no joy in them. No kisses. No affection.

My heart cracks open like a fault line.

“Well, finally,” I hear his sister’s friend Melody snicker as she steps into sight,
right when they’re reading me my Miranda Rights like we’re in an episode of Law &
Order.

Cain’s jaw tightens, his eyes glued to me, enraged.

The deputies guide me roughly from the restaurant. I stumble outside into the
biting air, gasping, disoriented. I don't protest—I can't. I’m too stunned.

They shove me into the patrol car, just like in the movies, by pushing my head
down.

My head stays down.

I’m ashamed. Embarrassed. Confused.

As they shut the door of the patrol car, the metallic click feels like a full stop
to my life.

How can this be happening? Why is this happening?

I coil into myself, like when Jamie used to beat me—because that’s what this feels
like: an assault.

They take me to the Marion County substation, a squat brick building tucked behind
a post office, less than a twenty-minute drive from Silverton. Inside, it smells
like bleach, cheap coffee, and desperation. Death. The end of life as I know it.

There’s a flickering light above the front desk that buzzes like it's dying.

The room I’m put into is a narrow box—a metal table, plastic chairs, and a mirror
that hides more eyes than I want to think about.

The walls are beige, smudged with fingerprints and years of quiet misery.

I focus on the metal table that reflects the glare of fluorescent lights that
murmur overhead like angry insects.

The air is stale, thick with disinfectant and fear. My fear.

They remove the cuffs, but the phantom burn of them lingers on my wrists. I rub
them, slowly, over and over, trying to ground myself, to push away the dizziness
threatening to take me under. My hands are trembling. I curl them into fists and
press them against my jeans, swallowing hard.

“Miss Baker,” Kyle begins coldly, sliding into the chair across from me. “How long
have you lived in Silverton?”

When did I become Miss Baker?

I lick my lips because they are parched. I want water. I want a blanket. I want a
hug. “Six months,” I say hoarsely.

“And how long have you worked at Ripley’s?”

“Six months,” I whisper. He knows I got the job there on the day I came here. I
stayed in a motel for two weeks until I got my first paycheck and then moved into a
studio apartment in the shadiest part of town.

“You can’t live here.” Cain looks horrified seeing where I live.

“Oh, it’s fine. Thanks for the ride.” I scramble out of his car and all but run,
promising myself that I’ll never let him drive me home again.

I don’t have a car, and it’s raining, so he insisted.

I should’ve made an excuse, I admonish myself.

I’m ashamed, embarrassed that my boss now knows how poor I am. I dress as nicely as
I can with the few clothes I was able to bring with me. I’m clean, taking a shower
every day, even when the hot water is shut off, because those are luxuries I have
learned to do without.

I know what he sees—a crumbling building next to an old auto shop at the edge of
Silverton, far away from the cute small-town appeal of Main Street. The walls smell
like oil, and the windows don’t close all the way.

He doesn’t know the half of it—how much worse it is on the inside. A mattress on
the floor, my clothes still packed in a suitcase because there’s nowhere to put
them. The heater rattling like it’s choking on its last breath.

The owner lives in the building and takes advantage of the desperation of the
people who live here, people like me who don’t have a choice.

The older deputy asks me how much money I make and where my bank account is.

They ask me questions about what I did in Seattle. I answer carefully, not
mentioning my ex. I don’t need anyone to connect me to Jamie Da Silva. I don’t know
if he cares that I ran away, but I don’t need him to know where I am.

“You look at another man like that, Faith, and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“You have access to Ripley’s cash register?”

I nod hesitantly. I do. I work there. I’m a waitress.

“You go into Cain’s office?”

I blush. For the past week since we began seeing each other and before we made love
last night, the office is where we kissed, made out, and talked.

“Yes.”

The older man nods. “You know the code for the safe there?”

I frown. “There’s a safe there?”

Kyle looks triumphant. “You don’t know?”

I shake my head.

He smirks. “You fuck him in the office and you’re saying you didn’t see the safe?”

My heart stops. How did they know about Cain and me? We only spent one night
together. Just one, at his place. After all, I can’t take him to mine.

“I…” I’m at a loss for words. I shake my head.

Then the older man drops a bomb. "We have proof you stole ten thousand dollars from
the safe in Cain’s office.”

I’m in shock. I can’t process words.

How many dollars?

A hysterical short laugh bursts out of me. “What?”

“You were seen entering his office last night.”

“What?” I rub my hands on my jeans.

“The code to the safe is written on his planner. You probably saw it when he bent
you over his desk,” Kyle grinds out.

I can’t understand anything they’re saying.

It’s cold in the room. It’s Fall, and the temperature has dropped in Silverton. I’m
just in my Ripley’s T-shirt and jeans. I wrap my hands around my arms and rub. I
try to soothe the goosebumps.

The cops are dressed and wearing jackets and don’t look cold at all.

They want me uncomfortable, I realize, just like in the movies and TV shows.

“Look, it’s simple deduction. You knew the code. You were seen going into his
office. Then the money went missing,” the older deputy explains.

I shake my head. I’m doing that a lot.

“But…I…no.”

“You know, we checked you out.” Kyle leans back, smug. “You stole in Seattle, too,
didn’t you?”

Shame courses through me.

I did steal in Seattle. From Jamie.

I stole three hundred dollars. I had no money. He’d made sure of that. I worked,
and he kept all of it. I cooked, I cleaned at his place, did the laundry,
everything. He made me work for him at his club as a server and kept my pay.

“You need a keeper, Faith.”

I just stare at them as the nightmare of my life—my biggest mistake, one I made
when I was just twenty and suffered for over two years—unfolds again.

“We talked to your boss, Jamie Da Silva.”

“You fucking whore.” Jamie kicks me in my ribs.

I can’t breathe, I can’t move. I am paralyzed by pain.

“He didn’t tell SPD, he says, but he told us.” The younger man runs his tongue over
his teeth.

I’m starting to shake.

Cain, he’ll help me. He’ll see the truth. Cain is not Jamie. He’s nothing like that
monster.

“No,” I whisper, as if that will undo everything. “Please—I need to talk to Cain.”

Kyle leans forward, his mouth a hard line. “You think he wants to talk to a thief
and slut like you? Cain is the one who had your sorry ass arrested.” His voice is
low and threatening. “You’d better start cooperating, or this gets ugly fast.”
I stare at the men in front of me with watery eyes. I feel small, insignificant.

The man who held me just this morning, who kissed me like I was something precious,
thinks I’m a thief.

Shock numbs my limbs. My chest is hollow. And somewhere in the pit of that growing
emptiness, I know this: the small, fragile happiness I'd dared to grasp has just
shattered irrevocably.

There’s a knock on the door. The men look at each other and then at me. They walk
out.

I slump, feeling like a cornered animal.

I realize, to my horror, that I feel that way because I am a cornered animal.

BELIEVE IT OR NOT

CAIN

Icome into Ripley’s riding a high I haven’t felt in years.

And it’s because of Faith.

Last night was…amazing.

Her laughter in my bed. Her skin, warm against mine. Her kiss still lingers on my
mouth like honey and heat. I’m stupid with it.

The sex was out of this world. I can’t help but think about it, remember it, and
wait until we close so I can get right back inside her.

I can smell her, that sweet, musky scent of arousal mixed with the faint tang of
sweat. Her tits press against my chest, soft and full, begging to be freed from the
Ripley’s shirt she’s wearing.

I can’t resist her. My hands are on her, rough and demanding, yanking the fabric up
and over her head. She gasps, her nipples hardening into tight little peaks,
begging for my mouth.

“You sure, sweet thing?” I ask softly.

She nods.
I kiss her.

My tongue invades her mouth, claiming her, owning her. She tastes like heaven—sweet
and sinful. Her hands stroke my back, nails scoring my skin. It’s erotic, it’s
sensuous.

I almost didn’t do this. She’s eight years younger than me. She works for me.

But I can’t resist her anymore. It’s been torture just holding her, kissing her,
talking to her, and not taking her.

I break the kiss, trail my lips down her neck, biting and sucking until she’s
whimpering.

I can feel her heat through the thin fabric of her panties. It drives me wild. My
cock is hard as steel, straining against my jeans, desperate to be inside her.

I cup her ass, squeezing the firm flesh, and she moans.

“Cain, baby,” she breathes, her voice trembling. I love the way she says my name,
the way she calls me baby.

I go down her body, down, down, down, removing her panties as I go. Her pussy is
beautiful. She squirms as I look at her.

“You’re sweet everywhere, aren’t you, Faith?”

She blushes. It’s the sweetest thing ever.

I kiss her clit and lap at her folds, savoring the taste of her. She cries out, her
hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. I flick my tongue over her clit,
teasing her and myself.

“Baby,” she begs.

“Are you sure?” I whisper. I’m desperate for her, but she’s been so careful, and
it’s taken so long for us to get here that I don’t want to rush her.

She nods.

I brush a strand of her hair from her face and look into her eyes. “We can stop
anytime,” I promise.

“I don't want to stop.” There’s such certainty in her voice that it makes me want
to howl with pride. This gorgeous woman wants me.

I undress quickly. Put on a condom. Cover her with my body.

I press the tip of my erection against her entrance.

“You want this, sweet thing?” I can hardly say the words, I want inside her so
badly.

“Yes.”

She nods frantically, her eyes pleading. I enter her slowly.

She’s tight, so tight. I groan at the sensation.

I can feel her orgasm building. Her pussy clenches around me, milking my cock with
every thrust.

I reach between us, rubbing her clit in tight circles, and she shatters, her body
convulsing as she comes.

Her scream is music to my ears. Her moans and cries add to the sweetness of her
release.

On a groan, I follow her over the edge.

Grinning like a damn fool as I flip on the lights in my office.

I follow my routine. Open the safe. Count the cash. Start the day.

Except—

I open the safe, and my breath halts. The bundles are gone.

I blink, then check again, like maybe I’m imagining it. But no. The deposits from
the weekend—gone. Ten grand in total. Disbelief slams into my chest, followed by a
sharp, panicked spike of anger.

“Cain?” Paula’s voice cuts through my shock as she walks in, Melody right behind
her. Paula takes one look at my face and her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t answer at first. I just step aside so they can see the empty safe. They
both know my ritual. Hell, Paula comes by to ask me for money, knowing I do this.

Melody gasps. Paula’s mouth tightens.

“Are there are any signs of a break-in anywhere else?” I hate how my voice shakes.

Paula and Melody exchange a glance.

My sister speaks first. “Cain, we saw Faith here last night. After closing.”

“What?”

“We came back to grab my purse, which I’d forgotten.” Paula looks uncomfortable as
hell. “She didn’t see us, but we saw her. She was in your office.”

“No,” the word slips out. Faith was with me.

Not all the time. After closing, she went to her apartment; she said she needed
some things. Then she came to my apartment. It’s upstairs. A loft. It’s convenient
and…

“Cain, I saw what I saw,” Paula says defensively, her mouth in a pout. “Are you
saying you don’t believe me?”

I don’t know what to believe. I just had the best night of my life with the sexiest
and nicest woman I’ve ever met, and now…I shake my head. “You know, I do, poppet.”

Paula has a job at Ripley’s. She doesn’t do any work, but she gets a paycheck.
She’s supposedly managing our social media and marketing, which is bullshit because
everyone in Silverton knows Ripley’s and everyone comes here.

I don’t need to market the restaurant.

But she’s my sister, and I take care of her, even though she’s twenty-five. She has
a degree in marketing but keeps getting fired or laid off or whatever.

She’s the baby of the family, even though she’s only five years younger than me. We
all spoiled her. My parents tried to get her to get a life before they left for the
warmer climes of Palm Desert—and told me to stop bailing her out of trouble.

But she’s my baby sister.

Damn it! But I can’t believe Faith would steal. She just doesn’t seem the type.

“Maybe she was just—”

“Cain,” Melody cuts in gently, almost too gently. “Kyle had her checked out. Last
night, after Paula told him what she saw. We didn’t want to say anything, but...she
has a history.”

I raise both eyebrows.

Even though Faith and I’ve known each other for six months, I don’t know much about
her past, except that she grew up in foster care. She left Seattle because she
needed a change. She stopped here on her way to Los Angeles and fell in love with
Silverton.

“What did you find out?”

She licks her lips. “Well… actually…” She looks at Paula.

My sister straightens. “Kyle says…”

Deputy Kyle Brewer works for the Marion County Sheriff’s Office and is Paula’s
boyfriend.

“She worked for a nightclub there,” Paula continues.

Nightclub? I didn’t see that on her application.

“Anyway,” Melody interjects, “She worked for some guy called Jamie Da Silva. She
stole money from him and then disappeared. Apparently, this Jamie guy was her
boyfriend. He talked to Kyle.”

My heart is hammering so hard, it’s not funny.

I’m a grown man—eight years older than Faith—and I’ll admit that age gap has
stirred up more than a little guilt. I’ve never done well with younger women; most
of the time, they come off as shallow to me. Hell, my sister and her friend Melody
drive me up the wall with their endless chatter about makeup, clothes, and whatever
else they think passes for conversation.

Faith is different. She reads when she’s on break. She’s bright and cheerful. She
doesn’t care about how she looks. She…steals?

“Look, we know she stayed the night with you.” Paula puts a hand on my shoulder.
“So…”

“So what?”

She did stay the night with me, and it had been a terrific night. The sex. The
conversation. The…affection had been mind-blowing.

Speaking of mind blowing, Cain, last night’s fuck just stole ten thousand dollars
from you.

“Cain, this is who she is.” Melody flutters her eyelashes, sympathy pouring out of
her eyes.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, well, about three years ago, we had a thing for
a short time. Since then, Melody has made it clear to me she’d like us to get back
together. I made it clear that isn’t going to happen. I was polite about it, but
the sex was abysmal because Melody is one of those women who wants the man to do
all the work and doesn’t understand sex is a team sport with two participants.
She’s also unable to have a conversation that doesn’t evolve from a fashion
influencer’s point of view.

“What are you reading?” I ask Faith when she’s sitting outside on one of the
benches in the back of Ripley’s during her break with a book.

She glances up, sunlight catching the gold flecks in her eyes. She holds the
paperback up for me to see.

The Master and Margarita.

I didn’t expect that. “Bulgakov. That’s not exactly light reading.”

She smiles. “Why do you think I want to read something light?”

Because you’re twenty-two and look like a Latin pin-up model. Those misogynistic
assholes—of which I’m not one—don’t expect you to have brains. Feeling chagrined, I
ask, “What do you like about it?”

“You’ve read the book?” she asks suspiciously.

I laugh. “Yeah, smarty pants, I have.”

Faith smiles. “I like the chaos of it. The way it blurs the line between reality
and madness. Plus, the devil shows up in Moscow with a talking cat. What’s not to
love?”

Charmed, I settle onto the bench beside her. “I read it in college. It twisted my
brain.”

“What did you study?”

“Business. At the University of Oregon.” I knew she hadn’t studied past high
school. It had been on her resume, which is why I didn’t expect to see her reading
freaking Bulgakov.

“I didn’t…you know…go to college. But stories”—she taps the book—“they’re an

escape. You can disappear into a whole new world without ever moving.”

“These days people read on Kindle, you’re still doing the old-fashioned thing,” I
teased.

She looks at me sheepishly. “I’d love to have a Kindle…maybe soon. But for now, I
have a library card. First thing I signed up for after my lease.”

I want to buy her a Kindle and stuff it with books for her.
I study her profile, the way she hugs the book to her chest like it’s a shield.
She’s twenty-two, barely more than a kid, but there’s something in her—sharp,
thoughtful, old-soul deep.

“Faith,” I say, half a warning, half a whisper.

She looks at me.

And for a moment, I forget the restaurant, the rules, the years between us—because
she’s not what I expected.

“I have books at my place, you’re welcome to borrow anytime.”

Paula is speaking, but I’ve zoned her out until something she says penetrates my
haze.

“Kyle said that…if you want to press charges, then—”

“What do you mean if I want to press charges?” The words taste like rust and
regret.

Both Melody and Paula look relieved. Did they think just because Faith and I fucked
I would let her get away with stealing?

I was falling in love with her, and…

The floor tilts beneath me. My gut twists.

I don’t want to believe it but the proof has been laid out in front of me and I’m a
grown man who doesn’t think with his dick.

I pull out my phone and make the call.

After I tell Kyle that I am indeed pressing charges and want an investigation into
the theft of ten thousand dollars, I feel drained. The high I was riding this
morning crashes, burning my soul on the way down.

BURN IT ALL DOWN

FAITH

I’m still numb when Cain walks into the room.

For a second, my breath catches. He looks tired—drawn in a way I haven’t seen
before, like something’s eating him alive from the inside.

He closes the door behind him gently. Too gently. The kind of careful that hides
something sharp underneath. He sits down across from me. His eyes are kind. I don’t
know what to think.

“Faith,” he says, like my name hurts his mouth.

I sit up straighter, rub my wrists where the metal bit into me hours ago. “I didn’t
do it, Cain.”

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, then leans against the wall across from me.
“Look. You give the money back, you leave town, and I won’t press charges.”

The words don’t compute at first. “What?”

“I just need it back. That money—it is everything for the month, Faith. Payroll,
inventory, and our liquor license renewal. We’re hanging by a thread.”

He’s talking fast, low, like he’s trying to reason with me. And for a moment, I
believe he still sees me—really sees me. The girl he kissed that morning. The girl
who made him coffee with a stupid smile on her face.

“Cain,” I whisper, “I don’t have the money. I didn’t take it. But I—”

“Please, Faith,” he pleads.

My face crumples as does my heart. “Cain, I don’t have it. If I did, I’d give it
all to you.”

His eyes go from soft to hard. “So, that’s it? You won’t give the money back?”

I stare at him. Has he lost his mind?

“I—”

“This is who you are, isn’t it?”

Bile is rising inside me. I want to throw up.

“This is who you are, isn’t it? A fucking bitch who spreads her legs. Let’s see
who’s gonna want you now,” Jamie yells as he slams his fist into my face. I hear
something shatter. Later, I found out it was my cheekbone and my nose.

“You steal from men you fuck.”

I swallow hard and put a hand on my stomach to soothe it.

“You won’t fuck any man but me, got it, little whore?”

“Jamie, stop.” I am sobbing, I can’t see, my eyes are swollen, painful.

I shake my head to release my pain. It is so intense that it’s hard for me to

speak. I barely manage to breathe out, “No, Cain.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “God, you’re good. You almost had me. Don’t get me
wrong, you have a great pussy…but did you really think that would stop me from
getting you arrested?”
Memory is sliding into now. Past and present merging into one. I can feel the kicks
in my ribs. I can feel the hollow in my stomach at the punch.

“When I’m done with you, your pussy will be so used up that no one will want you.”

“I didn’t do it,” I slur the words because I’m feeling faint. There’s black around
my vision.

“You should see a therapist, Faith, because the PTSD will be debilitating when it
hits. You’ve been abused for years. You have a lot of healing to do,” I hear the ER
doctor who patched me up say.

“You want me to believe you didn’t walk into my office and steal ten grand the
night you crawled into my bed?”

My stomach turns. “No,” I whimper.

I want to go on my knees and beg him to stop.

“Please, Jamie, I won’t do it. I won’t even talk to any other man again.”

His voice sharpens. “I trusted you. And you played me.”

“I…no.” I’m finding it difficult to form words.

But it doesn’t matter. Cain is past hearing me. “I know about Seattle. Jamie Da
Silva. You pulled the same shit there. Get close, get cozy, disappear with the
cash.”

The hurt inside intensifies at Jamie’s name. I want to pass out, at least then I
won’t feel the blows. I wish for the darkness as I used to with Jamie.

I know my eyes are glazed. I can’t speak any longer. It hurts too much.

I trusted Cain, gave him my trust, and he thinks I betrayed him? No, he is the one
betraying me. Just like Jamie. They all turn on me.

But that’s because you are damaged, broken, pathetic. No one wants you.

Cain smirks, cruel and tight. “I only came to see if you’d admit it. Thought maybe
there was a sliver of decency in you. But you’re hanging onto that money like your
life depends on it.”

“No money…I have no money.” I can’t hear the sounds I’m making. The darkness is
coming.

“Good luck spending it in prison,” he yells.

I black out. There is blessed silence.

I can see he’s still talking, but I can’t hear him. The quiet inside me scrapes me
raw, but at least the kicking and hitting have stopped.

I have shut down—reached that place I always did with Jamie when the pain was so
much that my brain closed up so I could stay under the covers in the closet.

If you don’t breathe, he’ll think you’re dead and he’ll leave you alone.
Cain, I’m dead. I’m gone. It’s okay. You can stop now.

He watches me for a second longer, searching for something. What? Regret, doubt. A
confession. But there’s nothing left to give.

Cain walks out. I lay my head on the cold metal table and give in to the abyss.

PRISONER

FAITH

The older deputy isn’t there, just Kyle.

I’m still in a daze—still closed off. I barely remember being processed.

Fingerprints. Photograph. Orders.

I follow the commands. Stand here. Sign that. Go there.

I’m being taken to Salem, I’m told, to jail.

The drive is silent. The van smells like piss and old sweat. I stare at my
reflection in the scratched plastic divider. I’m scared—I know that—but it’s
submerged under cotton. Everything feels dull. I’m disassociating. Pulling away
from reality. Breaking into parts.

Marion County Jail is a concrete box with no sky.

Fluorescent lights hum twenty-four hours a day. It doesn’t matter because there is
no day here, no night either, only shades of despondency.

The intake officer barks orders like I’m a dog.

Strip. Squat. Turn. Lift.

I do it all because that’s all I have.

They give me underwear that doesn’t fit and a shapeless jumpsuit that smells like
Lysol.

My cellmate is a woman named Erin. She’s older, with a face carved from hard years.
She doesn’t speak, just nods at me, then lies back down on the cot and stares at
the ceiling like she’s waiting for time to forget her.

I curl up on my cot, hugging my knees to my chest, the thin blanket doing nothing
to block the chill that lives in my bones.

I can’t sleep. I can’t stay awake. I’m stuck in limbo. An awful silence singes my
nerves with how loud it is.

Food is brought twice a day. Gray meat. Cold bread. Something orange that might be
fruit.

Erin eats what I don’t. My stomach is full of bile. There isn’t room for food.

“You have to keep your strength, that’s all there is,” Erin grunts.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how long I’m here for. I don’t know what
happens next.

The hours smear together—shouting from down the hall, metal doors slamming, the
occasional sob that echoes too long.

Sleep comes in fragments, full of nightmares.

Jamie is kicking me, and then Cain is. The boot against the ribs hurts the most.
The fist against my jaw makes the loudest sound.

I stay in the room with a door locked from the outside for two nights and three
days.

Then I’m let out.

“You can go,” someone says.

I can barely stand. I feel broken. My body aches from the cot. My throat burns from
screams I silenced.

I don’t ask questions. I don’t speak. I don’t know what to say. I can’t even feel
my skin right now.

Another deputy shows up as they hand me back my clothes in a brown paper bag. He’s
from Marion County PD, according to his uniform.

“You’re free to go,” he tells me.

I nod. Free? What does that mean? Now what happens?

“But don’t leave town,” he instructs. “You’re still under investigation.”

I nod again. But I’m going to leave. I have four hundred dollars in my apartment.
I’m going to take that and run.

The deputy walks me out.

“You…ah…need a ride?” he asks.

I give him a blank look. I’d rather crawl on my knees on asphalt.

Uncomfortable with my lack of response, he leaves. I watch his government-issued

car drive away.

I look up at the gray Oregon sky and feel the painful immensity of freedom.
It tastes a lot like ruin.

THERE IS NO EVIDENCE

CAIN

Two days. They release her after two nights.

I was expecting a trial. A…something! Anything to make sense out of what she did,
not her walking away with her freedom.

“You’re an idiot,” Georgia mutters as she wipes the counter.

“You’ve got to stop this,” I groan. She has been like this since Faith was
arrested. Georgia doesn’t believe she stole a damn thing and doesn’t care about
what happened in Seattle.

“I know that girl, and that’s not who she is. What you need to think about is who
poisoned you against her.” Georgia gives my sister and Melody a slanted look.

She doesn’t like Paula or Melody—I can’t blame her, they treat her like the help.
Sure, Georgia works for me, but she’s the heartbeat of Ripley’s. I’ve made it clear
to my sister and her friend that I’ll ban them from Ripley’s if they’re rude to
anyone here, but they know it’s an empty threat. I won’t do it. I won’t hurt my
sister.

Georgia glares at me. “I’ve known you since you were a boy, Cain Ripley, and I’ve
always been proud of you. But with how you treated Faith, I’ve lost all respect for
you.”

That hurts.

I adore Georgia. She’s been with me from the start when I bought the place and
refurbished it. She used to work for me at a diner I managed. When the opportunity
came to have my own place, she showed up with a paint roller, a six-pack, and zero
patience for cutting corners.

Thanks to our efforts, Ripley’s Eat It Or Not is a time capsule with its neon sign
flickering just enough to feel intentional. The chrome trim catches the afternoon
sun, and the wide picture windows spill golden light onto the sidewalk. Inside,
it’s all leather barstools, glossy cherrywood booths, and checkered floors you
could eat off of.

The place smells like butter and espresso, like memories and reinvention.
You can order a root beer float served in a frosted glass with a stainless-steel
straw—or you can sip a chilled glass of skin-contact natural orange wine while
waiting for your avocado toast with a five-minute egg.

Our menu bridges the gap between classic and cutting-edge: buffalo sliders with
chipotle aioli, mac ‘n’ cheese spiked with jalapeño and smoked gouda, peach pie
with a chèvre crust…

It’s a diner for everyone: the trucker, the TikTok traveler, the retiree with his
folded paper, the local teen whose only goal is to eat and get to the next round of
Diablo or whatever the hell else they’re playing these days.

“Did you hear?” Paula charges in, and I see Georgia roll her eyes.

“Yes, Paula, I have.”

Kyle gave me a heads-up but no explanation.

“It’s so wrong,” Melody, who is a step behind Paula, whines.

Georgia scoffs. “Paula, Melody, don’t you have anythin’ else to do but hang here at
eleven in the morning?”

“I work here,” Paula replies haughtily.

“I’m helping Paula,” Melody chirps. “Since I’m between jobs.”

Melody is always between jobs.

According to my parents, Paula and Melody are a bad influence on one another—
neither of them has a job, not really. Melody still lives with her parents, who
have been trying to get her to live her own life. When they get strict, she gets a
job in retail for a minute. Then she’s let go, usually because she doesn’t show up
to work.

No one will hire Melody in Silverton, so now, when she needs a job, she has to
leave our small town.

I thought how different Faith was from them. How she works so hard while these two
swan around, thinking they’re all that. They are moochers.

At least they aren’t thieves!

During the post-lunch lull, I head to the station, looking for answers.

“What the fuck, Kyle?” I demand when I get to his desk.

He avoids my eyes and just mumbles something.

“Why the hell would you let her go? She stole…I mean…where the fuck is my money?”

Kyle had been cocky as hell after the arrest.

“Don’t worry about it, bro, gonna get your money. She’s this close to spillin’ it.”

“Two nights in jail and you know she’s gonna tell us everythin’.”

Sheriff Lorraine Zada steps out of her office. She’s in her late forties, tall and
broad-shouldered, with dark brown skin and a gaze that could shatter glass.
Especially now because she looks pissed off.

“Cain Ripley, you harassing my deputies?”

She doesn’t smile much but knows how to arch a perfectly curved eyebrow to silently
say, you’re fucked.

I’ve known Lorraine for a long time—and she’s known me for just as long. That’s the
nature of small towns.

“Lo, just need to know what’s going on here,” I growl.

“In my office. Now.”

Kyle is now looking at his feet so hard I’m worried he’s going to dig a hole and
disappear…and probably wants to.

What the fuck is going on?

“You want to explain what the hell you were thinking?” Lo demands as she leans back
in her chair.

“Nuh-uh. I need you to tell me what you were thinking, letting her go.”

“By her, I assume, you mean Faith Baker?” The look she gives me makes me sweat a
teeny bit, which is odd since the station house is cold and it’s close to Halloween
and low temps in Silverton.

“Yeah.”

“Sit your ass down, Cain.”

I do it with ill grace.

She taps some keys on her computer. “You say she stole ten grand from the safe?”

“Yeah.”

“We dusted the safe. No prints were hers.”

I sigh. “Gloves? Maybe you need to watch CSI or some shit, Lo.”

She arches an eyebrow and continues. “Besides Paula and Melody, no one can verify
that she was seen going into your office. Georgia, in fact, is adamant that she saw
Paula and Melody in there.”

I shot her a look of exasperation. “You know how Georgia is with Paula.”

Lo continues. “We searched Faith’s place…actually Kyle did without a fucking

warrant. He just went ahead and tossed her apartment.”

Something uneasy slithers up my spine. Of course, he did. I’d watched enough

television to know that would be the procedure, but I hate the idea of Kyle
touching Faith’s things in that pathetic little studio she called home. She never
let me in, said she was embarrassed.

“Found nothing. She doesn’t have a car. She doesn’t have anything or anywhere to
hide anything…so…what we have here is hearsay and assumptions. Not a single piece
of evidence.”

I frown. “Kyle said—”

“Kyle went ahead and made an arrest based on gossip and the word of his girlfriend
that won’t stand up in court, and definitely not in my station.” Lo was fucking
furious now.

I swallow. “What are you saying, Lo?”

“I’m saying Kyle’s on desk duty for a week, and he’s lucky that’s all. His
partner's getting a write-up, too. If I’d been in town, this never would've
happened. This station is not a personal clean-up crew.”

“That’s not what this was. She stole and—”

“How do you know, ace?”

“She did this before.”

Lo regards me thoughtfully. “I just have this problem about taking the word of an
ex-boyfriend, you know? They teach us to be skeptical of evidence given by people
who may have an agenda. I talked to Seattle PD this morning and”—she pauses to scan
her computer screen—“Jamie Da Silva is a douchebag. Been in and out for domestic
violence. Likes to beat up his girlfriends. But when it comes to charges, they all
say they walked into a door.”

My lungs forget how to work for a moment.

“How did you get this?” I trace the scar above Faith’s eyebrow.

“I walked into a door.”

“Kyle fucked up but I can’t do much, because we’re already under-staffed and people
find out we’re just recklessly arresting people for no reason, I’ll have a riot on
my hands.” Lo hunched forward, knuckles tapping lightly on her desk. “That poor
girl was in jail without counsel, without anything, and for no reason for two
nights.”

My jaw tightens. “She did it. I know she did.”

Because if she didn’t then…. NO! It was unthinkable. She was a thief, and that was
that.

Lo shakes her head. “That’s not what I see. What I see is a woman with no priors,
no charges, no evidence against her.”

“Paula and—”

“Do you know that we found your sister’s and Melody’s fingerprints all over your
safe?”

I stop and look at her in disbelief. “What?”

“Yeah. Any reason why their fingerprints would be on your safe?”

I think about it, but…I shrug. “I don’t know, but they come in and out of my office
all the time.”
She nods thoughtfully.

My mouth goes dry at her insinuation. I let out a harsh laugh. “Lo, my sister
doesn’t need to steal from me, okay?”

“In my station, we need a little more than someone’s bruised pride and imagined
grief to prosecute people.” Lo straightens. “This matter is now under internal
investigation. And if I were you, I’d tell Kyle to buckle up. It’s going to get
bumpy.”

She walks to the door and opens it.

Our conversation is over.

Kyle isn’t outside when I leave.

My steps are slow, sluggish as I get to my truck.

I start the engine and just idle, feeling doubt churn in my gut.

Hell no, I decide after a short contemplation.

Faith stole.

Full stop.

The end.

HOMELESS

FAITH

The young deputy, Paula’s boyfriend, went through my bag when it was delivered from
Ripley’s, so I have it with me when I leave jail. My phone doesn’t have a charge,
but I have twenty dollars in cash to get me home by taxi.

I go up to my apartment and find a note taped to the door in red marker: Thieves
aren’t welcome here.

Heat rises through me despite how cold I am. I have a coat, but it’s in the diner.

I take the stairs down to the super slash landlord’s apartment. I only have to
knock once.
The man opens his door. He is in boxer shorts and a T-shirt.

“My…things,” I manage to say.

He shakes his head at me and goes back inside. When he comes out, he’s carrying a
single black trash bag. He throws it on the floor in front of me.

I freeze, like I did when Jamie kicked me in my chest.

The black plastic glints under the hallway light.

Suddenly, I’m twelve again, standing outside a foster home with my life stuffed in
bags like garbage.

No suitcase.

No boxes.

Just trash bags.

Because that’s what you are, right?

When no one wants you. When you don’t belong.

“I had a suitcase,” I say.

“Don’t know nothin’ about that. Now get the fuck outta my building,” he snaps and
slams his door shut.

I want to bang on his door and demand that he give me my suitcase. It isn’t
special, it’s…a way to carry my things, so they don’t have to be put into trash
bags.

I drop to my knees and open the bag.

My clothes are crumpled, shoved in like they were scraped off the floor.

My toothbrush snapped in half.

The book I was reading—The Master and Margarita—has a boot print on the cover.

I look for my jeans, old, faded, where I hid my money. I rummage through the bag,
empty it all on the floor.

There’s nothing. It’s gone.

I collapse on the floor.

I look at the door again, but I know it won’t change a thing. I am a thief—they’ve
branded me, and no one will believe me when I tell them my truth.

The asshole took my money. Four hundred dollars. All my savings. My security. All
that I had.

I have nothing now.

Not the money I saved.

Not the job I loved.

Not even the two hundred I came to Silverton with.

I carry the trash bag, walk out.

It’s drizzling. It’s dark.

I don’t know where to go. In Seattle, I’d find a homeless shelter, but this is
Silverton, and it doesn’t have homeless people.

The numbness inside me is taking over, and I can’t feel a thing.

I’m cold, I know that because I’m shivering. But deep down inside me, there is the
promise of warmth. Of silence. Of shutting down.

I wander until my legs give out. I find I’m near the library. I know this place
well. I curl up behind the stone steps, feeling like an animal that no one wants.

Jamie did a lot, but he never stripped me of my humanity. He never took me away
from me. I always bounced back, found myself, but now, I can feel nothing, like I’m
still unconscious but without the beeping sounds of a hospital.

The cold eats at me.

My fingers ache.

My lips crack.

I try to sleep, but the wind finds every gap in my layers.

My body feels hollow. My head swims. My breath clouds in the air and doesn’t clear.
I think I’m getting sick. Or maybe I already am.

I start seeing things—blurry shapes at the edge of my vision. A shadow that looks
like Cain is standing across the street. A foster mother is yelling at me.

None of it is real.

Even the hunger inside me isn’t.

Maybe I’m dead, I muse.

If I’m dead, then it’s nice. It means I’m safe.

But is heaven supposed to feel so lonely? This cold?

You’re in hell, Faith. For all your crimes, you’re in hell, and this is where
you’ll remain.

I begin to cry softly.

8
THE WEIGHT OF WARMTH

FAITH

The cold settles deep into my bones. It feels permanent.

But only until you die, Faith.

I don’t know how long it is before I hear a cry followed by the crunch of hurried
gravel.

“Faith?”

A familiar voice. Low, incredulous, panicked.

I open my eyes slowly. It takes effort.

Georgia crouches beside me, her coat barely pulled on over a Ripley’s shirt. Her
cheeks are red from the wind, her eyes wide with alarm.

“Jesus, girl,” she whispers, reaching out. “You look half dead.”

I want to answer. I want to say her name. But my lips are cracked, my jaw locked
from the cold. I can’t even nod.

She doesn’t hesitate. She loops one arm around my shoulders and hauls me up,
grunting softly with the effort. “Come on now. Let’s get you warmed up.”

She half drags, half carries me to her car. It’s a beat-up Volvo that smells like
cinnamon gum and French fries.

Georgia cranks the heat, turns on the seat warmers, and glances at me while she
drives.

“Should’ve known,” she murmurs. “Should’ve guessed you’d be the one they turned
into the town ghost.”

She takes me to her place, it’s a small house in a residential area with trees and
children playing on the streets.

Her home is warm, cluttered, and smells like eucalyptus and lemon cleaner. There’s
a crocheted Afghan on the couch and a framed photo of an older woman in a sundress
on the end table. Her mama.

She settles me on the couch, wrapping me in the warmth of the Afghan. I can’t stop
shaking.

She hands me a mug of tea and orders me to drink so I can get warm from the inside.
I do as she asks because the heat is delicious on my hands, which’ve been cold for
way too long.

She disappears into the bathroom, returning with a small bottle of what looks like
an over-the-counter painkiller.

“For the fever,” she says. “It’s coming.”

I take the two pills she gives me. I sip the tea, holding the cup with both hands.
“Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here?”

Georgia sits across from me, her elbows on her knees. “You didn’t have anywhere
else to go.”

I may be numb, but I know how small towns work. I understand how Silverton does.

Cain will make her life impossible if he finds out she’s helping me. “I can’t stay.
I need to find a job.”

I have no money. If I did, I’d leave. Get on a Greyhound bus, maybe the same one I
now know I should’ve stayed on and gone to Los Angeles.

“Girl, you can stay with me.”

I smile. I have no idea how I manage that great feat.

“He’ll fire you.” And she needs this job.

Her mouth tightens. “No, he won’t.”

She’s lying. She knows it. I know it.

I shake my head. “Cain won’t forgive this. And you can’t lose this job. You’re the
only thing between your mama and a room with a locked door.”

Her mother has Alzheimer’s and is in a home—she needs that because she needs
professional care.

“I know.” Georgia looks defeated.

I lick my lips. I want a shower, but I’m so sluggish. I’m bone-deep exhausted.

“That asshole landlord of mine stole my money,” I whisper, “Or I’d leave
Silverton.”

Georgia closes her eyes. “Maybe for the best. I can give you—”

I shake my head, and she falls silent. She knows I won’t take anything from her.
She knows who I am.

No charity for Faith Baker, I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.

“I can’t leave even if I have the money.” I feel crushed as I remember the words of
the deputy who walked me out of jail. “Not until the police clear me.”

Georgia studies me with trepidation and then, as if reaching a conclusion she

doesn’t like, says, “I know a place.”

“What place?” I set the teacup down.

“Have you eaten anything?”

I shake my head.
She helps me to her kitchen and sits me on a chair. I’m finding my body and mind
again.

She makes me eggs and toast, just like they do at Ripley’s, with cream. She sets
the food in front of me with another cup of tea, and orange juice. She keeps
checking my forehead. I’m getting warm. I’m getting a fever. I know that. It’s
coming.

“Maybe I should’ve made you chicken soup,” she mutters as she sits next to me at
her small kitchen table.

“This is good.” I’m grateful. “You said you know a place?”

She studies me. Her eyes are wet and fierce.

“Nectar.”

The strip club!

“The owner’s crude, but not dangerous.”

“Georgia, I can’t…I can’t do that.” Not gonna whore myself, not for anything.

“You’re nothing but a whore, Faith. Nothing but a goddamn whore.” I can still hear
Jamie screaming the words at me.

Georgia’s expression softens. “I’d never suggest that, Faith. They need someone to
clean.”

I’ve worked in restaurants, diners, Denny’s, and at Jamie’s nightclub. Oh, when I
got that job, I thought bigger and better things were on their way. I was so naïve.
But I’ve never worked in a strip club, never really even stepped into one.

“Okay. But…I haven’t cleaned…not like that. Usually just where I served.”

“If I say it, they’ll hire you,” Georgia asserts confidently.

My brows knit in confusion and some irritation.

But before I can tell her that I don’t need favors, she says, “You’re not a charity
case, Faith. You’re someone who’s been done wrong. And I’m sorry about that. I
can’t change that. But if you’ll take this one thing from me—I think it’ll get you
through the worst of it.”

“Faith, sometimes it’s okay to accept help,” the ER doctor says to me, his voice
kind, his eyes merciful. “If you won’t press charges, then…you need to get out of
where you are. I can help you.”

“I can take care of myself, doc,” I reply, patting him on his shoulder. “I got a
plan.”

My plan was to steal some money, three hundred dollars, which is what it ended up
being, from Jamie and run.

Maybe I should’ve listened to the doctor and gone to a women’s shelter, gotten help
both emotionally and physically.

“Thanks, Georgia.”
“I’ll take you.”

When she drops me off at Nectar, she pulls out three folded twenty-dollar bills.

I stare at it.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“You can,” she insists. “Please.”

I take her money, grateful. She kisses my forehead.

She leaves me at the entrance, nodding at the bouncer. “Ricky’s expecting her.”

“You got it, Georgia.” He looks at me, gives me a kind smile. “Come on, we’ll take
care of you.”

A STURDY ROCK BOTTOM

FAITH

Ricky leans back in his cracked leather chair, chewing on a toothpick, eyes half-
lidded. There’s a stack of receipts to his left, a bottle of something cheap and
half-finished to his right.

He’s a big man. Bald. Dark espresso skin. He looks like Idris Elba from The Wire.
He dresses like a sleazy mob boss from the nineties.

“Well, shit,” he mutters, dragging the word out like he’s savoring it. “You’re the
Ripley girl, ain’t you?”

I don’t answer. Not because he’s wrong, but because I’m not sure what that means
anymore.

“Faith, right?” he asks, as if pretending to forget would be polite. “Georgia told

me someone needed work, but she didn’t say it was…” He trails off, gestures
vaguely.

“If you don’t want to hire me, that’s okay.” I keep my teeth from chattering, not
just because I’m sick but also because I’m scared. If Ricky kicks me and my trash
bag out, I don’t know where to go.

“Georgia will fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters. “Are you any good at cleaning?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. It’s cleaning. It’s not brain surgery. “I can
start now.”

He snorts, rubs a hand down his face. “When we open at five, is good enough.”

He gestures to the beat-up chair across from him. I sit. It creaks like it’s
warning me.

“Here’s what you’ll do,” he says, leaning forward, voice turning flat and
transactional. “You clean between sets. So, not only after hours, between. That
means you’re moving fast. Bathrooms, stage, back rooms, tables, and floors. You see
a spill, you mop it. You see puke, you scoop it. You see glitter, you wipe it off,
it will require elbow grease though, ‘cause that shit is like permanent.”

I nod.

He eyes me. “You grossed out yet?”

I shake my head.

“Didn’t think so.” He nods like he respects that. “Now, the private rooms—the lap
dance rooms—those need love, too. Don’t ask what happens in there. Just assume it’s
all legal and needs cleaning.”

I nod.

“The supplies are all in the storeroom. I’ll show you where that is. Bleach wipes,
gloves, mop. Same tools for every devil.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

He watches me for a beat. “You got that look like you’ve seen worse.”

“I have.”

“Clean that shit up and then get to work,” Jamie says coldly, pointing to the floor
where I vomited, pissed, and bled because of a beating.

He rises with a grunt, walks to a cluttered file cabinet, and pulls a ring of keys
off a hook. “Georgia said that asshole Bob kicked you out.”

I clear my throat and manage a hoarse, “Yes.”

“Where you stayin’?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

He tosses a set of keys onto the desk.

I raise an eyebrow.

“There’s a by-the-hour motel.”

“You gotta be kidding me.” My legs are shaking as I stand.

He grins. “I never kid unless I’m drunk. I own the motel next door. Classy, right?”

It’s not.
“But it’s clean. It’s mine. And it’s safe. No one will bother you.” He pauses as if
saying, not even me. “Now, don’t go getting no ideas. I’m not doing this outta
charity. I’ll take it out of your pay. Weekly. Fair and square.”

I pick up the keys.

I have a place to stay.

He walks me there, whistling some bluesy tune under his breath.

The lot of the motel is cracked and half-filled. It’s by-the-hour, and it’s
probably the nooner crowd.

A single vending machine hums in the corner, and the sign above the office just
says: MOTEL. No name. Just fact.

“Room 3. Yours. End of the hall. The heater works but makes an infernal sound.
Shower pressure’s temperamental.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.

I unlock the door.

It’s...exactly what I expect.

The bedspread is threadbare but clean. The carpet is stained but vacuumed. The air
smells like disinfectant and something faintly, very faintly, citrus.

There’s a tiny bathroom with a chipped mirror, a nightstand with a Gideon Bible,
and a wrapped plastic cup on the sink.

Gratitude thrums in me.

Ricky leans against the doorframe, hands in his jacket pockets. “This okay?”

“Yes.”

“You look like you’re getting sick.”

“I’ll take a nap and be ready for work.”

“Come by at four. There’s always food in the kitchen, and you get all meals free.”

My eyes widen.

“No booze, though.”

I smile faintly. He plays tough, but he’s actually a decent guy.

“You good?” he asks.

“I’m alive.”

“Same difference.”

I agree.

He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t step inside the room. “You need anything—extra towels,
cigarettes, bleach—you let me know.”

“Thanks.”

He nods once, then strolls off like a man who owns his small kingdom and knows
precisely what it’s worth.

I shut the door, lean against it, and breathe.

The good people of Silverton cast me out. Called me a thief. Let me freeze.

But the sleazebags? The ones with bad habits and worse reputations? They’re the
ones helping me survive.

Funny, how rock bottom turns out to be the first real place I’ve stood on solid
ground in a long freaking time.

10

WHAT THEY SAY, WHAT I KNOW

CAIN

Ihave another shit night. Like I’ve had since that beautiful one with Faith turned
ugly.

I’m having nightmares. Loud ones.

It starts in silence—but it’s the wrong kind, the one where a storm’s sucked the
air from the world.

I stand in a hallway that smells like bleach and iron.

Jail. I knew it before I saw the bars. Before I hear her voice.

“Cain, baby?”

It’s a whisper. Fragile. Uncertain.

I follow the sound, boots heavy on tile. The corridor is endless, stretching like
some hell-loop, doors on either side, like mouths sealed shut. But I know which one
is hers.

When I reach it, she’s sitting on the floor in the corner of the cell, arms wrapped
around her knees, hair hanging in damp strands over her face. The jumpsuit they’ve
put her in is too big. Her wrists are bruised where the cuffs must’ve bit down.
She looks up.

Her eyes find mine. But there’s nothing there but grief. Immeasurable. Immense.
Unending.

“I didn’t do it,” she says, voice cracking. “Please, baby. You know me. You said
you knew me.”

I press my hands to the bars.

I try to say her name, to tell her I’m sorry, that I was wrong, that I never
stopped believing her—except I did, didn’t I?

I let doubt crawl in through the cracks and take root.

I looked her in the eyes and still chose everyone else.

“You stole,” I whisper to protect myself. She did.

But I remember even in the dream what Lo said, “No evidence.”

Faith reaches for me, fingers trembling through the gap in the bars.

“Help me,” she whispers. “Please, Cain. Help me.”

I try to move. Try to reach her. But I can’t. I’m stuck. Paralyzed.

I scream, but no sound comes out. My feet won’t budge. I’m cemented to the floor of
a cage I made for her—and myself.

Then she starts to cry.

Not just tears. But sobs that shake her whole body.

She breaks right in front of me. Her shoulders hunch, her breath comes in
stuttering gasps, and she folds in on herself like she’s trying to disappear into
the concrete.

“Faith!” I shout. Now my voice is back, and I can move. But it’s too late.

She collapses. Crumples like paper, her body limp and pale. Her head hits the floor
with a sickening crack.

“FAITH!”

I slam into the bars, trying to break through them. She lies still. Her skin is
gray. Her eyes closed.

Lo is there. She tells me that Faith is dead. “You killed her.”

“No. No.”

I reach through the bars again, and this time, I can touch her fingers—cold,
unresponsive.

“Don’t do this. Come back. Please, come back. I love you. I didn’t know until it
was too late, but I love you, God, I love you.”
And then—

I wake. My chest heaving, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch its way out.
I’m soaked in sweat.

I’m in my bed. Alone. Sheets tangled, breath sharp in my throat.

The same bed where we made love. Where we spent the night. Where we woke up.

The nightmare still has its grip on me.

You have to drop the charges.

I run a hand through my hair. No, I don’t. She’s not there anymore. They let her
go. They said there was no proof she did it.

You killed her.

The edges of the dream still have their hold on me. The pain is raw. It clings, raw
and real and pulsing.

Faith’s not dead, Cain. She’s alive.

What if she didn’t do it? What then?

Then I let the best thing that ever happened to me slip through my fingers.

I press my palms to my face, trying to steady my breath. But the image of her on
that cold jail floor doesn’t fade.

The next day, the rumors start afresh. Silverton is a small town, and the
gossipmongers are having a field day.

Georgia is colder than usual with me.

“What?”

She looks like hell, like she hasn’t slept. But then so do I.

“Nothing.” She turns her back on me.

The first piece of news comes from Alison Stryker. Nice Church-going lady. Married
to Lou Stryker, who runs Pine Mutual Bank. “She’s living in Ricky’s by-the-hour
motel.”

“Goes from thief to whore,” Geena Stinson says. Her husband owns the auto parts
store.

“Maybe she always was one.” Alison titters.

Georgia slams their check in front of them. “Whenever you’re ready.” She says it
polite-like, but I know her, and she’s furious.

The words only get louder with every passing day: She’s a thief. A liar. A whore.

Silverton’s small. Cruel in that small-town way. Once people decide what you are,
they don’t let you change your mind.

I try not to listen. But I do. Every single word.

“You believe any of this?” Georgia demands as we prepare to close for the day.

“About what?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“About Faith.”

I shrug. “None of my business, Georgia.”

“She’s not hooking or stripping,” Georgia hisses. “She’s cleaning.”

“Whatever.”

She shakes her head. “It’s easier, isn’t it, to hate her than to admit you might’ve
ruined someone who was already clinging to the edge.”

“Georgia,” I snap, “If you don’t want to work for me, say the word. I’m not going
to have you keep on it about Faith. She’s dead to me, gone.”

“You’re the most beautiful woman, inside and out, that I’ve ever been with, Faith.”

“Really?” The vulnerability in her voice, the hope in her eyes, undoes me.

“Your skin is like silk, Faith.”

“Hardly.”

I don’t want to think about Faith or listen to others talk about her.

Paula and Melody are all over it with vicious glee. I hate it, hate them, hate
myself. I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore, and I don’t know what to
believe.

“Is there any progress on the investigation?” I ask Kyle when he joins them one
night, nearly two weeks since they let Faith go.

“What investigation?” Kyle looks confused.

“The theft,” I bellow.

People look at us, and both Paula and Melody look chagrined.

“Ah….” Kyle looks at my sister and then at me helplessly. “I…don’t know, Cain.
Sheriff Z took the investigation over. I’m out of it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Melody screeches.

He lifts his shoulders in a helpless gesture. “I’m…I don’t know what’s going on
with the Faith thing.”

“But Faith is still a suspect, isn’t she?” Melody asks in a way that makes my skin
crawl.

Why do these two hate her so much? She’s never done anything to them.

Is all this anger on behalf of her stealing from me?

“I guess.” Kyle looks like he’d rather be getting a root canal right now than be
talking about Faith. “She was told not to leave town.”
Paula and Melody look relieved.

I want to stop thinking about Faith, but I can’t let it go. Doubt keeps scratching
at the walls of my certainty.

“You sure you both saw her that night?” I ask carefully.

“Of course, honey.” Melody snuggles up to me, her tits brush against my arm. I pull
away.

Since Faith, she’s been dropping big fat hints that she wants us back together. I’d
rather sleep alone for the rest of my life than get back with her, so I keep my
distance from her, obviously, clearly, unambiguously, but now it looks like I might
need to talk to her, tell her we’re never fucking happening, even if we were the
last two people on the planet.

I drive to Nectar two nights later and wait in my truck.

I see her walk out at four in the morning when the place closes. There’s a hunched
quality to her. She looks like she’s holding herself as she walks. The usual grace,
the alacrity in her step, isn’t there.

If I didn’t see her face in the light of the back door when she stepped out, I
wouldn’t know it was Faith.

This woman is not the one I remember, the one who was spry, cheerful, lively.

She’s not the one who sat across from me on a bench outside at Ripley’s on a quiet
Tuesday afternoon, reading a book she borrowed from the library during her break.

“What’s the new book?”

“Cicero.”

Will this girl ever cease to surprise me? “The Roman orator?”

She grins. “This is the last book in the trilogy by Robert Harris. He’s the same
guy who wrote the book the movie Conclave is based on.”

“Three books? That’s a commitment.”

“I’ve read them twice. Have you? You should. The library has the books.”

Does she still read, I wonder? And if she does, what is she reading now?

Crime And Punishment by Dostoevsky?

11

WHAT’S LEFT OF HER

CAIN

I’m not a strip club kinda guy.

Have I been to Nectar? Yes. That was when I was a dumb kid, but as a grown-up
there’s something gross about seeing men watching women take their clothes off.
It’s worse being one of those men.

Feeling hot under my collar for all the wrong reasons, I walk up to the door below
the flickering neon sign that says NECTAR: Come In For A Drink.

The bouncer nods at me. He knows who I am. The pleasures of living in a small town.

Depending upon who’s inside, everyone will know that Cain Ripley went to Nectar,
and after that, God knows what story would be spun.

They’ll say, “He got a lap dance” or “He was drunk as a skunk.” Or maybe they’ll
get closer to the truth—that he was there to see Faith.

Ricky’s eyes widen when he sees me. He’s sitting at the bar, watching the show,
with a drink in hand. He lets out a low whistle.

“Well, well. Cain Ripley, slumming it with the rest of us.”

I grunt and sit next to him. I put Faith’s coat, which I brought along, on the
empty stool by me.

“Onyx, whatever he wants, babe, you charge him double, yeah?” Ricky instructs.

I glare at him. He winks in response, amused as hell.

I get an IPA just as a stripper comes onto the stage.

Manhunt by Karen Kamon comes on, and the lighting reminds me of Flashdance, but
that’s where any resemblance ends.

The woman on the pole moves easily like it’s muscle memory—slow, practiced arcs
that shimmer under the low red lights. This isn’t classy dancing, it’s tits and ass
and pussy.

Her sequined thong catches glints from the disco ball overhead, but it’s her eyes I
notice—flat, glassy, disconnected.

The men hoot and slap the edge of the stage, waving bills like they’re holding
power, not paper.

The dancer slides down the pole in an elegant spiral that feels more like surrender
than seduction.

Ricky chuckles beside me, nudging my arm. I jerk away.

This place smells of desperation.

Of stale beer, sweat. Cheap perfume clings to everything.

There’s no joy in this room. Only hunger, transaction, and women learning how to
disappear in plain sight.

Faith works here.

Georgia said she was cleaning, but I needed to check it out for myself. I don’t
think I could stand it if she were working the pole or giving lap dances.

“Faith here?” I ask as casually as I can pretend.

Ricky scoffs. “If by ‘here’ you mean cleaning up puke, scrubbing urinals, and
mopping the floor for minimum wage, then yeah — she’s a regular career woman.”

I bristle. “She in today?”

“Yeah, she’s in every day.”

I swallow.

“She don’t take days off,” Ricky continues.

I drink some more beer that I can’t taste.

He leans an elbow on the bar, so he’s in my face. “If she stole ten grand, you
really think she’d be here? Cleaning toilets for me? Puh-lease. She’d be in Mexico
with a drink in her hand and your money in her bra.”

I stare at him. “She was told not to leave town.”

Even I know that sounds stupid. If she did steal the money then what the fuck did
she care that a small-town county sheriff told her to stay in town?

There wouldn’t be a manhunt for a crime so banal. She could leave. No one expects
her to stay…if she has all that money.

I can still hear Lo. “We dusted the safe. No prints were hers.”

“Where is she?”

“Why the fuck do you want to know?”

I pick up her coat. She called it vintage. It’s second-hand, bought at the thrift
store off of Main Street. By the look of it, it’s probably fifth-hand at this
point.

If she stole in Seattle, wouldn’t she be doing something with that money instead of
working at a diner for minimum wage?

If she stole, Cain.

But Kyle said…

Kyle isn’t reliable, is he?

“Ricky, don’t be a hard ass, yeah?” I drop some bills on the bar, which the
bartender, Onyx, swipes away. She brings back change. I shake my head.
Ricky gives me a measured look and then shrugs. “Men’s room. Better have a gas
mask.”

There’s a yellow clapboard “cleaning in process” sign outside the men’s room.

I walk in and find her bent over a mop bucket, rubber gloves on, bleach in the air.

The bathroom smells like piss and broken lives.

She’s cleaning the sink, her hair tied back in a messy knot. Her face is blank when
I see her in the mirror, which she probably just cleaned because it’s shining.

“Faith,” I say softly.

She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t say a thing.

“Faith,” I try again.

She finally looks up in the mirror, at me. “Yes”

Her voice is calm. Flat. No trace of the girl who read Cicero and let me tease her
with kisses. She might as well be someone else entirely.

She didn’t steal. I know it now in my bones.

If she did, she wouldn’t be here. If she did, she wouldn’t be Faith.

Oh my God! What have I done?

“I wanted to check in on you.”

She looks away, keeps scrubbing.

“I didn’t think I’d find you like this,” I say quietly.

“Why not?” She drains the bucket of dirty water into a urinal and then flushes.

“I…you shouldn’t work here.”

She lets out a chuckle, but it carries no trace of humor. “Sure, I should. This is
where I belong, right? In the dirt. With the other trash.”

“Don’t say that.”

This woman is a shell of the one I knew. I kept lamenting that she was eight years
younger than me. A child. But right now, she looks as old as me. The past few weeks
have aged her and not in a good way.

She’s just a kid, Cain, and you fucking had her arrested! What the fuck were you
thinking?

You sent her to jail. To jail!

She walks out the door. She moves the “cleaning in progress” sign to the other side
of the corridor in front of the women’s bathroom.

She tugs at her gloves to keep them in place and picks up the mop, bucket, and a
plastic box of cleaning supplies, and walks to the women’s bathroom.
Finally, before she goes in, she turns, looks at me. “What do you want, Cain?”

“I need to know...did you take the money?”

It’s stupid to ask. If she took it, she won’t confess, and if she didn’t, which I
have a strong feeling she didn’t, then…

She laughs.

Not the bright, warm laugh I remember.

This is sharp. Bitter. Empty.

“If I did, do you think I’d be here cleaning piss off a wall? Use your head.”

“Faith—”

She pushes opens the women’s restroom with her shoulder. “Don’t come back.”

I hold up her coat. “Ah…this is yours.”

She comes forward and takes it with the gloves, the dirty ones, like she doesn’t
care.

“Thanks.” She goes inside the bathroom, the door swinging slightly behind her.

I stand watching the door, the remnants of her presence.

The hallway smells of bleach and lies.

It’s painfully hard to breathe.

12

NOTHING TO GIVE

FAITH

“Faith?”

My heart sinks when I see a woman in a sheriff’s uniform. She is framed by sunlight
like an avenging angel in a leather jacket and mirrored sunglasses.

She finds me in the back of Nectar, carrying two bags of garbage.

I’m now working two shifts, one in the morning and one in the evening, because
Nectar needs a lot of work. The place is huge and it has way too many nooks and
crannies.

I talked to Ricky and he agreed. In fact, he was grateful.

Now, my shift is from two to four when the club is closed between lunch and dinner.
I take a break, and am back from eight to closing, which is around four in the
morning.

This means that I’m getting enough sleep every day; and I have time to take care of
things like doing laundry, which I do in the motel. The washer and dryer use
quarters and make a racket, but they do the job.

I have time to go to the supermarket nearby and buy essentials.

I have time to walk by Let’s Read, a bookstore, and check out books on display. I
even bought a Marlon James book, A Brief History of Seven Killings, because it was
on sale.

I don’t have the courage to go to the library—too many painful memories attached.

The policewoman waits until I finish dragging a garbage bag to the dumpster before
she speaks.

She holds out a hand. “Sheriff Lorraine Zada.”

I look at my hands and brush them down my jeans in an effort to clean them. She
doesn’t seem to care I was just handling trash; she doesn’t retract her hand. I
shake it.

She takes off her sunglasses. Her eyes are swarming with pity for me.

That hurts more than if she’d come at me with a baton.

“Can we sit somewhere?” she requests.

I lick my lips. It’s early December and it’s cold, but now I have my coat so I’m
doing better when outside, but I don’t have it on now.

I don’t want to take her into Nectar.

First, it’s a strip club, and Ricky might get pissed off that I’m bringing in law
enforcement. Second, it’s my place of work.

I lead her to the motel instead, thinking we can talk in my room.

It’s a simple space.

One full-size bed, one plastic chair, one trash can, one closet, one bathroom.

She sits on the chair and I on the bed. I leave the door slightly ajar. I have no
idea why I do that.

Am I attempting to protect myself from a cop in the shadiest part of Silverton by

leaving the freaking door open?

“You wanted to talk?” I prompt.

She smiles. I feel that this woman doesn’t do that often because she’s not
comfortable with it.

“I wanted to tell you in person. You’re cleared. There’s no evidence against you.”

That’s good news, right? Then why do I feel nothing?

“Okay.”

She regards me thoughtfully. “I’m sorry that you were inconvenienced. It sucks…but,
these things happen.”

“Okay,” I repeat. Since this was my first arrest, I’m not sure how these things
happen. “Ah…so, I don’t have to stay in Silverton any longer?”

Her eyes glimmer with anger. “Who said that you had to stay here?”

I shrug. “Some deputy sheriff when I was being released from jail.”

“Do you remember his name?”

I shake my head. It’s the truth, I can’t remember much of those days, hell I can’t
remember much of yesterday.

I work long hours and I’m mostly tired. I’m still not completely well since I
didn’t rest when I was sick, so even now I have bouts of coughing and a headache.
But now I can afford over the counter painkillers, so I’m able to work.

“How are you doin’, Faith?” she asks conversationally, like we know one another. We
don’t.

“Okay?”

She huffs out a laugh. “You don’t know?”

I gave a slow, careless shrug. “I can’t feel much of anything these days.”

Her expression turns sympathetic. “I can only imagine. I…checked in on what

happened to you in Seattle.”

This penetrates the solid fog I’m always in. One I joke to myself is made of Lysol
and Pine-Sol, a delectable combination.

“I know what Jamie Da Silva did to you,” she continues. “I spoke to some cops there
and talked to the EMTs who brought you in that night.”

The night I almost died.

The irony of it is that Cain not believing in me hurt more. I knew Jamie was a
piece of shit. But Cain made me feel like I was the piece of shit.

“You didn’t deserve what happened to you. I’m so sorry you had to go through that,
Faith.”

I feel nothing. Or maybe everything all at once, sealed behind a wall I built brick
by brick in that freezing jail cell, and before that in an emergency room, and
before that in a foster home, and before that…

“Ah…is there more?” I get up. “I have to get back to work. My boss will…ah…wonder.”
Ricky won’t wonder or give a shit. He trusts me now. These past weeks I’ve been
working for him, he says have been the cleanest Nectar has been and he’s made me
promise that I won’t leave before I train a successor.

The Sheriff rises as well. “Do you need any help?”

This surprises me. “Huh?”

She smiles sadly. “Can I help you in any way?”

I frown and give a slight shake of my head.

I feel like I have all the help I need, the help I’m allowing myself to accept, to
be grateful for.

Georgia, Ricky, Onyx, who works the bar, and Misty one of the strippers, help me by
treating me with respect. Well, Ricky tries but he’s gonna always look at a woman’s
tits before he’ll see her face. That’s who he is.

“Faith, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look well.”

You should’ve seen me a few weeks ago. Death warmed over looked better than me.

“I’m getting over a cold.”

She steps closer. “Don’t you want to know who stole the money?”

I raised a shoulder in response. “Uh…does it matter?”

“Someone framed you, Faith,” she reveals gently.

“Sheriff, I…don’t know what you want from me.” I’m feeling tired again. It happens
a lot lately when I talk to people. I prefer to be alone. I prefer to not use my
voice.

She hesitates, then says, “Georgia mentioned you want to leave Silverton. If you
want, I can give you some money. To help you get there. You shouldn’t be stuck
here.”

My eyes snap to hers.

“No, thank you,” I say. “I can take care of myself. And…honestly, not sure why
you’re offering. Are you testing me?”

That must be it. She’s doing all this to trap me somehow.

She looks horrified. “I’m not, Faith. This is a genuine offer of help.”

Oh, yeah, I’ve never heard that before!

“I’m fine. Thank you.” I use my prim voice, the one I use instead of saying fuck
you.

Her face falls, just a little. She nods, like she understands. “Trust is luxury,
isn’t it, Faith?”

Air stalls in my throat at her words. “Yes,” I reply softly, once I get my
bearings. “It’s an expensive commodity. And I’m flat broke.”
13

THE TRUTH YOU BURIED

CAIN

When Lo calls and asks me to get my ass to the county substation, I don’t question
it. I have a feeling I won’t like the answer. I’m afraid she’ll tell me that Faith
is guilty. But if that’s the case, I’ve already decided not to press charges.

We’re having a good December, and Christmas always brings people into Ripley’s. We
go all out—eggnog cocktails, maple bourbon bread pudding, cranberry-glazed pork
sliders, and gingerbread pancakes. Georgia insists on serving peppermint hot
chocolate floats in mason jars, and the mulled wine’s got enough cloves to cure the
plague.

We also had a really good November—not me, my month of thanks sucked, but Ripley’s
made good money.

I feel guilty about what I did to Faith. I wish I’d talked to her before calling
Kyle. I wish I had not pressed charges. I wish so many things. Seeing her at Nectar
was a wakeup call for me. I believe her. No one who steals works as hard as Faith
does.

The duty sergeant at the county station walks me to a conference room.

Inside I see Kyle, who’s slouched and looks like he’s aged five years, Paula and
Melody. Neither of them meets my eyes.

My heart begins to beat faster. I think I know what Lo is going to tell me. I don’t
like what I’m thinking.

Lo waves a hand at a chair on her right. She’s at the head of the table while the
others are on her left side.

Them versus me?

“Everyone’s here,” she announces. “Let’s get this over with.”

I sit. My stomach knots. My instincts screaming.

She looks at me. “We found out who took your money. Faith—”

“I don’t care,” I cut her off. “I’m not pressing charges.”

I can’t stand the idea of her suffering anymore. I just can’t.

I won’t do it.

“It wasn’t Faith,” Lo says softly, her eyes losing some of their hardness.

Relief loosens my stomach. I want to sink to my knees and thank the universe.

I also want to kick myself.

She didn’t do it and I had her arrested, fired her, made her a pariah to the point
she’s cleaning dirty bathrooms in a strip club.

How will I ever make this right with her? How will I—

“Paula and Melody accessed your office the night before the cash went missing,” Lo
cuts into my thoughts. “They removed the money, planted the story, and pointed the
finger.”

My world tilts.

I look at my sister. She’s staring at her lap. Melody has her head down as well.

“I didn’t know.” Kyle sits up. “They said they saw her and that…she was sleeping
with you to rip you off, Cain.”

My mouth goes dry.

Kyle continues, in a panic, wanting to explain, tell his side of the story. “I
called around in Seattle and—”

“Don’t gloss it over, Kyle. You did a background check…an unauthorized background
check on Faith Baker,” Lo interrupted, her jaw clenched.

Kyle nods. “Paula said that something about her was off and…”

“Kyle here finds out that Faith worked at a club in Seattle. The Rosebud. He calls
the owner. Jamie Da Silva. A complete douchebag. Da Silva says, yeah, Faith stole
from him.” Lo glares at her subordinate. “How much did she steal from him?”

Kyle clears his throat and mumbles something.

“Louder,” Lo commands.

He looks ashamed. “Three hundred dollars. But…Da Silva said—”

“Three hundred dollars,” Lo repeats. “And how did I find that out?”

My heart has lost all rhythm. I can’t think straight. I don’t know how to process
what’s happening in front of me. My sister? My own sister?

Kyle looks sheepish. “Sheriff Z talked to Seattle PD and they talked to Da Silva.”

“And do you really blame her for stealing, Kyle?”

He shook his head.

“Why is that?”

“He took her money, whatever she earned at the nightclub.”

Lo’s staring so hard at Kyle that I’m surprised she hasn’t bored a hole through
him. “Guess what else I found out, Cain?”

“What?” I asked hoarsely.

“He sent her to the ER regularly.”

My entire body stiffens.

“The last time was ten months ago. She healed and then got the hell out of dodge,
ended up here,” Lo tells me.

This was supposed to be her safe haven. I’d taken that away from Faith.

“How could you?” I whisper. “You’re my sister.”

Paula raises her head and look at me with defiance in her eyes. “She was using you.
You were falling for her. Melody’s been here since the beginning. She belongs with
you. Not some little grifter with a sob story.”

Melody has the good sense to not say anything or even look at me.

“Who took the money?” I ask.

Paula swallows and shrugs.

“She and Melody Brand both took the money,” Lo replies instead.

“You framed her.” I’m holding on to the conference table to not jump and hit
something.

“She played you first,” Paula says. “We just made sure you saw it.”

I left Faith out in the cold. I let her be taken away. I am the one who called Bob
to let him know she’d been arrested for theft and that someone would come to look
through her things. I knew he kicked her out of her place. I cheered then.

“She was half frozen outside the library, Cain. No one deserves that.” Georgia was
in pieces when she told me how she found Faith. That’s when she revealed how she
helped Faith, got her a job with Ricky.

“How could you take her there?” I ask.

“No one else would give her a job, and the cops said she couldn’t leave town.
Beyond all that, she wouldn’t take a cent from me,” Georgia flung back.

“By stealing from your brother and blaming someone else for it? Dragging my deputy
into this?” Lo’s voice is razor sharp now. “Thanks to you, Kyle’s facing an
internal disciplinary review.”

Paula puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Kyle.” He shrugs it away.

“How could you, Paula? You almost cost me my job. I trusted you. I believed you.”

“I just…I was doing my friend a solid,” Paula explains, going teary-eyed. “And
protecting my brother.”

Kyle shoots her a look of disgust. “You made me arrest an innocent woman. She spent
two nights in jail, Paula, for doing nothing, for a crime you committed. Can’t you
see how fucked up that is?”

“Let’s talk about this later,” Paula shoots him a be quiet look.

“This is the last time I talk to you, Paula,” Kyle says sadly. “You’re poison.”

“What?” Paula snaps.

“You threw me under the bus,” he says, not looking at her. “And for what? Some high
school obsession your friend has with your brother?”

Lo releases a long sigh. Her tone is gentle when she says, “Kyle, you can leave.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

Without a backward glance at the woman, who has been his girlfriend since they were
both fifteen years old, he walks away, slamming the door behind him.

“Now, Paula and Melody.” Lo turns her attention to them.

“Lo, she was never one of us,“ Melody chimes. Her parents know Lo and her husband
well. They’re part of the same friend circle. I think they play monthly poker games
together.

“Really?” Lo leans back in her chair, as if getting comfortable.

“And she did steal from her ex, didn’t she?” Melody adds triumphantly.

Lo pulls out her phone and swiped her finger around. Then she holds it up for
Melody and Paula to see. “That’s what her ex did to her.”

Melody makes a face while Paula looks devastated. I’m not sure if it’s because of
what she’s seeing on Lo’s screen or because Kyle just dumped her.

Lo slides her phone to me.

It takes courage for me to pick it up. I look at the pictures, there are four of
them.

In the first, Faith’s face is turned slightly to the side, a deep bruise is
blooming across her cheekbone like a cruel artist’s stroke. In the second, her
wrist is swollen, angry red where the skin split. The third shows the curve of her
ribs, purple and shadowed. And in the last one, her eyes are swollen shut, her jaw
is swollen.

My stomach turns. That asshole beat the crap out of her.

Oh, Faith.

I rise on shaky legs, bile is rising inside me.

I rush out, managing to get to the bathroom just in time to throw up my breakfast.

The photos of Faith brutalized float in my head, making me nauseous. Every time I
think I’m fine, I begin to dry heave.

Fuck! What have I done? I should’ve taken care of Faith. I should’ve remembered who
she is. She thinks the devil with a cat in Moscow is fun. She can quote Cicero.
It takes me a good fifteen minutes to get back to the conference room.

“You okay?” Lo asks.

I shake my head. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay.

“Paula,” I wait until my sister looks at me. “I’m done with you.”

“Cain, I’m your—”

“Done,” I cut her off. “Melody, you and I are never going to happen. Your father is
going to hear about what you did.”

Melody rolls her eyes.

I stare at them—two women I thought I knew, two women I trusted. My sister. My

past.

“Where’s the money?”

Paula looks at Melody. “She has it. We’ll give it back, Cain. We were never going
to keep it and….” She trails off as she sees Melody’s face go from bitchy to
guilty.

“Melody? Where’s the money?” Paula asks, now afraid.

Her friend shrugs. “Look…I had credit card bills, okay?”

“You spent it!” Paula hisses, slamming the palm of a hand on the conference table.
“How much?”

Melody looks only slightly chagrined when she says, “All of it.”

Paula is incredulous. “That was my brother’s money, Melody. You were only going to
keep it safe.”

Then as if something snaps in her, Paula slaps Melody hard. “You bought those shoes
with the money, didn’t you? Your dad didn’t give you a cash gift.”

Melody starts talking and so does Paula. Within seconds, we have a screaming match.

“Stop,” Lo thunders.

Both women shut the fuck up. Thank God!

“Christ, you both make me want to use my service weapon in illegal ways,” Lo
mutters. “Cain?”

I know what she’s asking. I shake my head. “I can’t, Lo.”

She nods.

“Cain, I’m so sorry. We were protecting you! I didn’t think she’d go spend all the
money.” Paula is crying now, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. In the past
that would make me melt, now, I feel manipulated.

“What did you think would happen? You handed stolen money to a woman whose moral
compass is more broken than a bargain bin compass in a hurricane.”
Melody glares at me. “This is on you, Cain Ripley. You’re the one who made me feel
we had something, and then you started sleeping with her.”

“I don’t know what alternate world you and my sister are living in, Melody, but
regardless, there isn’t a universe in which you and I would ever end up together.
Ask me why?”

She doesn’t.

“Because I don’t like you.” I turn to Lo. “I won’t press charges. Paula’s family.”

Both women sigh in relief. Melody smirks. Paula hides her satisfaction. She knew
I’d never let her get arrested.

“He’s lettin’ you off the hook, but you breathe wrong again, and I’ll bury you
both,” Lo warns. “One foot out of line, and I’ll dismantle your lives the way you
dismantled Faith’s.”

Their smiles falter.

Good!

14

YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN

CAIN

Ihaul Paula to my office at Ripley’s

I don’t want to talk to her because I’m angry and torn. All I want to do is howl my
pain for hurting my woman. But, first, I have to close this down.

“Cain—” Paula starts.

“You’re fired,” I cut her off. “Effective immediately.”

Her mouth falls open. “You can’t fire me. I’m your sister.”

“You framed someone. Lied. Ruined a woman’s life. I don’t care whose blood runs in
your veins—you’re done here. And considering I can’t trust you—Melody and you are
banned from Ripley’s.”

Paula slumps into a chair, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” she whispers. “I just...I was just trying to
bring you and Melody closer.”

I don’t answer. I’m too tired. Too disgusted.

“Call Mom and Dad,” I say. “Put them on speaker.”

“No, Cain.” She’s terrified now.

“Paula,” I warn.

She’s sobbing as she does what I ask.

“Hey, Paula darlin’—”

I cut my father off. “Dad, it’s both of us. It’s serious. Is Mom there?”

My father doesn’t ask questions, he knows the answers are coming. My mother joins
the call and my heart breaks for them.

“Tell them what you did, Paula.”

She looks at me with eyes that are pleading for mercy.

Faith spent two nights in jail.

She spent one night homeless, sleeping in the cold.

She’s working at a strip club cleaning right now. Honest work, but…hard.

“Now,” I growl.

Paula starts talking, slowly. Every time she tries to fabricate something, hide her
culpability, I interrupt her and demand she set the story straight.

“Jesus, Paula,” my father gasps time and again.

“What were you thinking?” Mom demands when Paula’s done and is crying so loudly
that I have to increase the speaker volume to be able to hear my parents.

“I…just…Melody and Cain were supposed to be together,” my sister whines.

“Why? Melody is a useless bitch just like you,” Mom has venom in her voice. This
may be the first time I’ve heard her cuss.

Paula cries some more.

“Stop it,” my father orders. “Stop crying. Cain, what are the next steps?”

“She can’t work here.”

“That’s for granted,” Dad agrees.

Paula whimpers. “Dad, I have bills to pay.”

Our mother’s voice comes—tight, furious. “You get your life together, young lady.
We’re not bailing you out ever again after this. Don’t even ask.”

“I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Dad snaps. “Don’t play the victim. Fix your own damn mess.”

“Oh and Paula, either you pay rent for the house or leave. You have a month,” Mom
continues.

Paula lives in my parents’ house, the one we grew up in.

“Mom, how am I supposed to—”

“You’ve been getting paid for doing no work and you haven’t had to pay rent. You’re
twenty-five years old, get a grip on your life.” Mom is taking no prisoners, as I
knew she wouldn’t. “Cain, how is Faith doing?”

“She’s…not good.” It’s the truth. The woman I saw at Nectar was broken, bitter,
brittle.

What have I done!

Sure, Paula and Melody screwed up big time but they weren’t the ones in love with
Faith, or the ones sleeping with her. They weren’t her boyfriend. I was. And what I
wouldn’t give to be that again.

“You take care of that girl,” Dad orders.

“You want him to take care of strangers and not his own sister, your daughter?”
Paula screeches.

“I just can’t take this anymore,” Mom says, sounding dejected. “Cain, we’ll talk
later.”

They hang up.

Paula stares at the phone like it betrayed her.

“You were always the better one, weren’t you?” she accuses.

“Paula, you were the baby of the family and we spoiled you. Part of how you turned
out is on us—but you’re a grown woman, your choices are your own.” I stand up and
look at the sister I’ve always loved—still do. “Leave. You’re not welcome at
Ripley’s.”

She doesn’t say goodbye. Just walks out, slamming my office door shut petulantly
hard.

During a break, I call my parents back.

I sit at my desk, earbuds in my ears.

“So,” my mom says. “Faith.”

I close my eyes.

“I destroyed her,” I say. “And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I can.”

There’s a long silence.

Then my dad says, “You can’t fix a damn thing if you don’t start trying, son, so
get on with it.”
“You tell her that…,” Mom pauses and I can hear the tears in her voice, “we’re
sorry for what Paula did. We’re…so ashamed. And we want to take care of her, make
it right.”

“We’ll be in Silverton for Christmas,” Dad says.

They were supposed to be going on a cruise. Even for Thanksgiving they’d chosen to
go hiking in Bali instead of eating turkey.

I say, more power to them for living their best lives.

“But—”

“We have to check on Paula,” Mom interjects, “She’s still our daughter and I want
to meet Faith. Make amends, though I’m not sure how we can even go about doing
that.”

No kidding!

15

NOT YOURS TO FIX

FAITH

When someone knocks on the motel room door, I don’t answer at first. I’m off the
clock, curled up in bed, trying to remember what it feels like to be human.

I’m re-reading Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. It fits my mood—guilt, emotional

repression, the slow, aching search for identity. I borrowed it from the library,
when I finally found my way back there.

Another knock. Louder this time.

I open the door and nearly slam it shut again.

It’s Bob, the landlord from my old apartment—the one who kicked me out, tossed my
life in a trash bag, and probably pocketed my cash and stole my suitcase.

Next to him is Kyle Brewer. He looks like a boy who finally realized the fire he
started burned down the whole damn town.

“Faith,” Kyle says, “I—”

“Why are you here?”

I don’t have time for recriminations. I’m not interested. These people are the
worst of humanity.

Bob steps forward.

“Here.” He holds out an envelope, thick and creased. He slides my suitcase, the one
I bought so I could have my life packed with dignity and not in trash bags. “It was
wrong what I did. I...didn’t know the whole story. Merry Christmas.”

I take the envelope. Inside is four hundred dollars. Money I thought I’d never see.
Money I painstakingly saved while I worked at Ripley’s.

Kyle nudges him, and Bob nods, grimacing. “Ah…if you want to come back, the
apartment…yeah, it’s available.”

“No, thank you.”

I’m about to shut the door when Kyle speaks again. “I’m really sorry, Faith.” He
clears his throat. “It was Paula. And Melody. They framed you.”

I look him dead in the eye.

“Go fuck yourself, Kyle.”

He flinches.

Whatever!

I close the door.

I touch my suitcase and feel a sense of relief. Now, when I leave, or I’m kicked
out, I can pack my things in a proper suitcase, not shove everything in a trash
bag.

I’m not trash.

Tears fills my eyes.

Fall.

I swipe at them.

I push the suitcase under the bed. There isn’t room in the small closet that holds
the few clothes I have. My coat hangs on the hook behind the door. It’s the one
that Cain, thankfully, brought back when he came to Nectar to…I have no idea why he
came.

Maybe to gloat?

Look at what I did to you—now, you’re mopping up urine?

I hide the envelope of money inside a sanitary pad. It’s an old foster child trick.
I even put some ketchup on the pad so it looks like dried blood, and no one will
touch it.

I have now saved six hundred dollars. I can leave Silverton, go to Los Angeles.

I could also stay.

I like it here. It’s quiet. Especially, this new job. No one bothers me. I work
alone in silence. I do my job, get my paycheck, and keep at it.

Is this living or surviving?

Same difference for someone like me. And what did living give me? I tried, didn’t
I? I fell in love and trusted, and what did that give me?

I got hurt here, but I also found solace.

Should I stay or should I go?

Since I don’t know, I leave the question hanging in the air.

Thankfully, my alarm goes off, which means it’s time for my shift.

Cleaning is like meditation, or at least it is for me.

Focus on the small things. The speck of dirt. The stain that won’t go away.

Leave the world behind.

16

A HOLLOW APOLOGY

CAIN

I’m afraid. Scared shitless. That’s the God’s honest truth.

I knock on her door and stand away from it, just in case.

Of what, dickhead?

I know her schedule now. When I first asked Ricky, he told me to go fuck myself.
When I explained that I wanted to make things right, he gave in after I begged. The
man has a nasty streak.

I’ve been making amends, or at least trying. I told Bob to give the money he stole
back, and he said, “No way, I didn’t steal nothing.”

So, I sent Kyle to deal with him, and promptly, Bob went with him to see Faith,
give her money, and her suitcase back.

“Why did he take the fuckin’ suitcase?” I muse, disgusted with Bob-The-Dirtbag.
“It was new?” Kyle suggests, shaking his head. “Bob is a pustule on society.”

“No question about that.”

“Well, he made restitution. So, that’s the good news.”

“How was she?”

“She told me to go fuck myself,” he says in response.

“So, not good?” I ask unnecessarily.

Kyle gives me a flat look. “I arrested her, threw her in jail, Cain. The fact that
she didn’t knee me in the nuts is her showing restraint.”

I wonder if she’ll show similar restraint with me.

She opens the door. Gives me a blank look.

She’s lost weight. Her skin is pale, which is a feat since it is a lovely café
latte.

Faith has some Latin ancestry, Mexican maybe, but she doesn’t know. She was placed
in foster care when she was three, and she has no clue who her parents are, and no
desire to find out. This is all she told me about her past. She didn’t tell me
about her ex, who beat her. She left the most important parts of her within
herself.

I can’t blame her. Trust has never come easy for her—I understand that better now
than I ever did. And now, the odds are stacked against me. It’s not just about
earning her trust again, like before. It’s about going further, reaching for the
pieces of herself she once gave me—and maybe no longer can.

“Faith,” I say. Her name catches in my throat.

Our eyes meet. Something fractures inside me. Not because she looks angry or
wounded, but because she doesn’t.

Her expression is without emotion. The softness I used to know in her gaze has
hardened into something unshakable.

This is my fault.

“I know I don’t have the right,” I begin, my voice rough. “But I needed to say this
to you face-to-face.”

She crosses her arms. Gives me silence. She’s waiting.

I have to get this right. I know that. There’s no room for error, not after what I
did to her. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t as much as bat an eyelid.

“I knew…I know you and…I should’ve known you’d never steal.”

Nothing. Not even a deep breath.

I continue. “I was wrong. About everything. About you. I listened to voices that
didn’t deserve my trust and lost yours in the process.”

Still nothing.

This is harder than I thought it would be.

She’s shut down. Where is my sweet thing who used to laugh so hard she had tears in
her eyes?

She’s in jail, Cain. You put her there.

The horror of what I have done to her is a living nightmare. If it hurts me so

much, I can’t even fathom how it crushes her. I could feel her affection for me—I
could feel that we were falling in love. And now I know what her ex did to her, and
in that harsh light, my actions are even more reprehensible.

My hands shake slightly as I step forward. “I ignored every instinct I had about
who you are because it was easier to see you as the problem than to confront the
truth about the people I thought I knew. And I am so, so sorry.”

She continues to study me, unmoved.

She isn’t cruel. She doesn’t lash out. She simply watches, as though she’s
measuring my words and finding them…too little, too late.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I wouldn’t, if I were you. But…Faith, I fell in
love with you and I…if there’s even a flicker of”—I have to pause to collect myself
because my eyes fill—“feelings for me, please…give me a chance.”

We stay like that for long moments. I plead silently.

“There’s nothing inside me to give,” she finally says.

My breath catches.

“No, Faith, don’t say that.” I’m not above begging. But looking at her now, I know,
even if I dropped to my knees, it wouldn’t matter—because she’s already gone
somewhere I can’t reach.

“I…trusted you.” There’s no accusation in her voice. It’s just a statement.

“I know.”

She swallows, the first visible crack in her calm—a sign that I do affect her.

“You threw me out like trash and called it justice.”

Tears fill my eyes. I’m thirty years old. I don’t cry often, but right now, I feel
like bawling like a child. “Forgive me, Faith.”

Her mouth curves into a bitter approximation of a smile. “I do forgive you.”

I stare at her, stunned. “You...do?”

“Yes. But I do so I don’t have to live with bitterness.”

Her words are a blow. Now, I have no words left.

“Is that it?” she asks softly after a minute passes in silence.
“Faith—”

“I’m tired,” she continues placidly. “I have a shift in two hours. I need to take a
nap.”

“Can we talk again? I want to make this right. I…know I hurt you, but I can make
this right.”

I have no idea how to do that, and from the sad look on her face, she knows it,
too. There’s no going back; that’s what she’s saying without using her voice.

“There’s no need, Cain. I’m past it. Take care of yourself.”

She closes the door gently.

I stare at the peeling blue-gray paint and the faded metal number 3 nailed to it
for a long time.

She gave me forgiveness. But not her future. She’s not the same woman I knew. The
one who smiled over coffee. The one who talked about Cicero. That Faith doesn’t
exist anymore.

I didn’t just hurt her. I wonder if I broke the last soft part she had left.

What have I done?

17

THE CASE FOR STAYING

FAITH

I’m wiping down the bar at Nectar when Ricky calls me into his office. I brace
myself. The last time we had a ‘talk,’ it was about a drunk who tried to grab my
ass while I was cleaning the hallway outside the men’s bathroom.

But when I step inside, Ricky looks almost...soft.

“Sit.” He gestures toward the cracked vinyl chair opposite his desk.

I do as he asks. I’ve been thinking about leaving—but somehow I haven’t had the
energy to make it happen.

I wonder if it’s because of Cain, especially after he came to my room a week ago.
He looked genuinely sorry. I told him he’s forgiven. And he is.

I get it. Why trust me? I’m no one.

If I had a sister, I’d trust her over a stranger any day. But that doesn’t change
how I feel—doesn’t stop the pain, doesn’t stop Cain from hurting me by merely
standing in front of me. Seeing him hurts. Talking to him hurts. Listening to him
hurts.

Jamie gave me physical pain. He gaslit me. He told me I was useless and he was
doing me a favor by taking care of me. I didn’t love him. At all. I only had fear.
But he was never able to hurt my heart, just my body and my mind. But Cain was and
is different. I fell in love with him. I still love him. It’s pathetic. The first
man who shows me kindness, I fall in love.

At least with Jamie, I knew it was attraction—and a need for someone, anyone, to be
a companion. I was alone, had been since I ran away from my last foster home when I
was fifteen. I was working wherever I could. Living in homeless shelters. Dodging
the worst on the streets.

When I met Jamie, I knew what he was—a taker. But he gave me a job, and at first,
he was almost decent. He made me move in with him. Then, slowly, my friends
disappeared. Or maybe I did. And then came the hitting. The screaming. The control.
It sounds like a bad Lifetime movie.

History repeats, they say. Past is prologue.

I obviously didn’t learn a thing from Jamie. Cain gave me a job. Gave me kindness.
I fell in love. Then he beat me up—not with his fists like Jamie, but in other
ways.

But this hurts more than Jamie ever did.

I’m not afraid of Cain. I’m scared of surrendering. Of handing over my heart and
finding myself trapped in that same vicious cycle—apologies followed by pain, sweet
words masking fresh bruises.

The ache Cain causes is different. With Jamie, even in the darkest moments, I could
still claw my way to the surface. I could still find a sliver of blue sky between
the clouds. But now, even when the sun shines, all I see is gray.

“So,” Ricky cracks his knuckles as he leans back in his chair. “I got a job for
you. Bartending.”

I blink.

“You do good cleaning…but we have a new person. You train her, and Onyx will train
you for the bar.”

I swallow. “You sure?”

“Yeah. You bartended before?”

I nod.

“Then, what’s the problem?”

My meditation will be taken away from me. I love my silence. Behind the bar, I’ll
have to talk to people. Behind the bar, I’ll be left open.
“You’ll make more. The tips are good. The way you look, you’ll make bank. Cleaning
pays fuck all.”

He’s right about that. I’m barely scraping by. After the bills are paid, there’s
almost nothing left—my savings are a joke.

He sees my silence as reticence. “I’ve seen how you watch everything, keep track
without writing shit down. You’re smart. You’ll do great.”

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.

“You don’t have to keep mopping piss off the floors, kid. I mean it.”

I fold my hands on my lap. “Why are you doing this?”

Ricky shrugs. “Because you’re good people. And because you don’t belong out on the
street every time life gets ugly. I’ve done that. It sucks.”

I don’t say anything. My throat’s too tight.

I was going to run. I was…as soon as I got my bearings. Now, Ricky is giving me a
reason to stay. Could I?

He studies me for a long moment. “Don’t run. You hear me? You’ve run enough. Make a
life. You deserve it.”

18

BAR CONFESSIONS

FAITH

Onyx eyes the two women who come into Nectar. “What the fuck?”

Alison Stryker, whose face probably shows up under “Nice Church-Going Lady” in the
thesaurus, and her friend Geena Stinson, who organizes the church bake sale every
year, primly sit at the bar at Nectar, a strip club.

There’s a stripper, right now, shaking her ass on the stage. All she’s wearing are
pasties over her nipples, and a flimsy strip of fabric to hide what she has between
her legs.

“Hello,” Alison says, her back straight, like she’s keeping a brave face. I think
she is.
Onyx looks about ready to have a heart attack.

We’ve only been open for half an hour, so things are still slow. In the lull, Onyx
was teaching me how to make a smoked Old-Fashioned—Nectar style. It’s not all that
different from the classic, except they use a fancy house blend of bitters and call
it the Nectar Drip. Whatever!

We’ve been practicing all week, and I’ve been tasting carefully so I’m not drunk.
Onyx, on the other hand, tosses drinks back with ease because she has the
constitution of an alcoholic. Her words.

I set the menus in front of the two women, who smile…warmly.

What in the world is going on?

They read the menu. Their eyes go wider and wider. Their eyebrows curve up and up,
until they’re almost hitting the hairline.

I mean, we have a variety of cocktails with names like Morning After, which is made
with espresso, whiskey, and regret, according to the menu.

“What does regret mean?” I ask Onyx.

“Absinthe,” she says pithily.

There’s a blue curaçao cocktail called Slippery When Wet.

We have a peach schnapps vanilla vodka monstrosity called Barely Legal.

There’s Dirty Knees, Blow me First (shooter with whipped cream topping…yeah, real
subtle), Cherry Popped, Lap Dance Lemonade, G-String Gimlet, Barely Dressed; and
the ever-popular Kiss & Lick, which are layered shots meant to be drunk with a
partner.

“I’ll have a Diet Coke,” Alison says.

Geena licks her lips. “I’ll have the Lap Dance Lemonade,” she whispers as if she
isn’t asking for a drink but an actual lap dance.

Onyx, with mischief dancing in her eyes, turns to me and loudly announces, “One
Diet Coke and one Lap Dance Lemonade, you make sure it’s sweet and sticky like I
taught you, Faith.”

The women go pale. I roll my eyes.

After their drinks are served, they both clear their throats in tandem and then
call my name out together.

“Yes, Mrs. Stryker, Mrs. Stinson?” I give them a small smile.

They are the worst gossips in Silverton, and I know they’re here to get the juice
to take back to Main Street and do their part in demolishing whatever is left of my
reputation, which isn’t much.

“We hear you’re thinking about leaving Silverton.” Alison hasn’t touched her drink,
except to hold it as if it’s a weapon or…perhaps, a lifeline?

Right! They’re here to kick me out.

“Yes,” I say softly. I don’t want drama in my place of work. I just want peace.

“You shouldn’t leave,” Geena blurts out.

“Huh?” Onyx gasps from behind me.

I frown and look at them like they’re aliens.

“We’re…look, we made a mistake.” This comes from Alison, and her tone is almost
belligerent. “All of us. The whole town. We believed that awful Paula. I mean,
Melody always lies, but we expected better from Paula.”

I nod. I stay silent. I have no idea how to respond to what Alison just said.

“Cain came to a church meeting yesterday, and he told us everything. Georgia”—Geena

pauses and then picks up a napkin to wipe her tears—“told us what happened. We’re
so sorry that you were kicked out of your place. Bob has been told to behave
himself. And…” Geena trails off, sniffling.

“We’re sorry you had to spend the night…in the cold.” Alison pats her friend’s back
while she whimpers apologies.

I study them both, trying to see beyond their words and behavior.

“We’re so sorry, Faith.” Alison grabs my hand in both of hers. “We thought you were
sleeping with Cain to…well, we thought terrible things. Please don’t leave
Silverton. Give us a chance. I promise you’ll see we’re a great community.”

After the women left, Onyx did a shot of tequila as if there was an emergency.
“What the fuck was that?”

I gave a slow, uncertain shrug. “No clue.”

I get more than a clue as the days go by—pretty much everyone who’s anyone I met at
Ripley’s shows up at Nectar.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” Ricky asks when he sees a box of cinnamon rolls on the
bar with the Hanley’s Bakery logo on it.

“Everyone is comin’ in to talk to Faith,” Onyx explains. “They get a drink, and
then they say they’re sorry, and then they tell her to stay in Silverton.” Her
voice drops to a scandalized murmur, “Yesterday, Father Sculdun ordered a gimlet.”

“The G-String Gimlet?” Ricky looks as baffled as we feel.

“He didn’t say G-string,” I interject.

“And Mrs. Hanley?” He opens the box and picks up a cinnamon roll.

“She was sorry for what Faith went through and is very ashamed of how Silverton
treated her.” Onyx folds her arms, looking smug as hell.

Ricky nods as if all this makes sense as he chews on a bite of the roll.

Onyx continues. “Yesterday, Tom from the hardware store came by. Gave her a free
toolset so she has them for when she needs them.”

“Was it a nice set?” Ricky wants to know.

I sigh. “I gave it back.”

Onyx pulls out the box with tools from under the bar. “Nuh-huh. I took it. If you
don’t want it, I can use it.”

“What’s Tom’s story?” Ricky gets comfortable on a stool.

I lean against the bar, head down.

“He said his niece works in social services. And when he found out that Faith was
in the system, he got angry with himself for not helping her.” Onyx grins.

“Why does he think he needs to help me?” I throw my hands up in exasperation.

“It’s a small-town disease,” Ricky tells me.

Onyx nods in agreement. “They’re all fucked up about you spending two nights in
jail, one sleeping outside the library; and they’re really sorry that you ended up
cleaning our toilets.”

“I don’t get it. I met most of these people at Ripley’s, but they didn’t do
anything bad to me.”

“They didn’t help you,” Onyx points out.

Ricky looks keenly at the remaining rolls in the bakery box, as if debating which
one to eat next.

Dude, they’re all the freaking same!

“Cain’s been callin’ people, I hear.” Ricky triumphantly picks up a roll.

“What?” My heart, which was frozen moments ago, comes to life.

Thump. Thump.

“Cain’s been callin’ people,” he repeats.

I glare at him.

He chuckles. “Sweetheart, the man has told everyone how his family mistreated you,
and he wants to make amends. You know, he called me and demanded I give you a job
as a bartender.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I feel sick. “Is that why you—?”

“Fuck no!” Ricky exclaims. “I told him to fuck himself, ‘cause I was doin’ it
anyway. I didn’t want him to take credit for it.”

It keeps happening.

People I hardly know show up with pie, tool sets, coffee, and an apology for crimes
committed against me. It’s like the whole town is taking responsibility.

It’s confusing.

It’s also nice.

I get the full scoop from Georgia when I accept her invitation for dinner at her
place.

I’m not ready to go to a diner or a coffee shop or, God forbid, Ripley’s. I’m still
raw. I’m in pain in the places inside me that have thawed, and numb in others.

Turns out Cain stood in front of the congregation at the First Trinity Church and
told them everything.

“Told them what Paula and Melody did. What he did. What he didn’t do. Said he’s in
love with you.”

I choked on my water.

“And he asked everyone to help him. Not because he deserves forgiveness, but
because maybe you deserve to be validated and acknowledged.”

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Word spreads fast in a town like Silverton,” Georgia says. “Sometimes gossip heals
instead of harms.”

19

REGRETFULLY YOURS, CAIN

FAITH

For Christmas, I get a pair of boots, a jacket, and oh so many books. I can’t even
return them because these are from the town, and not a specific person, not Cain.

Every time I go into town, people stop and talk to me. No one seems to mind that
I’m a bartender at a strip club.

People are nice.

Cain comes by all the time—usually after he closes Ripley’s. He sits at the bar
with a book, leaves it behind, and a couple of days later talks to me about it.

Tonight, he taps the paperback copy of Love in the Time of Cholera. “What did you
think?” he asks, like it’s some kind of test he hopes I’ll pass.

I glance at the book, then at him.

He hasn’t even glanced at the stage, where a blonde in thigh-highs is climbing that
pole with the determination of someone chasing rent money on a deadline.

Cain doesn’t look. Doesn’t leer. His whiskey’s still mostly full.

He’s here for me.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“I think the book is about obsession.” I wipe down the bar even though it’s already
clean. “Florentino doesn’t love Fermina. He wants her because she said no.”

Cain nods slowly. “That’s one way to read it.”

“It’s the only way that doesn’t feel like a lie,” I reply, not looking at him. “He
didn’t wait out of devotion. He waited because he couldn’t let go of the version of
her he invented.”

Cain is quiet for a moment, then says, “So you’re saying love doesn’t wait?”

“What Florentino feels is obsession. He mistakes it for love.” I pause. “Sometimes

people feel guilt and mistake that for love.”

Flinch.

I refill his water glass. His fingers brush mine and stay just a second too long.

“I didn’t come here to argue literary theory,” he says quietly.

“No?” I drop the rag on the bar counter and cross my arms. “Then why are you here,
Cain?”

His gaze lifts to mine.

It’s steady.

Unapologetic.

Devastated.

“To see you,” he says.

I want to scoff. I want to scorn. I want to say, “Go fuck yourself.”

But I don’t. Because God help me, part of me still wants to be seen…by him.

It’s a slow courtship.

Winter gives way to Spring, and Cain and I continue over books and pole dancing
women he doesn’t even look at.

I speak with Cain’s parents over the phone. I’m careful, they’re loving and
affectionate.

I don’t leave Silverton.

I start saving again.

Not to run, but to build?

I move out of the motel and rent a small apartment over Let’s Read, the only
bookstore in Silverton. The owner, Jackie Jones, is a riot and a half—and we’ve
become friends.

Actually, I have more friends than I did in Seattle; partly because I’m not dating
a douchebag, and because Silverton is making amends.

I mention that to Cain, and he smiles. “Then you’ll stay, won’t you?”

I don’t give him an answer, but he knows, as I do, that I’m staying. I’m healing.
This place is good for me.

The ugliness of what happened is still within me, but not taking center stage any
longer.

I see Melody and Paula from time to time. I ignore them. I walk away. I have
nothing to say to them.

“You don’t want to punch them and break their noses?” Onyx asks once when we see
them at The Rooster, a bar on Main Street.

Those two are still thick as thieves. You’d think after everything that happened—
Kyle dumping Paula, Cain and their parents cutting her off, even going so far as to
kick her out of the house—she might’ve changed? But no. Nothing’s different. She
and Melody are still inseparable.

“Nope. Don’t want to punch anyone.”

“Well, I do.”

I have a normal life again. A simple one. It’s the best life I’ve ever had. It’s
even better than how it was when I first came to Silverton. Now, people know me.
People see me.

Cain sees me.

Slowly but steadily, the ice walls around my heart are thawing—and it’s not painful
to let go. In fact, it’s pleasant.

I’m starting to believe that maybe the world isn’t all bad—that there is still
good.

I smile when I see Cain. I don’t have to force a plastic one. It’s real.

No one in my life has taken such care with me.

He did wrong, and I may never give myself to him or anyone else again—because
healing only goes so far, but I can talk to him, be near him, enjoy him.

Liar, liar, pants on fire!

Sheesh!

Okay, I’m still attracted to him and want him.

I still love him.

I still have dreams that we’ll end up together, somehow, though I don’t know how. I
can’t see a future with him, but I want it, which is scary, so I bury it deep,
deep, deep inside.

“Hey.” He’s coming earlier in the day now, before we open at noon.

I’m restocking the bar and thank him when he helps, carrying boxes from the storage
room.

Ricky teases that he’s not going to pay Cain, and enjoys the free labor.

Cain counters, “The minute she lets me, I’m hiring her back at Ripley’s—so enjoy it
while you can.”

I haven’t been in Ripley’s since I was arrested. It’s not something I’m able to do.
I’m managing better with what happened to me, but it doesn’t change how my gut
tightens even as I walk past Cain’s place.

He knows. He doesn’t push.

“So…I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me.”

I jerk my head too fast and bump it against the lip of the bar as I’m bringing up
bottles.

He starts rubbing the bruised area. “Ouch! You okay, sweet thing?”

Sweet thing!

The man needs to stop calling me that. He doesn’t do it all the time because I told
him not to, but he does it when he’s not paying attention, like now, when he wants
to soothe.

I like it.

I hate that I like it.

But I like it.

A lot.

“Date?”

He nods.

I lick my lips.

“Just simple. No drama.”

I want to say no. There’s no profit in seeing him again. He’s a reminder of things
lost.

“Okay.”

What the fuck, Faith?

“Really?”

I roll my eyes.

He pulls me into a hug and smacks his mouth against mine. It’s a playful kiss.
“Tomorrow at eleven.”

“In the morning?” I ask as he’s leaving Nectar.

“Yeah.”

“I have a shift.”

“Already talked to Ricky. He’s giving you time off.” He blows me a kiss and waves
before disappearing.

I press my palms against the counter, exhaling slowly.

What are you doing, Faith?

I don’t know.

Yes, you do. You’re playing with fire.

20

SWEET THING

CAIN

She doesn’t ask where we’re going. She just comes along.

I pull off the gravel road and park at a scenic vista point that most tourists pass
by. From there, we cut across a narrow, pine-lined trail that winds toward the
ridge above the falls. The path is soft with needles and damp earth, and sunlight
filters through the canopy in golden stripes, casting a cathedral glow over
everything.

We move past small rivers swollen with snowmelt, their water rushing over mossy
rocks. The air smells like sap and wet stone.

It’s mid-spring, and though the air is still crisp, the cold no longer bites. Not
when the sun shines.

The trail I’ve chosen is the Canyon Trail to South Falls—a gentle loop, just under
a mile.

The forest wraps around us in every shade of green imaginable, moss climbing the
trees like a second skin. Ferns unfurl like secrets, and the air is clean, new. A
dense canopy overhead filters sunlight into shafts of gold, spotlighting patches of
wildflowers and slick stones. It’s silent, but not empty.

It’s enthralling as only the Oregon wilderness can be.

It doesn’t take long before the trees part, and we’re standing before the tallest
single-drop waterfall in Silver Falls State Park.

The view strikes like breath after a long silence.

Water tumbles from a basalt cliff over 170 feet high, crashing into a basin that
spits back mist and light. A silvery spray arcs like lace across the rocks. The
sound is thunderous but peaceful, like nature is exhaling.

Faith stands beside me, her face tilted toward the falls, letting the view—and
whatever’s quietly shifting between us—settle.

We kick off our boots and sit on the blanket I’ve spread across the patch of soft
grass. She curls her legs beneath her, arms loosely around her knees, the breeze
tugging gently at her hair. I stretch my legs out, lean back against a sun-warmed
rock, and face the waterfall.

The roar of the falls fills the silence between us, drowning out the past and
making room for the now.

“This is pristine beauty,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” I say, but I’m looking at her.

She notices and blushes. I feel like I won an award.

I’ve packed the world’s simplest picnic: two sandwiches, a thermos of coffee, her
favorite kettle chips, two big pieces of Ripley’s double chocolate brownies, which
she loves, cold sparkling water, and strawberries.

We eat and talk about books, about Silverton, about the bookstore, about Ripley’s.

We talk like we used to.

“Why did you so easily believe I’d steal?” she asks, casually, just as I pop a
strawberry into my mouth.

The question blindsides me. I swallow wrong, and the juice hits the back of my
throat, going down the wrong pipe. I start coughing hard, doubled over, and she
leans in, patting my back with a grin.

She’s laughing. My Faith is laughing.

And God, it stops me cold—because it’s been so damn long since I’ve seen that light
in her. So long since I’ve heard that sound and felt it reach right into my chest.

If all it takes is choking on fruit to bring her back to life like this, I’d do it
again. Every day. For the rest of my life.

“Fine, I won’t ask difficult questions,” she teases when I get my bearings back.

I roll my eyes.

Her ease with me tells me that she’s healing. Her question tells me she needs
answers to be whole again.
“I believed Paula because she’s my sister. Because I didn’t, for a moment, think
she’d lie to me. I told myself it made sense. That it had to.”

Faith looks away and gazes into the distance, the trees, and the waterfall.

Pristine beauty.

“Then Kyle…the moron, gets in about how you did this in Seattle and I just…” I
trail off because I don’t have a good explanation for what I did. I just don’t.

She gives me a long, assessing look. “I understand.”

“You do? Because I fucking don’t. I had no reason to distrust you. I…you work hard,
Faith. You have such integrity. I knew you had secrets, and I thought they were the
wrong ones.”

She looks at me, confused. “Secrets?”

I shrug, helpless. “You never talked about Seattle. You didn’t mention friends, or
family—no one from before. It was like your past was a closed book, and I didn’t
know how to read between the lines. Twenty-two years, and nothing to show for it? I
told myself it made sense…that maybe you were starting over. But deep down, I
thought you were running away.”

“I was,” she breathes.

“I know. But I…fucked up, thinking…”

“I was pulling a Marion Crane?” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, like she
wants to lighten the moment.

“Am I Norman Bates in this story?” I wrinkle my nose, letting her lead us away from
the unpleasant for a moment, but I know we’ll have to go back.

She laughs.

Again.

My heart warms.

I want to hold her. I want to kiss her. I want to make love to her.

But mostly, I want her to be happy.

“Speaking of mothers”— she gives me a long, assessing look—“yours called me.”

I shoot her a look of mock exasperation. “Mother is nothing like Mrs. Bates.”

She chuckles, then sobers. “She told me she was so sorry for what happened.”

“When was this?”

Mom never told me, but I’m not surprised. Christmas was difficult for them. Paula
was a brat, behaving like she was fourteen instead of twenty-five. We all felt like
we failed in making her a responsible adult.

“Christmas. She wanted to meet me.”

I nod. Wait.

“I wasn’t ready,” she says, her voice soft. “I couldn’t face people. Couldn’t
handle kindness. Or pity. Or being seen.”

I cup her cheek, I can’t help it. I want to, need to touch her, comfort her, and
myself.

She leans into my palm, just briefly—nuzzling into the touch for a nanosecond
before pulling away. It’s not rejection. It’s restraint. She’s not pushing me out.
She’s silently telling me, “This is all I can take right now.”

“But I’m better,” she adds. “Not whole. Not fixed. But…I’m not hiding anymore.”

“I can see that.”

She glances at me, and a warmth flickers in her eyes.

I extend my hand, palm up—offering, not asking. I don’t move. I wait.

She hesitates, just for a nanosecond, then reaches for me.

We meet in the middle, fingers finding each other like they remember how. Our
fingers tangle, and in that gesture, we begin to mend.

“I thought about this a hundred times,” I murmur. “What I’d say. What I’d do. But
it never looked like this.”

She tilts her head. “Like what?”

“Like peace. Like the sound of you breathing next to me being enough.”

She doesn’t smile. But she leans in.

It’s the most precious moment of my life.

When we kiss, it’s not desperate or urgent.

It’s not carnal.

It’s careful.

It’s loving.

Like we’re both learning how to be soft again.

She rests her head on my shoulder, the sun warming our faces.

I hold her close and whisper into her hair, “Sweet thing.”

I feel her smile at the endearment.

This isn’t a grand gesture. It isn’t fireworks or confessions or forgiveness etched

in stone.

It’s just a hike and a picnic.

It’s one of the happiest moments of my life.

21

JUST NO!

CAIN

“Idon’t have time for this,” I snap when I see Paula at my door. Since she’s not
allowed into Ripley’s, she comes to my apartment now.

“Come on, Cain, you really don’t have time for your sister?”

She shows up like this, all the fucking time. Without warning, with an attitude
that grates like nails on a chalkboard.

It’s late, I’ve just finished closing out the books for Ripley’s, and I’m halfway
into a beer, and the last thing I need is to see my sister with her smug smile,
which, granted, is frayed a little with the edges cracked.

I step back without inviting her in.

She follows, shutting the door with some force as if it’s to blame for her being a
completely spoiled bitch.

“I need help,” she announces.

I sit on the sofa where I was working and pick up my beer. I take a long draw and
ask, patiently, “With what?”

She flops on an armchair and sighs like I’m inconveniencing her by making her say
it aloud. “Money. Jobs are scarce, and Melody and I—”

“Still living together?” I cut in, feeling a flare of anger.

She huffs, giving a dramatic tilt of her head. “She’s my best friend.”

“And her parents kicked her out of their house.”

She and Melody had rented an apartment in a new complex, which I knew they couldn’t
afford.

See, Faith believes no one is going to help her, so she lives within her means.
Meanwhile, my sister and Melody are looking for a handout.

“It’s not easy, Cain. No one wants to hire us.”

“That’s because everyone knows you have a loose relationship with ethics.” Even I
won’t call my sister a bitch to her face, no matter how true a characterization it
is.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re gonna choose her over your own sister?”

I don’t pretend not to know who she meant when she said her.

“I’m not choosing a person, Paula, I’m choosing not to enable you.”

Paula’s mouth twitches. “Everyone knows you’re sleeping with her. I guess
integrity’s flexible when you’re horny.”

That does it. I slam my beer down on the coffee table and stand up.

“If you want to tear someone down, Paula, go find a mirror,” I say gruffly,
exhausted with my sister’s drama. “Now, get out.”

She crosses her arms and pouts, like she’s still got the upper hand. “She’s going
to use you.”

“No,” I say, voice low. “That’s what you and Melody did. Faith’s got more integrity
in her little finger than you’ve shown in your entire life. She works. She earns
her living. She doesn’t steal from her family. She doesn’t manipulate people who
love her.”

Paula scoffs—pure reflex.

However, she realizes arrogance isn’t getting her anywhere, so she shifts gears,
softens her tone, and reaches for emotional blackmail instead. “We’re pariahs now,
Cain. I can’t get through a day without someone calling me names under their
breath.”

“Then now you know how you made Faith feel.”

That shuts her up.

I let out a long breath, steadying myself. I’m not going to lose my temper—neither
my sister nor Melody is worth that kind of energy. “I didn’t press charges, Paula.
That was me being generous. I’ve got no more left to give.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. Something in her face crumbles for a second,
but I don’t let it in.

“You should go.”

“Cain, I need money. Rent is due and…do you want me to be homeless?”

“I know for sure that Macy offered you a job.”

Macy owns two grocery stores, one in Silverton and one in Bethany.

“You want me to work at a checkout counter?” She looks appalled.

“It’s honest work.”

She looks at me like I kicked her puppy. “How can you treat me like this?”

“You’re twenty-five years old, sis, you need to stand on your own two feet. I can’t
support you.”
“But you have so much money,” she points out.

“I have enough. And it’s my money. I earned it.”

“I’m your sister.” She stands, her chest puffed up. “I have a right to it.”

Christ. Who the hell is this girl? How did she grow up under the same roof and turn
into this?

My dad spent his whole life grinding as a real estate manager. My mom taught second
grade for thirty years, the kind of woman who brought her own paper supplies when
the school budget ran dry. We were raised to work hard, to earn what we wanted. No
shortcuts. No free rides.

I should’ve listened to my parents when they warned me, over and over, not to be
Paula’s crutch. But I kept telling myself she’d grow out of it. She was just young.
Just finding herself.

But one year bled into the next, and now…I’m looking at my sister, and can’t
recognize her.

“Sell some of the shit that Melody and you bought with the ten grand you stole,” I
suggest.

“We can’t,” she cries out. “Mel paid off her credit card debt…it was…she bought
makeup and things. We can’t sell anything, Cain.”

“She bought what for ten thousand dollars?” I am incredulous.

She looks chagrined. “Make-up is expensive.”

I shake my head. “Whatever! Like I said, I’ve got no money to give you. Accept
Macy’s offer. Or find another job. Live in a smaller apartment.”

“It is small. Just two bedrooms.”

I look at her with a furrowed brow, considering. “Paula, you’re a grown-up. You’re
on your own.”

She bursts into tears. “Can you ask Mom and Dad to help? They sold the house. They
made money. They can give me some.”

The corners of my eyes twitch in exasperation. “Paula, you gotta earn a living,
girl.”

“I hate you,” she flings at me and then runs out.

This is exactly how she acted ten years ago. Like she’s frozen in time, trapped in
some emotional time loop—stunted, clinging to her teenage self. Still, she’s my
sister, and I love her. I don’t like her very much right now, but I feel
responsible for her.

My heart aches for her.

My parents blame Melody, think she’s the rot that crept into Paula’s roots. And
maybe they’re right. As the only child of much older parents, Melody was coddled—
never disciplined, never challenged. Now, her parents are in their seventies, and
they don’t have the strength or the will to deal with her anymore. They want out.
“We want to sell the house and move somewhere warmer—like your parents,” Mr. Brand
told me over the phone when everything went down. “But…she’s still here.”

“Sir, you’ve got to take care of yourselves,” I advised. “She’s an adult. Let her
live like one.”

From the background, I heard Mrs. Brand’s voice crack: “That’s what I keep telling
him.”

So, when my parents listed their house, the Brands followed suit. Melody’s
childhood home sold faster than ours, and they were gone within a month, relieved,
I think, to finally be free of the daughter who spent her life manipulating them.

“Cain, Cain.” I hear my name being yelled out as I walk to my truck.

Faith finishes her shift at nine on Mondays, because she starts earlier. I’ve set
it up so Georgia closes Ripley’s on Mondays, giving me time to pick Faith up and
drop her off at her place. I do that every day she works. I pick her up and drop
her off. It’s a ritual to start and end my day.

Right now, I want to rush to her.

I need some peace after that disturbing conversation with Paula. I need my sweet
thing.

I turn and groan when I see Melody run up to me.

She’s in running clothes. Obviously designer wear. Christ!

“Melody, I don’t have time for this. Paula was here with her palm stretched out,
and I said no. I’m sayin’ no to you as well.”

Melody smiles warmly. “I know. I’m not here for…that.”

“Then what?”

She makes doe eyes. Juts her tits out in her sports bra.

I cringe.

Does she really think this is going to work?

“Look, I just…I want us to be friends again. I’m sorry about what happened. I
should’ve never gone along with Paula. I know that but—”

“Melody, you and Paula cooked that shit up together. Don’t lay the blame on her.
You’re the one who spent the money.”

She flutters her eyelashes. “Come on, Cain, you have so much, and it was just ten
grand.”

“Just ten grand?” I shake my head, disgusted as hell. “That’s a shit ton of money,
Melody. That’s five months’ rent for Ripley’s. I struggled to make payroll for a
few months after you stole from me.”

Who does she think we are? The fucking Rockefellers?

Her features soften with tenderness. It’s fake.

“I’m sorry, Cain.” She comes closer, into my personal space.

I step back. “For fuck’s sake, Melody. I’m not interested in you. I haven’t been
for years. We slept together a couple of times three years ago.”

“You’re the best I’ve ever had, Cain.” She now puts her hands on my chest. “And I
know I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

I grab her wrists, set her aside. “Don’t touch me.”

Something ugly flashes in her eyes. “Are you fucking that low life again? Is that
it? You need dirty pussy to get it up?”

My breath catches in my throat at her poison. I lean down, arms tense, jaw set. I
give her a withering look.

She has the decency to step away.

“I wish I could keep your toxicity away from my sister, but that ship has sailed.
Don’t come near me ever again. If you do, I’ll go to Lo and have you arrested.”

“If I go down, I take your sister with me,” she spits out.

“The way I feel, Melody, you can both rot in hell.”

22

COME INSIDE

FAITH

The air’s turned soft again.

It’s late spring, and the cold has no bite; it’s just a breeze, lingering.

Cain waits for me outside Nectar, leaning against his truck, hands in his pockets,
eyes catching mine.

This is a thing now—him driving me to work and home.

Ever since I moved into the little apartment above Let’s Read, he insists. Says
it’s no trouble. Says he doesn’t like me walking alone at night.

I don’t argue.
I like it.

Too much.

He opens the passenger door for me. I slide in. His truck smells like cedar and
coffee. Like him.

We don’t say much during the ride. But when we pull up in front of the bookstore,
he cuts the engine and turns toward me. I ask, “What’s wrong?”—because I can feel
something is.

He runs a hand over his face. “It’s been a day. Paula came by, and then Melody
accosted me. I’m just so fucking tired of them.”

I nod. Wait. He needs to get something off his chest..

“Paula for…money. Said no one will hire her. And, she feels she has the right to
what I earn running Ripley’s.” He gently taps his forehead on the steering wheel
and chuckles when he sees my amusement. “Yeah. I know. When it comes to Paula, I’m
banging my head against…well, the steering wheel. She’s not going to change, is
she?”

I give a helpless shrug. “Only if she wants to.”

“Melody was shoving her tits at me and—”

I glare at him. Jealousy sprouts, raw and furious.

He grins. “Don’t like that, do you?”

I swallow. Where did that come from?

Come on, Faith, be honest. You think of Cain as your boyfriend. You think he’s
yours.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.”

He strokes a finger down my cheek. “I only want you.”

Tears prick my eyes. My heart begins to beat faster.

I only want him, too.

“What did Melody want besides in your pants?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

This makes him smile. “What else? They both want me to foot their bill. Apparently,
the money they stole was spent on makeup. How much money can a woman spend on that
shit?”

I give him a wry look. “As someone who shops at CVS’s sales bin, I may not be the
right person to answer that.”

My makeup routine is simple: the cheapest moisturizer I can find—my skin gets dry—
plus eyeliner and tinted lip balm. All together, it costs me less than fifteen
bucks and lasts at least a couple of months if I’m careful.

Cain leans back in the seat and rubs a hand over his jaw, the tension etched deep
in his face. “She blames me. My little sister. Told me she hates me. And the worst
part is…I believe her.” He exhales hard. “My parents have told her not to expect
anything from them. They’re handling it better than I am—stoic, detached.”

“It’s easier for them,” I say gently, “because she’s not showing up at their
doorstep. She’s not in their face.”

He nods, slowly. “Still…I feel like I failed her. Like I should’ve done more. Been
better. Raised her different.”

“She’s not your kid, Cain.”

He turns his head, looking at me, eyes dark with guilt. “Then why do I feel so damn
responsible?”

“Because you always have,” I say, then add with a soft edge of teasing, “She’s only
five years younger than you, Cain. She isn’t your child—she’s your sister. You
didn’t raise her. That was never supposed to be your job.”

He looks at me intently, like he’s searching for something steady in the middle of
all the things he can’t fix.

“She’s a grown woman. She made her choices,” I continue.

“I feel like I enabled her.”

I reach over, touch his hand. “You did what you did out of love. She took advantage
of you, and that’s on her.”

He nods slowly. Silence falls again. Softer this time.

“Come inside,” I say, surprising both of us.

He doesn’t move at first, like he’s making sure he heard me right.

Then he does.

He follows me up the narrow stairs, through the creaky door.

My apartment is small but warm, cozy in a way that feels lived-in. Books are
everywhere—stacked on shelves, windowsills, even the kitchen counter—because my
landlord is a total badass who lets me borrow anything I want from the bookstore
downstairs.

The apartment came furnished, and I love that about it. It’s the nicest place I’ve
lived in…by myself. Jamie’s place was nice. Fancy. A prison. My mausoleum.

“Sweet thing—”

“I’m tired, let’s get some sleep.” I take his hand in mine and tug him inside.

He’s sad, and I want to comfort him. Not with sex. Not sure if we’re ready for
that, but with love. With affection. A hug.

I give him a spare toothbrush and tuck him into bed before I use the bathroom.

He’s lying on his back when I return.

I’m in a T-shirt and panties. He’s sleeping in his boxers. I know he usually sleeps
in the nude. But it’s safer if he’s got some clothing on. The chemistry between us
is still potent—we both feel it when we touch, kiss.
He holds his arms out. I get under the duvet and into them.

I rest my head on his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers close to my ear. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

He gets me. He understands how trust is challenging for me. But he’s earned it
back. Day after day. He’s become my friend. My confidante. And, yes, my boyfriend.

“It’s easier than you think,” I admit.

After that, we don’t speak.

His heartbeat is steady.

We just breathe.

And then, we sleep.

23

I’M READY

FAITH

It’s been a week since we slept together, and since then, he’s been in my bed every
night. It works out well because then he drops me off at work and picks me up after
he closes Ripley’s.

We sleep in. Have lazy breakfasts.

Talk. Openly. Freely.

“Tell me about Jamie,” he asks one night when we’re in bed.

We kiss now. We touch.

We still haven’t gone all the way. I think we like this because it feels like we’re
still in the courtship phase. Still getting to know one another.

He strokes my back as I tell him how I thought Jamie was my savior, my knight in
shining armor, and how wrong I was.

Cain’s grip tightens when I tell him about the beatings, about the trips to the ER,
about how he kept me prisoner. But he continues to comfort me, lets me tell my
story at my own pace, in my own way.

“Have you seen a therapist?” Cain asks, voice soft like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Sure. Right after I treat myself to the makeup
Melody dropped ten grand on. Maybe I’ll throw in a psychic, too, while I’m at it.”

He doesn’t smile. He leans in closer, eyes locked on mine—not pitying, just steady.
“Will you let me help you with that?”

The question devastates me because he’s asking me so many things.

Will you trust me?

Will you love me again?

Will you be mine?

I bite my upper lip, hard, trying to keep it together.

But the tears come anyway.

“I…” My voice breaks, and I hate it. “I don’t know how to let anyone help me.”

His hand brushes my cheeks, gentle and sure as he wipes the tears.

“Let me teach you how to accept help,” he pleads gently. And shatters me.

No one’s ever looked at me like this—like I’m worth saving, worth effort, worth
softness. No one’s ever wanted me whole. Not without asking for something back.

But Cain…he just gives.

“Yes, teach me.”

Yes, I trust you.

Yes, I love you.

Yes, I’m yours.

He kisses my nose. His eyes are moist with emotion.

“Yes?” he asks like he can’t believe he’s won the lottery.

“Yes,” I murmur and then add with more strength, “I’m ready.”

24

VELVET KNIVES
FAITH

“What is she doing here?” Onyx wants to know when Paula comes into Nectar. It’s six
in the evening.

The place is packed to the gills with desperate men, watching women get naked.
Misty is putting on the show of her life to Britney’s Toxic.

Cain’s sister looks around and then clocks me behind the bar.

“For someone who’s been dragged through public shame, don’t ya think her heels are
too high?” Onyx comments.

I chuckle.

Paula is made up. Her makeup’s immaculate, hair pinned back like she’s going to a
job interview. Not that she has one.

She touches the bar counter like checking it for dust.

“Can I help you?” Onyx asks, sounding almost rude.

I walk to the other side of the bar to take care of a customer.

“I want to talk to you.” Paula bangs her hand on the counter.

Four men sitting at the bar look at her, incredulous.

“She a new dancer here, Faith?” one of them asks. He’s a truck driver. Comes here
whenever he’s in this part of the country.

“I’m not a dancer,” Paula clips, obviously insulted.

“That’s correct.” Another man chuckles. “Her ankles are too thick, don’t ya think?
I don’t think she can climb a pole.”

People who frequent Nectar are down-to-earth. They come for a drink, some
entertainment, a greasy meal, and then go home.

Paula is mortified. She turns to me. “Now, Faith.”

The balls on her!

“I’m working. And I don’t want to talk to you.” I pour three drafts and slide them
in front of the gentlemen who don’t think Paula’s ankles qualify her to be a good
pole dancer. “Nice and cold—just how you like it.”

“Thanks, Faith,” they say in unison.

The bar is busy, and I’m running around with Paula chasing me.

“Hey, you want to be here, you buy a drink. The entertainment ain’t free,” Ricky
tells Paula.
She huffs and takes a seat at the bar, looking around as if she’s afraid she’s
going to catch herpes just by being here.

Cain and Paula grew up in a middle-class home in a small town, and yet Melody and
she behave like they’re socialites living in a luxury high-rise in Seattle.

While I worked at Ripley’s, I stayed away from the duo, and honestly, besides some
snide comments, they didn’t bother me much.

They got serious when Cain and I got close. But I grew up in foster care and lived
with Jamie for two years. These two were a walk in the park compared to what I’d
been through…until they got me arrested.

“Cain and Melody had some drunk sex years ago, and now she prances around like
she’s marrying him,” Georgia informs me.

“So…are they still together? Like on and off?”

“God, no. He won’t look at her, and she keeps throwing herself at him. She just
wants a meal ticket. She thinks she’s some big-time influencer…makeup and whatnot.
And Paula, the fool, she’s always been so easy to influence. She used to be a good
kid, you know. But then she met Melody and…that was that.”

I can’t imagine Paula as a good kid. Since I met her, she’s been devoid of anything
genuine. She is always playacting, so she can feel superior to others. I know
people like her. Their meanness is a defense mechanism, a way to hide insecurities.

After making her wait for an hour, I say, “I have a fifteen-minute break.”

She scoffs. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

I take her to Ricky’s office. He’s on the floor, and I know he won’t mind. We’ve
become…friends. What a concept!

But the truth is, Ricky and I have more in common than I ever did with Cain—or with
this woman, clinging to her pride like it’s the last thing she owns.

Ricky grew up poor, and he worked odd jobs.

“Not all legal, yeah? But I played it smart. Now, I’m here. It’s good. And mostly
legal. How about you, kid?”

“Always legal, but not always smart.”

He knows I have scars. He doesn’t pry. He’s just been there for me when no one was,
and I’m grateful.

I sit in Ricky’s chair. It’s a petty way to show her who’s boss here.

She huffs and sits on a chair across from me. It’s vinyl. The seat is torn.

Well, that’s how we roll at Nectar!

She folds her hands primly in front of her like we’re at confession. “Faith, I just
want to say I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t think it would go that far.”

A few months ago, I would’ve just walked away and not talked to her. But I healed.
Now, I can confront my villains, my tormentors, my demons.
“You didn’t think framing me for theft would go that far? How far did you want it
to go?”

She flinches. “It was…look, we thought you’d get scared and leave, that’s all.”

I frown and tap my chin with a finger dramatically. “But you had your boyfriend
arrest me.”

She purses her lips. “I was protecting my brother.”

“From me?” I lean back and I have to say it’s a comfortable chair.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. Okay. Just accept the apology.”

I can’t help but laugh. Princess doesn’t know how to apologize. She’s missing some
screws for certain. Her ethics are lacking. She has zero integrity.

I’m not wasting my time with her.

I get up. “Was that it?”

She swallows, tears welling in her eyes. “Look, I know what we did was wrong.
Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And…I’m sorry.”

I nod slowly, like I’m considering it. “I don’t think so.”

Her face tightens. “Faith—”

“I’m not your redemption story.” I place the palms of my hands on the table and
lean forward. I’m not angry, I realize, I’m strong. I’m past this shit. “Cain did
what he did without knowing. You, on the other hand, fabricated the entire thing.
That makes you a terrible person, and I don’t want to spend another second
listening to you.”

She stands up. She’s shaking with what looks like anger or desperation. I’m not
sure. “You think I haven’t paid? Kyle left me. Cain won’t talk to me. Our parents
have cut me off. I need money.”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I’ve got no money. And even if I did, I

wouldn’t give you a dime.”

She glares at me. Now, there’s venom in her eyes. “Since you’re fucking my brother,
why don’t you talk to him. He’ll listen to you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You came here to ask me for help?”

She looks defiant, but then, after battling with her ego, she gives a slow nod.

I burst out laughing. “Christ, Paula. I’m not your savior.”

I walk to the door, open it.

“Faith—"

“We’re done.”

Paula looks at me, tears in her eyes. She’s a beautiful woman, like Cain is
handsome.

Blonde hair, big eyes, high, sharp cheekbones, blue-blue eyes. Skin like porcelain,
like she never goes out in the sun, unlike her brother, who does. His skin is
olive, tanned, and rough. He works with his hands.

She’s a princess. She’s been treated like one, and she believes that to be true.

“Paula, you need to fix your life without leaning on your brother or your parents,”
I advise. “I promise, it’ll make you a better person.”

The façade cracks. “And how would you know? You’re an orphan with no family. Isn’t
that why you’re trying to steal mine?” she screams.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Ricky is at my back.

If I took a bet that he’s been listening all along, I’d win.

“Paula is looking for a job,” I say.

“Well, we need a cleaner.” Ricky chews his toothpick.

Paula glares at both of us, pushes us out of her way, and storms out.

“Somethin’ I said?” he asks innocently and then winks at me. “Your boyfriend is out
front.”

“It’s early,” I say, confused.

“I called him,” Ricky tells me. “Told him his sister was here.”

I sigh. “Ricky.”

“You’re my people, doll. I take care of you.”

25

EVERYTHING WE NEVER SAID

CAIN
Iglance at her. The truck’s interior glows pale from the dashboard, illuminating
the gentle curve of her cheek and the way her arms fold protectively over her
stomach. Every few seconds, she turns her head, eyes catching mine in the rear-view
mirror, as if she’s weighing her next breath.

“You angry about Paula?” I ask as we drive home.

I caught Paula leaving Nectar when I got there, but instead of chasing her, I
checked on Faith.

“I’m fine,” she said, but I’m not sure.

“No, I’m not angry,” she replies immediately.

“Then?”

She lets out a long sigh. “I feel sorry for her. She’s so…I’m sorry to say this,
Cain, but she’s dumb.”

Laughter chokes out of me.

“She thinks she’s living some other life than the one she has.” She taps a finger
on the dashboard. “I think she thought she’d marry Kyle and life would go on. Now
she’s having trouble adjusting to the fact that he’s done with her. And you and
your parents are as well. Yet, instead of getting on with it—finding a job—she’s
still hoping you’ll take care of her.” She pauses and looks at me helplessly.
“It’s…dumb.”

“I know.”

“And”—she wags a finger at me—“you’re not to blame for this. Neither are your
parents. Sometimes people just do stupid shit.”

We drive quietly, and as we get close to her place, she turns in her seat. “Cain?”

“Yeah, sweet thing?”

“Can we go to your place?”

Her words steal my breath away. “Yes,” I manage to whisper.

I drive past her apartment to Main Street, feeling joyous. I don’t ask her why. I
don’t force an answer. I simply steer us forward, tires whispering on the asphalt.

When we pull into the narrow driveway where I park my truck, I kill the engine and
climb out.

I open the door that leads upstairs. She goes ahead of me. The wooden floorboards
creak under her weight, and for a heartbeat, I see the flicker of memory in her
eyes—of the last time she stood here, when everything splintered.

I wait.

She keeps going. I’m in awe of her bravery.

“You want something to drink? Tea?” I offer, moving toward the kitchen.

She trails after me, then lifts a hand to my arm, warm fingers against my sleeve.
“I don’t want tea,” she says. Her voice is low and certain.

My pulse drums at my temples. I turn to see her step into my space, the hush of the
house pressing in around us, cocooning us.

Her eyes meet mine without wavering. “I want you.”

The simple confession echoes. I’ve pictured this moment a thousand times since I
lost her, but reality is richer than any daydream.

She goes on tiptoe and kisses me—slow, exploratory, as if mapping the curve of my
lips. When I wrap my hands around her face, she grips my shirt, and something
inside us both gives way.

“Come.” I take her hand and lead her to my bedroom. My bed. The one that has been
empty for so many months. The bed I lay in, missing her.

We undress each other with reverent slowness, peeling off layers like petals
falling from a flower—he loves me, he loves me not, whispered between heartbeats,
not lips.

Her skin is warm under my fingertips, each inch alive with soft goosebumps.

I press my lips to her shoulder and she exhales—a soft surrender—as though she has
finally come home.

She leads me to my bed, sits at the edge, pulls me closer. My cock is close to her
lips. She looks at me, her beautiful, honey brown eyes full of desire.

“You want to taste me, sweet thing?”

She licks her lower lip. “Yes.”

She’s so sexy. Her breasts sway.

“Then take me inside your mouth.”

She wraps her fingers around the base of my erection and squeezes gently.

I groan. Precum seeps from my tip.

She licks it and then the underside of my cock.

I hiss in pleasure. My hands dig into her silken hair. I let her keep pace. I don’t
demand anything. This is slow pleasure.

Pristine beauty.

I bump up against the back of her throat.

“Faith,” I groan.

I hold my hips still. If she keeps at this, it’ll be over before it starts. I
gently pull her mouth off my cock.

“Cain,” she whines.

“Next time, you can swallow me dry. This time…sweet thing, I need inside you.”
She pulls me down with her, on top of her.

I reach to turn on the bedside lamp. Its amber glow throws our shadows on the wall,
and there’s nothing hidden here.

Every movement is deliberate, every touch an affirmation.

This isn’t the frantic hunger of the first time; it’s the profound, unhurried truth
of two people who have learned what it means to trust.

I crawl down her body, kissing all the way.

I suckle her nipples.

Plump.

Hard.

Beautiful.

I kiss her between her legs. She watches me. I lick her slowly, and her eyes turn
languid.

We haven’t made love many times, just twice in one night, all those months ago. Our
bodies don’t know each other. But I know her. I know what’s inside her. I know.

I suckle her clit, holding her still with a hand on her stomach.

She writhes, crying out.

Just as she’s about to come, I race my way up to slam my mouth on hers.

I grab a condom and slide it on. Fast, fast, fast.

I enter her, feeling her spasms.

I pinch her clit as I move inside her, she finally comes, hard. It’s glorious to
feel her milk me.

I’m gentle. I want this to last.

She traces my chest with her fingertips, as if memorizing my skin.

“I love you,” I tell her.

“I love you, too.” She gives it back to me, bigger, stronger, so much more.

Together, we make love like survivors who have reclaimed their stories.

Our breaths come in slow waves, our sighs low and certain.

“Don’t leave me again,” I plead as I pour into her.

“I won’t,” she promises.

In the aftermath, our touches are soft like gossamer, like the wings of a
butterfly. She curls into my chest, her hair fanning across my collarbone. Her hand
drifts in lazy circles over my ribs, and for a long time we lie motionless,
listening to our hearts.

She sighs. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel safe again.”

My heart splinters in a hundred silent ways.

“But I do. With you,” she adds, and somehow, those words stitch every broken piece
inside me, between us, back together.

I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling the clean scent of her shampoo.
“With me, you are always safe.”

She exhales. It’s the sound of a burden lifting.

We drift into sleep, tangled together—limbs intertwined, hearts finally beating in

harmony, a steady rhythm.

There are no grand declarations. No lingering fears.

Just the hush of a silent night.

Finally, peace.

26

BACK TO HURT

FAITH

My phone buzzes just as I step out of Ricky’s car. I ignore it. It’s late, I’m
tired, and my feet feel like they’ve staged a rebellion.

“Thanks, Ricky,” I murmur, closing the door.

Cain’s in Salem tonight, meeting with a distributor, and somehow managed to rope
Ricky into chauffeuring me home after my shift.

The phone buzzes again.

With a sigh, I pull it from my pocket and glance at the screen, standing just
outside Ripley’s as Ricky’s taillights disappear down the street.

Cain: I love you. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be in bed in thirty minutes tops.

I’m staying the night at his place. He insisted.

Since we made love a week ago, we’re…. I can’t even explain it. We’re…everything.
It’s more than I could’ve imagined, even months ago, before our lives changed.

There’s another message on my phone. I open it even though it’s from an unknown
number.

It’s a photo. It loads slowly.

It’s of Cain and me. We’re kissing right here in front of Ripley’s.

I look down at my dress, it’s a blue sundress, the same as in the photo. This was
taken this morning.

I look around. I feel exposed.

I read the message that came with the photo and my heart hammers: Slut suits you,
little whore.

My stomach turns sour. My fingers go cold.

There’s only one person who calls me little whore.

Jamie.

I breathe through my nose, trying to keep the panic down.

I forward the message to Cain. Someone took this photo; who could it be? Melody?
Paula? I don’t know. Or Jamie himself because he’s here. I’m scared.

My phone rings almost immediately. I answer.

“It’s…it’s him, Cain,” I stammer.

“Where are you, sweet thing?” Cain sounds calm, but I know he isn’t. I can sense
it.

“Ripley’s. I…Ricky just dropped me off.”

“Okay. Why don’t you go upstairs? And lock up, yeah? I’m home in less than thirty
minutes.”

“Cain.”

“I’ve texted Kyle, he’s gonna be there in minutes. Five tops.”

I swallow and feel stupid suddenly. “It’s fine. I’m being…silly.”

“Faith, you’re not being silly.”

I take a deep breath. “Will you…will you stay on the phone with me?”

“Yes.”

I open the door as he tells me how his day has been. He’s distracting me. It isn’t
working.

I turn the light on and lock the door behind me once I’m in his apartment. I feel
relief.
“All okay?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m sorry for being so…I’m sorry.”

“You never have to be sorry with me. Now, get into bed and I’ll join you in no
time.”

27

FIRE DOESN’T FLINCH

FAITH

As soon as I hang up, I hear a sound.

I know something is wrong.

It’s not the plumbing that creaks tonight. It’s my past.

“Long time, little whore.” Jamie steps out of the bedroom.

He’s been here the whole time.

My heart is in my throat.

He looks taller somehow. Leaner. His eyes are the same cold ones that loved to map
every bruise he left on me.

I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I step back, heart pounding in my throat, but my spine
stays straight.

Cain’s apartment is an open floor plan. A huge space with the living, dining, and
kitchen. Then, a hallway opens into two bedrooms.

“You know, I forgave you for running away, for stealing. But now cops are coming
and talking to me. They’re asking all kinds of questions. Saying that, even if you
don’t press charges, they have photos.” He comes closer.

I can barely breathe. Fear is loud. And it is blooming inside me.

“You telling stories to your new boyfriend about me?”

I keep backing up, my eyes scanning.

My phone that I just set on the side table at the entrance.

Random keys on the kitchen counter next to three envelopes. Bills.

Cast iron pan on the stove. Too far.

I still have my bag on my shoulder. I still have Cain’s keys in my hand.

“I should’ve finished what I started in Seattle.” He steps closer and closer.

His hand shoots out. I duck, but not fast enough. He grabs my wrist, twisting hard.
Pain radiates through my arm, but I stay on my feet.

He swings. This time, I move. His fist grazes my shoulder. I jam the keys into his
face and dig in.

He screams.

I got his eye. There’s blood everywhere.

“Bitch,” he howls and comes at me.

I slam my bag into him. There are two hardbacks in it. What do they say about the
pen being mightier than the sword?

He stumbles, cursing, and grabs a lamp. He hurls it at me. I duck. Glass shatters
behind me.

We’re in the kitchen now.

I grab the cast-iron pan.

When he lunges, I swing.

The sound is dull, sickening. Jamie groans, drops to his knees. I hit him again.
And then once more.

He’s groaning, blood on his face, trying to get up from the floor.

I hit him again, not caring if he lives or dies.

I don’t care, I scream silently. I just want him to stop.

He collapses. He’s out. He isn’t moving.

Rage burns out of me.

I stand over him, panting, heart racing.

The room is silent.

With almost what feels like calm, I grab my phone that I set on the counter and
call Cain.

“He found me,” I whisper. “Jamie. I...I stopped him.”

“I’m on my way,” he says. “In five. Kyle is—”

The door bursts open, and Kyle comes in, weapon in hand. He looks down at Jamie and
then at me.
“You okay?”

I nod.

Jamie groans then and tries to get up.

Kyle’s on him. A knee is on Jamie’s back as he cuffs him.

He comes up to me and takes the cast iron pan I still seem to be holding.

I’ve started shaking now.

“Faith?” I hear Cain yell.

Loud footsteps come racing up the stairs. He bursts through the door, sees the
blood, the broken lamp, Jamie cuffed.

He comes to me and wraps me in his arms. I slump against him.

“You hurt?”

“No.”

But then he lifts my hand, and I cry out.

“Fuck, Faith, we need to get you to the hospital.”

“I’m not broken,” I whisper.

“No, baby, you’re not.”

Kyle chuckles. “Your girlfriend is a bad ass, Cain. I’d be careful to never piss
her off.”

A laugh busts out of me, short, hysterical.

I hear sirens.

“They’re here,” Kyle announces. “I called it in right after I got your text
message.”

“The EMTs are here, sweet thing.” He hugs me close. I soak up his warmth.

“I’m safe,” I murmur.

“Yes, Faith. You saved yourself. You always have.”

28

WEIGHT OF JUSTICE
CAIN

Hospitals smell like endings. Like antiseptic ghosts and regret baked into
linoleum. I sit beside her bed and watch Faith breathe. Slow. Steady. A little
bruised. A lot alive.

Her wrist is sprained and needs rest for at least a week. Her shoulder has a
massive bruise—that’s going to take the time it takes. She’s going to be sore.

She did it. She stopped him.

Jamie Da Silva’s in the hospital as well. But he’s chained to a bed. He has
extensive injuries. My girl beat the shit out of him. I couldn’t be prouder.

They release her when she bitches and whines that she wants to be home.

I take her to her place as mine is still a crime scene.

She curls up against me in bed and sleeps. I hold her feeling the gamut of
emotions: fear, love, anger, relief.

Faith has been through more trauma than most.

The fact that she was attacked in my home is…killing me.

She wakes up to use the bathroom and then goes right back to sleep. It’s the
painkillers. I’m glad that she’s getting rest.

While she sleeps, I make an emergency appointment, with the therapist she started
seeing two weeks ago, for the following day. The sessions are over Zoom, so it’s
convenient for Faith, who refuses to drive my truck, even though it sits by
Ripley’s for most of the day. She’s saving up to be able to buy a car.

I tell Georgia what’s going on and assure her that as soon as Faith can receive
visitors, I’ll let her know.

Ricky doesn’t give a shit that Faith’s sleeping and shows up. He peeks into the
bedroom.

“The kid’s okay?”

“Yeah, Ricky. She clocked the asshole with a cast-iron pan.”

Ricky laughs. “She’s a ballsy lady.”

Ain’t that the truth.

Kyle and Lo come by later in the evening while Faith and I are arguing about how
she absolutely cannot go to work.

“It’s just a sprain. No biggy.” She holds up her wrist.

“Really? Then do this.” I twist my wrist around.

She sighs.

“You can’t make drinks.”

“I can’t miss work, Cain. I need the—”

“By God, sweet thing,” I grit out, “you bring up money again between us and I’m
going to spank the daylights out of you.”

Her lips twitch. “Did you just threaten me with a spanking?”

I flush. The woman is driving me mad.

Thankfully, that’s when her doorbell rings.

Faith hugs Kyle, taking him by surprise. “Thank you for being there for me.”

He looks like he just won the Governor’s Medal, beaming with pride. I know he feels
guilty about what he did to Faith because of Paula. I think now he feels redeemed,
and rightfully so.

We sit at the small dining table, with coffee, tea, and a box of Mrs. Hanley’s
cinnamon rolls. That’s the other thing. All day, we’ve had an influx of people
dropping off food to help Faith recover.

Not sure how cinnamon rolls are supposed to do that, but they’re Hanley’s and I’m
not saying no to those delicious babies.

“Silverton is pissed off that one of our own was assaulted,” Lo says as she breaks
off a piece of a cinnamon roll.

I glance at Faith. Her eyes are bright with emotion at the words “one of our own.”

Yeah, sweet thing, you’re one of us now! And you’re mine.

“Can we talk about what happened?” Lo asks.

Faith nods.

Lo looks pointedly at Kyle.

“We spoke to Da Silva,” Kyle says, his tone tight. “Apparently, someone told him
you were planning to press charges for the assault. Since Sheriff Z and I had been
in touch with SPD, it’s likely one of his old contacts caught wind of it and tipped
him off.” He pauses, takes a breath, then adds, “And it looks like someone also
sent him photos of you and Cain—along with the story that your new boyfriend was
planning to come after him.”

Faith and I look blankly at one another.

“Come after him, how?” Faith asks, puzzled.

“And who’s this someone?” There’s a bad feeling in my stomach because I think I
know.

“Melody,” Kyle replies wearily. “She called Da Silva, riled him up. Gave him your
address. Said Faith was there most nights. She told Da Silva that you won’t be
home, that she’d be alone.”
I run a hand through my hair. “How?” But I know. “Hell, it’s because I talked to
that old biddy from the post office at the gas station about going to Salem.”

“The pleasures of a small town,” Lo states.

“How was he already inside Cain’s apartment?” Faith muses aloud.

I shake my head. “Please tell me it isn’t what I think.”

Kyle looks broken when he nods. “Paula gave Melody the key to your apartment.”

Paula has a spare. She doesn’t use it, forgets she has it…but looks like she
remembered, found it, and handed it over to her best friend.

“I didn’t change the locks,” I whisper. “This is my fuckin’ fault.”

Faith puts a hand on my shoulder. “Baby, it’s Jamie’s fault. Just because someone
gives you a key to an apartment doesn’t mean you go beat someone up.”

“But make no mistake—they meant for you to get hurt,” Lo says, her gaze steady on
mine. “We went through the messages Melody sent to Jamie. She doesn’t just hint—she
names Paula. More than once.”

“I don’t understand any of this.” Faith looks like she’s trying to solve an
equation that refuses to make sense. “I didn’t do a thing to Paula or Melody.”

“Because small people do ugly things when they feel powerless,” Lo says gently.
“You embarrassed them. You survived. You got better.”

Faith looks down at her tea, quiet. I want to wrap my arms around her, carry her to
bed, and never let the world touch her again.

But this version of Faith doesn’t need rescuing. Not anymore. She just needs the
truth.

Kyle clears his throat. “Sheriff Z is prepping new charges. She’s going for
conspiracy to commit assault. Paula and Melody both. That text trail is gold.”

Lo looks at me. I shrug. I can’t be Paula’s savior any longer. This is the end of
the road. “Good.” With that one word, I tell Lo and everyone else where I’m at.

“Cain, she’s your sister,” Faith protests.

I cup her cheek tenderly. She knows I love my sister. She doesn’t want her in
trouble. My girl’s got a heart so fucking big it makes mine ache. “She’s a grown-up
who made some shitty choices, Faith, she needs to deal with the consequences.”

Faith shakes her head. “You’re going to resent me eventually for—"

“Faith,” Lo cuts in, her voice softer now, “you’re not responsible for what Paula
or Melody did. You’re not the magnet. They’re just drawn to their own rot.”

Faith lifts her head. Her eyes meet Lo’s, and then mine. Her posture shifts as if
she’s coming to terms with something.

She nods slowly.

It’s the kind of moment you don’t interrupt—when someone’s stitching a truth into
their own skin.
Lo stands and dusts her hands. “We’ll stay in touch.”

Kyle gives Faith a crooked smile as they head to the door. “Take care of yourself,
Faith.”

“Thanks, Kyle,” Faith whispers.

They leave us in the soft light of the apartment, the scent of tea and coffee
clinging to the air like comfort.

I turn to her, voice low but certain. “I’ll never resent you.”

She gives me a trembling, watery smile. “I…I’ll wait for it anyway.”

“Sweet thing.” I lift her gently into my lap, wrapping my arms around her like I
can hold all her broken pieces in place. “Why would you brace yourself for
something awful?”

Her breath shudders. “Because good things don’t happen to me, Cain.”

I press a kiss to Faith’s forehead, grounding both of us. “I know you don’t trust
me yet. Or the universe. Maybe not even yourself. But I’ll earn it, Faith. Every
day. I’ll show you—good things can be yours.”

We sit quietly for a while, just breathing, just holding one another.

Finally, she kisses my jaw and stands up.

“Where are you going?” I ask, rising.

She smirks. “You already told me I’m not going to work.”

“Damn right.” I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close. “But you can
argue with me in bed. You know, just to keep things spicy.”

She laughs. Really laughs.

And just like that, the dark lifts.

Not gone. But no longer everything.

29

THE LAST LINE

CAIN
The interrogation room smells like sweat and old metal. Lo told me that Paula may
not do time, considering her role in the assault, unless I press charges for theft.
I am thinking about it.

My parents don’t know what to do. They’re on their way back, and they’re blaming
themselves, convinced that leaving Silverton was what let Paula drift so far from
everything they raised us to believe in.

My baby sister looks up when I walk in.

She doesn’t look defiant. She looks wrecked.

“Cain,” she whispers, like the sound of my name might be her last chance.

I sit across from her. A part of me wants to warn her that Lo is listening to our
conversation—this is not privileged. But another just wants her to confess the
truth and pay for it.

I pull out my phone and find pictures of when Faith had been beaten up by Jamie,
the last time that had propelled her to run.

“The man Melody gave my apartment keys to, Paula, he did this to Faith.”

She looks horrified. “Oh my God. Is she okay?”

I don’t bother correcting her—those photos are from the past. And given that Faith
clocked the bastard with a cast-iron pan, he’s probably still seeing stars. But
Paula doesn’t need to know that. I want her to stay in the dark and feel guilty.

“Do you care if she’s okay?” I demand.

“I didn’t know,” she blurts out. “I swear to God, I didn’t know Mel was going to do
that. I thought…”—she swallows hard—“I thought she was just going to try to sleep
with you. Stir up some drama. Make Faith leave.”

“Stir up drama?” My voice cuts sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Melody
contacted Faith’s abusive ex. Gave him access to my apartment, thanks to you. Made
sure to do it when I wouldn’t be there. And he beat her within an inch of her
life.” I lean forward, voice low and furious. “You think that’s drama? That’s
attempted murder, Paula. Don’t dress it up.”

Paula shakes her head in despair. “I didn’t know about this guy…I mean, I knew he
existed. I…Mel said that Faith stole from him, and she talked to him.”

“Why would Melody talk to this asshole?”

Paula closes her eyes, tears leak out. “To…figure out how to get rid of Faith, get
her to leave Silverton.”

“And you were in on the plan?”

She purses her lips, nods. “I…I always thought you and Mel would get together. My
best friend and my brother.” A sob tears through her. “I wanted that. Mel is nice
and—”

“Melody made you a co-conspirator in assault, Paula. She orchestrated my girlfriend

getting hurt. You think that’s nice?”
Paula nibbles at her lower lip, sniffling. “She’s so beautiful. And she dresses
nice and…she’s…she’s my best friend, Cain.”

“So, the plan was to scare Faith with her asshole ex, who used to beat her, so
she’d run from here like she did from Seattle?”

She nods, her eyes closed.

I let the silence settle, let her sit with what that means.

“She could’ve been killed, Paula.”

“I know.” Her voice cracks. “I didn’t know it would go that far. I didn’t—”

“But you gave Melody my apartment key.”

“Because I was stupid. I thought if Melody could get you to sleep with her,
you'd...you’d walk away from Faith. And maybe come back to us. To me.”

I sit back. “I’m your brother. I’ve always been there for you. This is you being
cruel to someone to impress your friend. High school was over a long time ago,
Paula.”

She starts crying in earnest. “I know.”

“I’ll get you a lawyer,” I interrupt. “Mom and Dad said they’ll help if you’re
willing to go stay in Palm Desert with them. Get your shit together. Get some
space. They’re done enabling you. So am I.”

She presses her palms to her eyes, shoulders shaking. “Please don’t hate me, Cain.”

“I don’t hate you. But I can’t be your brother the way you want me to be. Not if it
means sacrificing everything decent left in me.”

She tries to speak, but I’m already walking away.

Melody is next. She’s pacing the interview room like she’s rehearsing a monologue.

She throws herself at me when I walk in. “Cain! Oh my God, thank God. Please. You
know I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I just wanted to scare her. Make her
leave. I—”

“Stop.” I set her away from me and sit her down on a plastic chair.

She sobs harder. “I didn’t know he was going to hurt her like that—”

“You gave him my apartment keys, told him when she’d be alone, you wanted her
hurt.”

“Cain, please—”

“I’m here to look at you before you spend God knows how long in prison, so I can
live the rest of my life knowing you’re paying for your crimes.”

She blinks, stunned. “I grew up with you and Paula, Cain. I’m her best friend.”

“You fed on Paula’s delusions and called it friendship. You weaponized your
jealousy and called it love. But all you ever did was poison the well and cry when
the water turned black. Now you can both rot in it.”

I exhale, releasing some of the horror inside me over what these two women did.

She screams something behind me as I leave. I don’t turn around.

I talk to my parents on my way to Faith’s place. They’re at the airport waiting for
their flight. They’re disappointed, heartbroken, and in pain. I don’t know how to
help them. And I doubt my method of feeling better, which is to cuddle up with
Faith, is going to work for them.

When I walk into Faith’s apartment, she’s curled up on the couch, a book open on
her lap. She looks up, and everything in me stills. I take my shoes off and walk up
to her. Kiss her softly.

“Hey,” she says gently.

I get on the couch and lay my head in her lap.

“Done?” she asks, fingers moving through my hair.

“Yeah. With all of them.”

“She’ll always be your sister, Cain.”

“I know. But I can’t be her brother any longer.”

She leans down and kisses my forehead. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“That was a ‘we’ll discuss this at another time’ okay.”

I grab her hand and bring it to my lips. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Being here. Being you. Being with me. Being mine. Letting me be yours.”

“My, my, that’s a lot of things you’re thanking me for,” she teases.

“I know.”

We are quiet after that.

I doze off on her lap while she strokes my hair, reads.

It’s nice.

I’m home.

30
GIVING THANKS

FAITH

The air in Palm Desert is warm and dry, a subtle balm against the chill that still
lingers in my bones from Oregon.

Everything is sun-drenched and slow-moving. The shadows stretch long in the late
afternoon. People speak softer, as if to match the pace of the earth beneath them.

Cain’s parents live in a sprawling stucco home with a terracotta roof, whitewashed
walls, and a courtyard that blooms with bougainvillea in shocking fuchsia.

There’s a fountain bubbling quietly in the front walkway. It looks like a dream.

Elaine greets us at the door and hugs me like I’ve always been hers.

We’ve met a few times, but this is the first where we’re going to be together for a
whole week. She smells of lavender and butter, and calls me sweetheart.

Robert, Cain’s father, is tall and broad like him. He has Cain’s kind eyes.

They’re a handsome family—the kind that looks like they belong in a catalog for
something expensive and effortless. The women are all blonde, the men dark-haired,
every one of them with piercing blue eyes. I feel like a smudge on a clean page,
out of place with my mixed background and skin several shades darker than theirs. I
don’t even know who I inherited it from.

It doesn’t take long for me to settle in.

There’s no awkwardness, no sizing me up. Just warmth.

I’d been nervous for no good reason.

Cain’s parents’ home hums with life and smells like Thanksgiving. The kitchen is a
flurry of motion—pots bubbling on the stove, spices in the air, music playing from
a Bose speaker.

I help Elaine chop carrots while she tells me embarrassing stories about Cain’s
teenage years. He rolls his eyes. Robert laughs out loud.

They’re so full of love I could cry.

Paula arrives later, her car tires crunching on the gravel driveway. She has a job
now. She’s a barista. She had the morning and afternoon shift.

Elaine tells me that Paula is taking her new chance at life seriously.

I see Cain’s sister through the kitchen window before I hear the door open.

She comes in, looking nothing like the woman who tried to ruin me. Her hair is
shorter now, tucked behind her ears.
She’s wearing a plain navy sweater and jeans. Her makeup is almost nonexistent. No
designer shit on her body. No expensive goop on her face.

She looks stripped down.

Real.

More beautiful than before.

When she walks in, there’s a beat of tension. But I go to her. Embrace her. She’s
Cain’s sister. I love him and he loves her. I have already forgiven her.

“How can you just let it go?” Cain asks when I tell him I’m okay with seeing Paula
at his parents’ place.

“Carrying it is a burden. Letting it go means I don’t have it weighing me down.”

“Sometimes I feel like you’re older than me,” he admits.

“Not older but definitely wiser,” I tease.

“Faith,” Paula whispers when I step back. “I’m so sorry.”

I stare at her, and for a moment, the room fades.

I see the woman who had me arrested. Who weaponized her proximity to Cain. Who
treated me like I was disposable.

But I also see her guilt. Her effort to be a better person.

I shrug. “It’s forgotten. Let’s move forward. Tell me about your job.”

Her eyes fill with tears. This time, she hugs me.

It doesn’t feel like performance. It feels like someone trying to be human again.

We eat Thanksgiving Dinner together at a long table on the back patio, the sun
dipping behind the low mountains in the distance. The sky is all dusky golds and
burnt orange.

Elaine has made enough food to feed a small village—roast turkey, yams drizzled
with brown sugar glaze, stuffing rich with sage and apples, confit tomato with
green beans, mac and cheese, and three different pies lined up like soldiers on the
kitchen island.

I sit between Cain and Robert. Paula sits across from me. There’s no undercurrent
of hostility, no faked civility. Just harmony.

At one point, Onyx sends a video of Ricky in a turkey hat, flipping the bird with
both hands, singing Friends in Low Places. I laugh so hard I nearly spit out my
wine.

I share the video with my new family, telling them about my co-workers.

“See, this is why I can’t convince her to come back to Ripley’s,” Cain argues.

“Hey, this seems like a fun place,” Robert says.

“It’s a strip club, Dad.”

“My point exactly. A fun place,” Robert argues.

Cain and I fall asleep on the couch after dinner, curled together under a plush
throw. His hand rests on my hip, his breath warm against the back of my neck. When
I wake, the house is quiet, dark except for a single lamp left on in the hallway.

We move quietly to the guest bedroom.

The room is painted in pale creams, the windows cracked to let in the cool desert
air. We settle into bed, and he wraps himself around me like a blanket.

“You having fun, sweet thing?” he murmurs against my shoulder.

I stare at the ceiling for a moment, collecting my thoughts. “I don’t want to talk
about any of it anymore.”

He stills. “About?”

“The arrests. The past. Melody. Jamie. None of it. I’m done dragging it with us
into the future.”

He holds me tighter.

“I don’t want you to apologize again,” I whisper. “You’ve done it enough. I’ve
heard you. I’ve seen it in everything you’ve done since. I want to let it go now.
For good.”

“Okay,” he agrees softly.

I turn in his arms and look up at him. The room is dim, the only light is a spill
of moonlight through the window.

He strokes my cheek. “Then let’s talk about the future.”

“Huh?”

“Move in with me.”

It’s too soon!

“Cain—”

“You’re always at my place. My bed smells like you. My kitchen has your favorite
tea in the cupboard. Just make it official.”

He has a point. “Alright.” I pause, smile. “But only if you get rid of that
terrible armchair in the living room.”

“Deal.”

He kisses me. Soft. Reverent. “And come back to Ripley’s,” he murmurs against my
mouth.

I snort. “No way.”

He pulls back. “Why not?”

“I run a bar full of drunk men and glitter bras, Cain. It’s chaos and whiskey and
bad music. I’m not leaving that.”

He groans. “But the health code violations—”

“—are part of the charm,” I say, grinning.

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, too.

Outside, the desert wind moves through the palms.

And inside, I’m finally, irrevocably…home.

“Fine.” He huffs. “But I reserve the right to grumble about it.”

We fall asleep like that—tangled and warm, the past finally laid to rest, the
future cracking open around us like dawn.

31

THE QUIET YES

CAIN

It’s been two years since she walked into Ripley’s and changed everything I thought
I knew about love, trust, and what it means to be a family.

Two years of us.

Of small steps.

Of morning coffees and shared silences, and learning to ask instead of assume.

Two years of finding the sacred in the ordinary. Of watching Faith laugh at
terrible movies, dance barefoot in the kitchen, read five books at once, and
remember every detail.

Two years of watching her come back to herself, piece by hard-earned piece.

There was a time I thought she’d run. That Silverton would always be a layover, not
a home. That I would always be the man she almost trusted.

But she stayed.

Through Melody’s trial, conviction, and incarceration.

Through apologies and consequences, and the quiet justice that finally came.

She stayed on the nights she couldn’t sleep, and the mornings she woke up humming.

She stayed and changed everything.

I plan the proposal in secret. Not because Faith is the kind of woman who needs
grand gestures—she isn’t. But this moment isn’t about showmanship, it’s about
choosing her the way she chooses herself and me, deliberately, every day.

We drive out to the trail where I took her for a picnic many moons ago.

It’s quiet, the forest tall and close like a sanctuary. The falls crash in the
distance, a low and constant drumbeat.

Faith doesn’t suspect anything. She’s wearing her favorite flannel, boots caked in
mud, hair in a braid.

We sit on the overlook, legs dangling off the ledge like kids. The wind picks up a
little. She shivers. I wrap my arm around her. She leans in.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say.

“Don’t know if that’s a good thing,” she sasses me.

“About us.”

She turns, looks at me. Waits.

“I love the life we’ve made. I love to wake up every day with you. I still can’t
believe I get to have breakfast with you. You make me laugh. I’m still terrified of
messing it all up again.”

It’s a word salad. It wasn’t what I practiced. But it spills out. Everything I
feel. Everything I want.

She softens. “If you make a mess, I’ll help you clean it up; just like you will
when I screw up.”

I kiss her, feeling lucky. This is who Faith is. Big-hearted. Generous. She’s
everything.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the small velvet box. No theatrics. No
speeches. Just the two of us on a wind-carved ledge.

Her eyes go wide. Her mouth parts in a silent gasp.

“Marry me. Be my wife.”

She throws her head back and laughs. It’s not the reaction I expect. But I love it
because her laugh is real and warm and alive.

“Yes,” she cries out.

I slip the ring onto her finger. It’s simple. Elegant. Gold with a small emerald—
the color of the Oregon forests where she made her home.

She studies it, then me. “This is the best ring in the whole world.”
“For the best wife in the whole world,” I say.

We kiss, not like it’s the end of a story, but like it’s the beginning of something
that will never stop growing.

Two years ago, I watched her walk into my life.

Today, I watched her say yes.

I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Want more Cain and Faith? Read the bonus chapter: Love & Marriage on my website at
www.MayaAlden.com.

Please don’t forget to rate and review this story.

Also, check out Ansel and Basil, the first two stories in this series.

SHE’S LIKE THE WIND

BOOK EXCERPT

He was a fool to believe he could live without her.

Once she’s gone, he finds out that she’s everything he needs.

A tattooed, muscle-bound construction boss, Gage Walker specializes in restoring

New Orleans’ historic buildings—and in avoiding anything that looks like a
commitment.

Naomi LeBlanc is a lingerie shop owner with a zest for life that’s as vibrant as
the city she calls home. Sophisticated yet wild, she’s unlike anyone Gage has ever
met.

For ten months, Gage does the impossible: he dates her—and only her. But when Naomi
confesses she’s in love with him—and makes it clear that loyalty isn’t optional,
Gage reminds her he’s never been a happily-ever-after kind of guy.

Not willing to settle for less than what she believes she deserves, Naomi ends
their relationship.

But Gage can’t get Naomi out of his head—or his heart. Every other woman feels like
a pale shadow of the one who got away. When he sees Naomi with another man,
jealousy ignites a fire he didn’t know existed.

For the first time in his life, Gage wants to get over past traumas and fight for a
woman. But it looks like Naomi has moved on, and she may now be out of his league.

She's Like the Wind is a second-chance Modern Vintage Romance that includes your
favorite tropes:

Second Chance

Overheard

Other Woman/Man Drama

Betrayal & Grovel

No Cheating

Complete Standalone

Get She’s Like The Wind

Coming August 31, 2025

GAGE

She moved like the wind!

The sway of her hips, the curl of her auburn hair around her shoulders, the heat in
her honey-brown eyes as she lost herself in the music—Naomi LeBlanc was special.

Since I got her into my bed, she’d constantly surprised me—no more than two days
ago when she told me she was in love with me.

She wasn’t the first woman who’d asked me for a commitment, and I decided to do
what I always did—make it clear that it was non-negotiable. I wasn’t looking for a
wife or a girlfriend. My relationships with women were about sex and companionship.
I wanted a woman, not the woman.

Sure, I hadn’t slept with another woman since that first night ten months ago when
Naomi gave me a blowjob for the ages, but I’d been clear with her that we were not
exclusive. As long as she was safe and I was safe, I didn’t give a fuck who she
fucked. Easy for me to say because Naomi was no player, and I didn’t doubt mine was
the only dick she was sucking off while we were together.

Since she’d whispered the three dirty words while we were coming down from an
orgasmic high in her apartment above her store on Royal Street, I’d all but ghosted
her. Not that I had to make much of an effort because Naomi didn’t cling, nag, or
demand my attention. She lived a full life, and if she were free, she’d let me
know, and I did the same.

When I looked back, I realized I reached out to her more often than she did me,
which I preferred. I liked the control.

Being with Naomi was easy.

She was cheerful, not prone to depression or the blues or whatever else so many
women I’d been with seemed to be beset with from time to time, whether it was that
time of the month or not.

She didn’t accuse me of being crude or a misogynist because I’d made my opinion
about long-term relationships and monogamy clear to her. She appreciated my candor
and requested that I always use a condom with her. No problem there. I didn’t fuck
raw, ever.

Naomi laughed as the band began to play a song she liked. I felt it in my dick.

Ten months, and this woman still wound me up.

Ten months, and this woman was who I wanted to sink into, even though I’d made it a
point to be where she would be tonight with a date.

Naomi needed to understand that exclusivity was not in the cards with me—more now
than ever because she’d said those three damn words.

“One more?” A server asked when she saw my empty glass of Sazerac. I nodded. “The
same.”

She looked at Claudine, who was snuggled up to me in the booth where we were
sitting with a clear view of the stage and the bar. “I’ll have another skinny
margarita.”

I watched Naomi as she sat on a barstool, listening to one of our common friends
sing on the stage of Maison on Frenchmen Street. Aurelie and her band, Bossa Bayou,
played Brazilian jazz, and Naomi never missed their performance if she could help
it.

I knew she’d be at Maison, which was why I’d brought Claudine here with me.

We’d had dinner at the Italian Barrel, and then I’d suggested walking to Maison. I
met Claudine at a job site that my company was restoring on Chartres Street. She
worked for the property management company that had hired us. Since she’d been
showing her interest loud and clear, and we were done with the job, I asked her
out.

She was blonde, hot, and available—just my kinda woman.

So, why the hell am I watching Naomi while Claudine has her ample boobs pressed
against my arm?
The band took a break, and I braced.

When Naomi turned from the stage, she’d see us. I’d set it up that way. I wanted
her to get a crystal-clear picture. Then we could keep doing what we had been
doing.

I felt her gaze on me.

I dipped my head, caught Claudine’s lips, and kissed her. It was calculated but
necessary.

Claudine’s arms went around me; she pushed her tits against my chest.

I didn’t like the way she tasted. I didn’t like the way she smelled. It was loud.

She was loud.

She wasn’t like Naomi—subtle, delicate, strong….

I pulled away and saw Claudine’s eyes glazed with arousal. In the past, this was
the look that told me I’d have a long night of fucking ahead of me. Not this time.
I had a sour taste in my mouth and stomach.

Fuck! I was going to throw up.

“Gage.” Claudine cupped my cheeks, wanting to draw me back in, but I managed to
smile and pull away, using the excuse of the server showing up with our drinks.

Finally, after I took a fortifying sip of my Sazerac, I turned to face her.

Instead, I was confronted by Aurelie’s accusing eyes. The guitar player, Phillip, I
think that was his name, stood next to her, glaring at me.

Where was Naomi?

I looked around, panicked. Then I saw her at the second bar in the back, talking to
the bartender.

I sighed in relief. She hadn’t run. She was still here. I could still…?

What?

I’d done what I needed to do, hadn’t I?

The band came back after the break, and Naomi, no quitter, that one, was back at
her barstool.

I couldn’t see her face.

I couldn’t see how she was feeling.

“Should we go to my place?” Claudine urged huskily.

I looked at her as if suddenly realizing she was still there.

I’m an asshole!

She slid her hand up my thigh, but before she could cup me and find out that my
dick was as flaccid as it would be after a dip in some icy water, I grabbed it,
brought it to my lips, and kissed her knuckles. It was a gesture to protect my
manhood and my pride, but it was what Naomi saw.

This time I saw her face.

She was pale under the brass lamp lights of the bar.

Her eyes were glassy.

Her lips pressed tight.

She was hurting. She wasn’t hiding it.

She gave me a wan smile.

My breath caught in my chest.

She raised a hand in a small wave of greeting and went back to watching the band.

NAOMI

You know that sound when a bomb goes off—the sharp, high-pitched whistle that
drowns out everything else? It’s not the world around you making it, but your brain
trying to protect you from what it just witnessed?

That’s what I heard when I saw Gage kiss the blonde he brought to Maison.

That sound hit me hard.

Singular.

Deafening.

My heart went quiet just to survive it.

It was my fault.

I should’ve never told the biggest commitment-phobe in New Orleans that I’d fallen
in love with him.

The words had slipped out when he was inside me.

“You make me feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” Gage groaned as he pumped in and out of
me.

He cupped my ass, lifting me so he could go deeper.

“Say you’re mine,” he demanded, his blue eyes looking intensely into mine.

It was uncharacteristic of him to say something like that—and it freed something

inside me, something that had been building for months now, a need to tell him how
I felt, show him my heart.

“I am,” I whispered.

And then, after we orgasmed together, I whispered in his ear, “I love you.”

There was that whistling sound then, too.

He’d pulled out immediately like he’d just found out I had syphilis.

Usually, we lay together, he even slept at my place unless he had to head to a site
early in uptown, then he’d stay at his house, which was there. Not this time.

Three little words, and it was over.

I knew it when he gave me a tight smile, a peck on the cheek, and ran.

Did it hurt to see him, just two days since I spilled my heart, kissing another
woman? Yes.

Was I surprised? No.

I was, after all, a practical woman.

I knew what it meant to be an obligation.

My severely God-loving uncle and aunt let me stay with them in Baton Rouge after my
parents passed away when I was thirteen. They treated me like a duty, a penance.
I’d promised myself that when I had relationships, they’d all be authentic and
would exist only because I wanted them to and because my affection and love were
reciprocated fully and wholly.

After telling Gage how I felt and having it thrown in my face, I could no longer
pretend that what we had was sustainable.

We weren’t just casually dating any longer.

I’d caught feelings, and he didn’t do that.

He’d been clear about that from the start. I appreciated his candor, his openness—
and then, slowly but steadily, I fell in love.

How could I not?

Gage Walker was a wonderful man.

It didn’t hurt that he looked the way he did. Broad and muscular, he had a striking
presence, with a bold tattoo spanning his upper back and a sleeve of ink winding
down one arm. He kept his hair closely cropped for practicality, and the neatly
trimmed beard was a habit he’d picked up as a teenager, back when he was eager to
look older.

He loved his parents—visited them every week without fail. I saw them once, by
accident, when I bumped into Gage at the Easter parade in the Marigny. He was
walking with them, laughing. But when he spotted me, he didn’t stop. Just gave me a
nod and kept moving.

He was close to his younger brother, who was studying medicine at LSU, and I knew
he was footing the bill. His little sister was at Juilliard in New York, dancing,
and he was covering that, too. He never once complained. Just mentioned them with
quiet pride, like helping them was the most natural thing in the world.

He never said it outright, but I had the sense he helped his parents, too, and not
just with time or running errands, but with money.

He was the son who never needed to be asked.

He talked easily about his family, and whenever he did, I felt a pang and wished
they were mine as well. He told me stories about holiday traditions, which I
foolishly and, to my disappointment, kept hoping he’d include me in.

Now, he was making it clear to me—whatever we had was done, and it was because of
me. I hadn’t been able to keep it casual. I’d broken the contract we had made to
keep it simple.

“Not lookin’ for more than sex and companionship, baby.”

Aurelie and her band started playing the last set of the night, and as if it were
just for me, began with Que Sera, Sera.

She’d tried to talk to me about Gage being at Maison with a woman during the break,
but I’d told her it wasn’t an issue since Gage and I weren’t in a relationship.

But damn it, it had felt like one.

He spent nearly every free evening and weekend with me. He cooked for me and let me
cook for him. We watched movies together and went out, just the two of us, and not
just with groups of friends.

I met Gage when his company, Walker Restoration, was hired to renovate the building
next to my shop and apartment on Royal Street.

It hadn’t taken long for me to learn that he wasn’t just a muscle-bound guy in a
hard hat swinging a sledgehammer around for fun. He was a top restorer of old
buildings, and his reputation stretched from the Garden District to the Marigny.

If you had a hundred-year-old Creole cottage falling in on itself or a fire-damaged

Second Empire mansion about to crumble into the street, Gage was the person you
called.

The French Quarter might’ve been a party to the rest of the world, but to us
locals, it was a living museum—a federally protected historic district with rules
so strict they’d fine you for repainting your shutters the wrong shade of green.

Most contractors didn’t have that expertise.

Gage did!

He had a master’s in historic preservation and construction management—how’s that

for sexy?

Tattooed forearms and a degree in saving the past.

He didn’t slap plaster over a rotted beam and call it a day. He’d get into the
bones of a building, study its history, and trace the line of every joist and
cornice until he could hear the house breathe as it used to.

I once heard him argue with a city inspector for twenty minutes over the phone
about a set of 1850s cypress doors.

Gage won.

I think I fell in love with him the day he took me to the Lafitte House on Burgundy
Street. He was overseeing a complete restoration, down to the handmade crown
molding and hand-lathed balusters.

The place was gutted, just exposed brick and dust and possibility.

I remembered walking through it with him, listening to him talk about the old
French-style chimneys and the transom windows above the doors, how they used to let
air flow through before modern AC.

He touched every beam like it was sacred.

“Buildings are like people,” he told me, standing in that hollowed-out parlor. “You
think they’re broken, but they just need someone who knows how to look at them
right. Someone patient enough to bring them back.”

I didn’t know if he meant it as a metaphor. Knowing Gage, probably not. But I felt
something shift in me that day. I let him into my heart even though it wasn’t
something he wanted.

Now, as I watched him leave Maison with the blonde he’d kissed so passionately, I
held on to my tears.

I’d learned long ago that mourning the truth didn’t get you anywhere. I could’ve
cried and cried that my loving parents were gone and that at the age of thirteen, I
was now cloistered in a home with no love, no affection, no kind words—just the
harshness of scripture.

But what would the point have been?

Instead, I made it work with Uncle Fred and Aunt Frannie—swear to God those were
their names, not making it up.

Once I was eighteen, I hightailed it out of Baton Rouge and their influence. I
still sent them a Christmas card if I remembered to, but we didn’t have a
relationship. I didn’t want it.

They hadn’t been nice or kind to me. They hadn’t been generous. They hadn’t spoken
warmly of my mother (Uncle Fred’s sister) or my father, disparaging them when I’d
just lost them.

That was also a promise I’d made to myself—I’d only have people in my life who were
kind to me, who respected me, who cared for me.

Gage and his date disappeared into the chaos of Frenchmen Street.

I let out a long breath. I’d now have to get over the man, which wouldn’t be easy.

It was the first time in my twenty-nine years that I’d fallen in love—and I knew
the fallout was going to hurt like hell.
But I’d gotten past my parents’ death—found a way to be happy.

I’d get over Gage, I didn’t doubt that.

Get She’s Like The Wind

BEST IN CLASS

EXCERPT

Can their foundation for forever be built on a second chance?

I'm Dominic Calder, and I'm fighting to win back the love of my life.

Luna is my best friend's sister, my first and only love, and the one I hurt the
most.

Now, years later, I'm back in Savannah, a renowned architect with one purpose: to
win my woman back!

I get the chance when I'm contracted to build one of the biggest hospitals in the
city. The catch, or is it a perk? Luna and I are partners on this project.

She's brilliant and captivating. Her expertise in hospital regulations is

unmatched. As we clash over designs and decisions, the walls between us start to
crumble.

But the pain I caused her young heart still lingers in her eyes.

Luna isn't ready to forgive or forget. She’s guarding herself fiercely, and I have
my work cut out for me.

I'm not giving up this time. I’m going to prove to her that we’re not just best in
class professionally, but also in life and forever.

Best In Class is a heartbreaking, angsty romance that features the following

tropes:

Second Chance

Brother's Best Friend

First Love

Enemies to lovers

Workplace (Architects)

Other Woman Drama

Billionaire (Heroine)

Betrayal & Grovel

No Cheating

Complete Standalone

Get Best In Class now!

Coming September 21, 2025

DOM

Luna Steele is the first girl who ever kissed me. It was a sweet kiss, a peck on
the cheek. She was seven and I was eight.

She’s the first girl I made love to. She was sixteen, I was seventeen.

She’s the first girl whose heart I broke. She was twenty, I was twenty-one.

I fell in love with Luna when she first kissed me.

I was in love with her when we lost our virginities to one another.

I was in love with her when I broke her heart.

Now, she’s thirty-one. I’m thirty-two.

I still love her.

She thinks she hates me.

“Moonbeam, what do you want me to do?” I ask her patiently.

“First, you can stop calling me Moonbeam,” she grits out. “And second, you can tell
Tommy that you don’t have the time to work on the Minton Memorial Hospital
project.”

“But I do have time,” I remind her, pushing back against the leather of my office
chair, my hands grasping the steel arms. A necessity to stop myself from grabbing
her like a caveman and having my way with her.

I came back to Savannah a year ago with one goal: to win my girl back.

She hasn’t made it easy for me.

If you want easy, Dom, swipe right! Easy is trying to climb Mount Everest in your
flip-flops while Luna is trying to knee you in the nuts.

Despite the risk of bodily harm, when Tommy Minton, the patriarchal asshole, told
me that he wouldn’t give the Minton Memorial Hospital project to Savannah Lace, the
company Luna worked for, because he didn’t want some woman architect fucking it up—
I convinced him to do it anyway by agreeing to partner with her, or in his words
supervise her.

She’d kill me if she thought I’d do that.

And, I won’t. Why would I? She’s an ace architect. She knows hospital code better
than anyone I’ve ever worked with.

Hell, she’s going to teach me, not the other way around.

She narrows her eyes at me like she’s measuring the exact pressure required to
crush my windpipe. Luna’s like that—brilliant and cold when she wants to be, and
fire when she needs to be.

She wasn’t always this sharp-edged, but I suppose I honed that blade.

God, she’s beautiful.

She always was—back when she wore her hair in pigtails, and now, with it cut short
to frame those sharp, unforgettable features.

She’s forever been a tomboy, always favored denim and leather over silk and pearls.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—is sexier than seeing Luna ride her badass Triumph
Bonneville T120 Black.

That bike is Luna.

Understated elegance.

Not too flashy.

Classic lines with a modern edge.

Heritage styling and serious horsepower—1200cc of parallel-twin muscle that doesn’t

suffer fools.

Definitely not a beginner’s bike. It’s powerful, precise, and completely in

control.
Just like her.

The first time I saw her ride it was a year ago, right after I moved back to
Savannah. Lev—her brother, my best friend—told me it was a new acquisition for her,
replacing a Ducati she had previously owned.

I was mesmerized watching her as she pulled up, the bike humming beneath her, then
went quiet as she flipped up her visor and tugged off her helmet.

Fingers combed through her wind-tossed hair, and the engine clicked as it cooled in
the heavy, golden heat of a Savannah dusk.

She looked like a storm rolling in.

Black armored Roland Sands jacket.

Short, scuffed riding boots that said she didn’t just ride for show.

Reinforced knuckle gloves.

And green eyes lit with adrenaline, danger, and sensuality.

Fuck!

If I hadn’t already been in love with her, that would’ve done it.

“That’s rich, Dom.” Luna gives me a withering look as she folds her arms across her
chest. “You think I’m going to believe you just happened to be available for the
biggest damn hospital project in the Southeast?”

“I am available,” I reply calmly. “I was invited. Just like you.”

“You orchestrated this, I just know it,” she accuses, voice low, even.

God, I love the way her brain works. She cuts through bullshit like a scalpel.

“No, Luna,” I say quietly, wanting to reassure her, calm her. “Tommy asked, and I
said yes. Nina is on board with this. It’s a partnership, Moonbeam, not the end of
the world, and absolutely no reflection of your abilities as an architect.”

Nina Davenport, the CEO of Savannah Lace and Luna’s boss, had taken some
convincing, but she understood that Tommy was a misogynist, and I would be good for
the project.

Luna stares at me like she’s trying to read the fine print on my soul. After a long
moment, she sighs. “Stop calling me Moonbeam.”

I lean forward. Not too close. Just enough to make sure she hears every word. “You
are and have always been my Moonbeam.”

Her lips twitch—like the nickname is digging into her skin.

She’s still fighting me—fighting us, the future we could have—because of the past.

For the past decade, whenever I came to Savannah to visit, she either avoided me,
ignored me, or flaunted a boyfriend. She crushed my heart.

But I get it. God, I hate that I get it. I wish she’d let it go. But I know she
can’t. Luna has integrity. She holds the truth like a sword, even when it’s cutting
her open. And in her truth, I cheated. I broke her. And now, she thinks letting me
back in would be betraying her values.

I could tell her the real reason I walked away—what her father did, what I was
trying to protect. But it won’t save me. If anything, it’ll confirm what she
already believes: that I’m weak. That I chose fear over love.

I was stupid. Clueless. A kid terrified of a life I didn’t think I deserved.

Now I’m a grown-ass man. Still stupid. Still clueless. Still scared.

But even if I was ready to bare it all, she refuses to talk about the past.

“We’ll work together if I have no choice, but that’s all it will be,” she warns.
“Don’t get any ideas.”

I smirk. “You’re cute when I’m irritated with you.”

“I am cute when you are irritated with me?”

“Yep.”

She scowls. “Fuck off, Dom.”

She glances at the hospital blueprints spread across my desk, then at me. Her eyes
have softened just a little.

“Moonbeam, we can build something together and—”

“A hospital. That’s what we build.” The hard is back in her eyes.

“Can you not let it go?” I ask, feeling just a tad desperate.

Her expression goes emotionless, blank. “We don’t talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“Dominic, please.”

Damn the woman! She uses her vulnerability, which you seldom see, like a weapon,
like now.

She lets out a deep breath, stands up.

“I’m not giving up on us,” I warn her.

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead saying, “I’ll see you in half an
hour for the kickoff meeting.” Then she turns on her booted heel and walks out of
my office.

I resist the urge to follow, because this time, I’m not chasing her like a boy with
a crush. I’m playing the long game. I came back to Savannah to win her heart. And I
sure as hell didn’t agree to work on this project to watch her walk away from me.

She doesn’t know it yet, but we’re building more than a hospital.

We’re rebuilding us.

One brick. One fight. One stolen kiss at a time.

I’m not going to lose her again.

Can’t lose her, dipshit, if you don’t have her in the first place.

LUNA

Iwas twenty when Dominic Calder taught me my most valuable lesson.

Never love someone more than they love you.

I would’ve followed him anywhere back then—New York, Dubai, into fire, if he asked.

I was standing on the edge of my future, ready to chase after architecture schools
that didn’t care about my last name or my family’s money.

He didn’t ask me to follow. He told me to stay.

Dom Calder didn’t just break my heart. He broke me.

For the past decade, whenever he came to visit, I tried to stay away from him. When
I couldn’t, I ignored him, which he didn’t make easy because he kept getting in my
space.

Then there were times that I’d make sure I had a boyfriend for the duration of his
visit.

Petty? Yes. Comforting to see him jealous and or annoyed? Also, yes.

Now he’s back…to stay. And I’m supposed to work side-by-side with him like none of
that ever happened?

The hell with that!

I park my bike in front of Savannah Lace’s offices and give myself a full sixty
seconds to breathe.

Deep. Even. Controlled. The way Dr. Monica Ryan, my therapist, taught me, after I
got into more trouble than I could handle when I was in my early teens, before I
fell in love with Dom, when I didn’t know how to handle my parents. And then after
Dom, when I didn’t know how to handle myself.

I didn’t tell anyone what Dom did. If my brother found out, he’d have beaten him to
death. Lev didn’t push when I told him I didn’t want to talk about it.
It’s our family trait—emotional constipation.

“Well?” Stella asks when she sees me walk past her office to mine.

I shrug.

I go to my office, angry as hell but also hurt. A part of me thought that if I

asked Dom to do something, he’d do it. If I told him I didn’t want him on this
project, he’d step away. I am Luna, and he’s Dom, and….

I blink when I feel tears in my eyes. Damn it!

Stella follows me as I set my helmet and driving gloves on a bookshelf.

He might’ve broken my heart once, but now I was older, smarter, and tougher.

This time, I’ll break his kneecaps if he does me wrong.

“Luna?” my friend queries gently.

Stella and I have been friends for years. We grew up together, and she’s seen me
through it all—finding Dom, losing him.

I turn so she can see me.

“Fuck!” she mutters.

I know I have tears in my eyes.

Strong, sassy Luna Steele—still crying over Dominic Calder. How fucking pathetic!

“What did he do?” she demands angrily.

“Nothing.” I sniffle and straighten my shoulders. “Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.”

“Hon, you’ve got to stop torturing yourself.”

I run a hand through my hair and slump into my chair. “Is that what I’m doing?”

Stella leans her hip against my desk. “Yeah, you are. Since he came back.”

Aurora hurries into my office, her laptop in hand. “You’re late. Which means you’re
either making trouble or avoiding it.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Why not both?”

Aurora is soft on the outside, steel on the inside.

She frowns. “Where have you been?” There’s accusation in her tone. She has told me
several times now to not push this thing with Dom and just work with him like I
would anyone else.

Like hell!

“She went to see a man-shaped mistake,” Stella explains.

Aurora sighs. “You’ve got to just accept this, Luna. Minton tied you to Dom, and
you’re like a….”
“Two-for-one deal at Arby’s?” Stella suggests.

They both laugh. I flip them a finger.

They’re right. I don’t have a choice. The Minton project is what I need to progress
my career. It has scale, visibility, and legacy. And I won it. Fair and square. Dom
just hitched himself to my victory.

“Whose kneecaps are we breaking?” Nova asks as she leans against my office doorway.

“Dom’s,” Stella says and sails out of the office, past Nova.

“Bring her to the meeting,” Aurora instructs Nova as she leaves to set up for the
upcoming meeting.

Nova nods and then studies me for a long moment. “When I was working with Anson,
there were many times that I almost did that.”

Anson LaRue is Nova’s old lover, old betrayer, and current husband. Some romances
work out, some don’t. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that Dom and I aren’t going to
have a happy ending.

Because, despite him mouthing off about not giving up on us (whatever the hell that
means), Dom is now dating Camy Channing.

Blonde. Typical. Bland. Perfect arm candy for him.

Camy is the type who’d normally not associate with Dom. I mean, OMG, he’s the son
of the help. And if that isn’t bad enough, he’s half-black.

But then he won the Pritzker Architecture Prize and made tons of money, looks like
freaking Regé-Jean Page from Bridgerton, so…yeah, he’s acceptable to a Savannah
society belle with more tits than brains.

I’d bet money Camy’s daddy bought her those tits. They’re perky as fuck.

And you’re jealous.

Sigh!

“Come on, Steele,” Nova prompts. “Your ex is gonna be here in a few minutes for our
meeting. Game face on.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t need no game face,” I reply petulantly. Any minute now, I’m
going to stomp my feet like a toddler. “I need a minute, I’ll see you in there.”

After Nova leaves, I do some breathing exercises. The man rattles me. No one does
that but him. Even my parents can’t push my buttons any longer. I’ve been in
therapy long enough to have cured myself from wanting to win their approval and am
comfortable with the truth that I neither like nor love them.

As a child, that was hard. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me that I didn’t
like my mostly absent mother, or my world-class bully father. My therapist helped
me normalize my emotions. Lots of children don’t like their parents, and as
impossible as it sounds, a lot of parents don’t like their children—it happens.

“You can’t control your parents or their behavior; all you can control is your
reaction to them.”
It’s a philosophy worth living by—one I’ve struggled to apply with Dom. I can’t
control him, and I can’t stop the storm of emotions he stirs in me every time he’s
near—confusing, overwhelming, and all-consuming.

By the time I make it to the meeting room, my game face, unlike what I told Nova,
is on. It stays on when I see Dom walk into the meeting room, looking like…regret
wrapped in charm.

I square my shoulders and hold back a sigh of longing because my body remembers him
like a favorite song I wish I could forget.

He grins at me and then throws in a wink for good measure. I glare at him.

Stop letting him get to you, Luna.

Easy to say, very hard to do.

I can lie to the whole world, but I can’t lie to myself, and the truth is that I’m
stupidly, recklessly, carelessly in love with Dom Calder. He cheated on me. Broke
my heart, and I can’t forgive him, but I also can’t stop loving him. He’s my
soulmate. I’ve always known this.

How could he crush my soul? And why does it still matter after all these years?

Nina steps into the meeting and she and Dom shake hands, make small talk.

Nina is my boss—and my friend. She knows my history with Dom. She’s also determined
not to let Savannah Lace, her company, become a soap opera set. Her words.

Already, there have been several romances that have thrived within our
professionally designed walls, and she mutters in exasperation that: “Savannah Lace
is not a dating site.”

However, since she’s dating—secretly, according to her, and very publicly,

according to him—Diego Perez, whom she met at Savannah Lace, I just raise an
eyebrow and say, “Pot, meet kettle.”

Dom looks good! Really good.

He’s in the same black dress shirt I saw him in earlier, but he’s rolled the
sleeves up just enough to show off the veins in his forearms.

Christ! Am I waxing poetic about the veins in his forearms?

Remember, regret wrapped in charm, Luna.

Tell me about it!

Nina leaves before the meeting starts as she only came to say hello to our new
partner, who is also my ex.

Slowly, others involved in the Minton project enter the meeting room.

There are four of us from Savannah Lace leading the charge: me, Nova as the lead
project manager, Lia as her right hand, and Stella bringing her landscaping
expertise. Others will join us—this is a massive initiative, after all—but we form
the core team.

From Dom’s side, it’s going to be just him. And we’ll have a few people from Tommy
Minton’s side.

Jason Marquez, the Minton project liaison, is an overconfident, underqualified go-

between who calls everyone ‘boss.’

He takes a seat next to me.

Since he met me, he’s been hitting on me relentlessly, unprofessionally, and

unsuccessfully. “Looking good, boss.”

“Luna,” Dom says smoothly, speaking over Jason, like my name tastes good in his
mouth.

“Uh-huh,” I reply to both of them in one go as Dom takes a seat across from me.

Him versus me.

“All, Tommy wants his interior designer to be part of these meetings”—Jason pauses
when Camy freaking Channing walks in, hips swaying, eyeing Dom like he’s dessert—“I
believe you all know Camy.”

Everyone nods.

I keep my face stony.

Nova raises both eyebrows and purses her lips.

Lia, who comes in right behind Camy, shakes her head and gives Dom a death glare.
She knows Dom, partly because she knows my brother, Lev. They recently became
friends, and even though Lia’s husband thought Lev was his competition, Sebastian
Boone now mentors Lev as a leadership coach.

“Hi, y’all,” Camy says and giggles.

The woman freakin’ giggles.

I let out a slow breath. This is going to be a long fuckin’ project.

Camy sits next to Dom and giggles some more.

He looks at her indulgently and breaks my heart again.

You have no business getting hurt! He’s not yours. He’s hers. And it’s not like
you’re celibate. Remember that time in Charleston?

That was a one-night stand. Camy is dating the motherfucker! And Charleston was
over a year ago!

And that brings me to another question: how long has it been since I had sex?

I ignore the happy couple and focus on the screen as Nova turns on. “All right,
folks,” she says cheerfully. “Let’s kick off the biggest project Savannah’s seen in
a decade.”

I go first, and after the general ‘thanks for being here’ nonsense pleasantries, I
dive into the meat of our kick-off discussions.

“Dom and I are co-leading design. We’ve divided responsibilities—he’ll take

structure and form, I’ll handle spatial programming and regulatory compliance. Our
goal is a fully integrated healing environment: sustainable, tech-forward, and
patient-centric.”

I look around the room, lazily running my eyes over Dom.

“Now, let’s talk scope. This project is massive, so we’re going to phase it,
obviously. Dom?”

Dom reclines in his chair, and I don’t miss the way Camy’s scarlet-tipped fingers
rest lightly on his forearm—the one with those goddamn veins.

When he shifts, her hand slips away.

“We start with site analysis and zoning coordination, while Luna’s team begins
compliance audits and community engagement. We work in parallel, Luna and I, fast
and tight.”

I raise a brow because he says that last part with just enough suggestion to make
my special places tingle.

Dom smirks. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing.

Nova sees the drama and flips to the next slide, urging me to continue presenting,
which I do. “We’ll be using a hybrid delivery model. Design-build for the exterior
shell, CM-at-risk for the medical interiors. This allows flexibility for revisions
and still keeps us within budget and timeline.”

Jason frowns. “Is that practical for something this complex? I mean, a vertical
garden? Solar shading? Don’t you think that’s a little…fluffy?”

I turn to face him. “This is the project that Tommy and the Minton Group signed off
on.”

Jason shrugs. “Yeah, but…I mean, we can keep making changes, right? Because
there’s—”

“No,” I interrupt him emphatically. “And it’s not fluffy. It’s biophilic design,
which research says reduces patient stress, lowers readmission rates, and increases
staff productivity. Fluffy doesn’t drive those numbers.”

Jason opens his mouth again, but Dom cuts in smoothly, “We ran the projections.
You’ll see them in the appendix. Luna’s methodology isn’t just sound—it’s smart.”

Jason scoffs, slightly chastened.

What the fuck? Is Dom playing backup?

He smiles at me and hope blooms inside me.

Just then, Camy leans in, her lips grazing his ear like a secret meant to be seen
as she whispers something that makes him nod.

My blood roars as a possessiveness I always feel for Dom surges through me.

Hands off my man, bitch.

My reaction tells me what I’ve known since this whole ‘work together’ nonsense
started, that it’s going to be hell. I’ve not been as focused as I usually am. Dom
distracts me. Now, with Camy added to the pot, it’s worse. I can’t stand seeing him
with another woman.

When he was in New York, it was easier. I didn’t know what he was doing. But now
it’s in my face.

It hurts.

God, it hurts!

After the meeting, which seemed interminable, he follows me into my office. He

leans against the doorway, his stance lazy as I get settled at my desk.

“What?” he asks when I arch an eyebrow at him.

“You’re the one who’s in my office, Calder. What do you want?”

He grins. His whole face lights up. I know that look.

“I love you, Moonbeam. Tell me you love me?” He’s inside me, moving slowly, making
me delirious.

We’ve just started having sex, and it’s taken us to a level of intimacy that
doesn’t just feel right, it feels destined. We’ve gotten good at giving and taking
pleasure.

There is no shame, no shyness, only want, only love. Only us.

“I love you, Dom. I’ll always love you.”

He grins. His face lights up. “Good girl.”

“I need to come, Dom.”

“I know, baby. But I want to stay inside you longer…let me.”

“Yes, stay. Stay forever.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. Promise.”

He comes into my office. Closes the door behind him. “Camy isn’t my call.”

I shrug. “If Tommy wants an interior designer from the start, that’s fine.”

“Camy is his goddaughter.”

“Okay.”

Don’t let him see how much this bothers you. He doesn’t deserve to know what’s
inside you. Not that he gives two shits.

“You looked ready to kill her.”

I lean in, resting my forearms on the desk. “Dom, listen loud and clear, I don’t
care who’s on a project…I’ll work with anyone.”

“Even me.”
“Even you.” I clench my jaw and calm myself.

Can he see inside of me? Like he used to?

“How about dinner tonight?”

“How about not!” I throw back at him. “I don’t go out with men who are otherwise
engaged. I believe cheating is more your style.”

His eyes darken, flare with anger. “You wanna talk about the past, baby? Then let’s
talk.”

“No,” I whisper.

“Who is she, Dom?” My hands are shaking when I see a woman in his dorm room at
Cornell, on his bed. She’s fully clothed but….

I thought we were doing the impossible, surviving a long-distance relationship. I

visited him during breaks, and he’s driven through the night to see me on weekends.

I had talked about transferring from Georgia Tech to New York. I’d told him we
could get a place together, and he’d told me not to do any such thing. That was the
first sign.

Then he stopped calling. Ghosted me on my birthday. That was the last straw.

“What are you doing here, Luna?” he demands. He’s only in underwear. His boxers.

“I…I…it was my birthday and….” I trail off softly.

The girl on his bed looks at Dom and then at me. “Dom?”

“Who are you?” I ask her.

She arches a perfect eyebrow. She’s blonde. Stacked. Gorgeous. “I’m Dom’s
girlfriend, and you?”

I close my eyes, and when I open them, the tears are hidden. “His ex.”

I walk away.

He doesn’t follow.

The end!

“How long, Moonbeam, are you going to punish me for a mistake I made when I was a
kid?”

He’s frustrated.

Well, bud, I’m heartbroken, so I get the right of way out of difficult
conversations.

“You cheated on me.” The words are choked out of me.

“What if I didn’t?” he challenges.

“Get the fuck out of my office.” I’m furious that he’s using our past to corner me
into…what?
I don’t know what Dom wants. He says he won’t give up on us? But what does he mean?
I can’t be friends with someone who’s betrayed my trust. And as for anything beyond
that—there’s too much history, too much weight. Whatever we were, whatever we
could’ve been, it’s buried under everything we never said.

He sighs.

“And I can handle Jason,” I add, annoyed.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t have to rescue me. I don’t need backup vocals while I’m singing lead.”

He shrugs carelessly. “I wasn’t rescuing you, Moonbeam. I was agreeing with you.
Loudly. The way men have to, sometimes, when women get talked over.”

I cross my arms because my heart is ready to pop out and land on his hand. “I don’t
need a man to do anything for me.”

“Baby, I do this for all women…for anyone, in fact, who’s being treated unfairly.”

God! He has to be a good guy to top it all?

“And who the fuck made you the savior of all womankind?”

His expression softens. “Not saving anyone. Just doing what I know I have to. I
work in rooms full of people like Jason all the time. When I see misogyny, I say
something.”

I stare at him. It’s harder to hold onto my anger when he says things like this,
when I know he means them.

I purse my lips. “Still don’t need saving.”

“I know,” he says with a small smile. “You never did.”

On that note, he leaves my office.

Five minutes later, I can still smell his cologne.

Damn him for getting under my skin.

Damn me for letting him.

Get Best In Class now!

THE MOUNTAIN ECHOES

EXCERPT

He's my enemy, and I don't trust him.

So why does he make my heart beat faster?

I'm Aria Delgado, and this is my story.

Ten years ago, my fiancé betrayed me in the worst way—he chose my sister. I swore
I’d never set foot on Longhorn Ranch again. But now, I don’t have a choice. My
father is gone, the family ranch is on the verge of collapse, and half of it
belongs to me, the other half to my sister, and she can’t sell it fast enough.

I won’t let that happen. My ancestral home is more than dirt and fences—it’s my
legacy. But the odds are stacked against me. The debts are too high, and someone is
trying to drive me out of my land.

As the pressure mounts, one man keeps appearing in my path: Maverick Kincaid, the
powerful, relentless rancher who wants Longhorn for himself. Smooth-talking, sharp-
eyed, and my sister's close friend—he’s everything I don't trust. But when danger
comes knocking, he’s the one who steps in to protect me.

The tension between us is a slow-burning wildfire, and I don’t know if I want to

put it out or let it consume me.

Every stolen moment with Mav is a risk. Every touch is a gamble. I’m terrified that
history is going to repeat itself and that, once again, the man I'm in love with is
going to choose my sister.

The Mountain Echoes is part of the Wildflower Canyon cowboy romance series and
features your favorite tropes:

Enemies to Lovers

Age Gap (10 years)

Cowboy

Small town

Other Woman Drama

Betrayal & Grovel

Complete Standalone

Get The Mountain Echoes

1

ARIA

My ex-fiancé is comforting his wife, my sister, as we stand in front of my father’s

grave. If it weren’t so heartbreaking, it would be funny.

Papa is gone.

He’ll never again bellow, ‘Aria,’ when he’s angry.

He’ll never again order me to straighten my spine.

He’ll never again tell me not to show weakness, to hold it together, and to fall
apart only when I’m all alone.

He’ll never ask me to come back home.

Tears spike my eyes. I pull them in.

Not gonna cry, Papa, not in front of others.

The priest says, “Amen.”

Dirt hits the coffin.

My body is still, but my insides jolt with the sound, as if someone just slammed a
gate shut behind me. My brain scrambles to make sense of the hollowness inside,
like when the TV signal cuts out, and all that’s left is static.

The wind kicks up again, going right through my coat, which is suited for
California but not Colorado. The chill cuts through skin and flesh, hitting my
bones.

I don’t mind it. It jars me into wakefulness and reminds me to put one foot after
the other despite being submerged in grief.

I wrap my arms around myself.

My eyes take in the view of the mountains I’ve missed for a decade.

They are spectacular.

The cemetery sits by the church on a rise at the edge of town, its whitewashed
walls weathered by wind and winters long gone.

Just two days ago, I was in another church in a vineyard in Napa, celebrating a
friend’s wedding. I left before the reception, my suitcase filled with wedding
outfits, completely unsuited for Wildflower Canyon.

Thankfully, I’d packed an LBD for the wedding—otherwise, I’d have had to dig
through the attic for whatever was left of my old clothes.

I knew that Celine had wanted to toss them into the trash when she turned my
bedroom into a guest room, but Nadine, our long-time farm manager, and Papa’s close
friend, didn’t let her.

The church in Napa has one thing in common with this one—both stand in front of
mountains. These, however, are stretched wide and jagged, their snow-dusted peaks
catching what little sun the gray sky offers this early in spring.

Pines crawl up the lower slopes, dark and plentiful. Beyond them, Wildflower
Canyon, a small town with big ranches, yawns open. It’s vast and stitched together
with the fading golds of last season’s grass.

The cemetery backs up to all of it as if the dead are keeping watch over the land.

The mountains are still covered in snow and will remain so until May, possibly
longer if the storms continue to roll through.

Thick drifts cling to the ridgelines.

The land’s holding its breath, waiting for spring to make good on its promises.

Down here, though, the thaw has begun.

Mud clings to boots.

The air carries that sharp, wet smell of melting ice and dormant earth waking up
slowly, telling you with each gust of cold wind how far you are from summer.

The church ceremony is for close family and friends only, according to Nadine, who
told me this with a roll of her eyes.

She’s not a big fan of my sister and would have left Longhorn Ranch a long time ago
if it wasn’t for my father.

Papa and Nadine were close, like siblings, not lovers, though Celine sneered that
Nadine was Papa’s whore.

But that was just Celine being a mean girl, tossing out insults like confetti. Her
real problem with Nadine was that she couldn’t manipulate her the way she did
everyone else in Wildflower Canyon—not with that sugar-sweet, goody-two-shoes act.

Oh, Celine has everyone fooled. To them, she is the saint. I’m the devil who ran
off and left the ranch and our father for the brighter lights and warmer days of
California.

But I didn’t leave. I was kicked out of my home.

Papa told me to pack up and leave. He never asked me to come back.

Of all the things he did to hurt me, this was the most wounding.

He chose silence over reconciliation, pride over love, and my sister over me.

I scan the cemetery, eyes skimming familiar faces. Most I know, despite having been
gone ten years, and it shows. People have new last names, new wrinkles, new
allegiances—but I know who they are, except for one man.

“Who’s that standing next to Kaz?” I ask Bree Keaton, one of my oldest friends and
one of the few people from Wildflower Canyon with whom I've kept in touch with
after I left.

“Maverick Kincaid,” she murmurs, leaning close to me.

Recognition flares. Nadine told me about him last night. He’s the man who wants to
buy Longhorn Ranch.

He’s not from Wildflower Canyon. He moved here after I left. He owns Kincaid Farms,
which he’s grown by acquiring ranches and farms. It is now the second-largest
spread in Wildflower Canyon, trailing only behind the old-money sprawl of Wilder
Ranch.

From the quick research I did after speaking with Nadine, I learned that Kincaid
Farms is part working ranch, part certified organic farm, and part global supply
chain player.

The cattle are grass-fed, antibiotic-free, and sold to premium markets across the
U.S.—restaurants in Denver, Austin, and New York with menus that charge $85 for a
steak and brag about where it came from. His dairy herd is smaller, but artisan
creameries in Boulder and Telluride prize the milk and cream.

He got into organic crop production early, long before anyone else in Wildflower—
rotating hay, hard red winter wheat, sweet corn, and heritage potatoes.

His onions and apples go to natural food co-ops all over the Mountain West.

And then there are the horses.

He runs an enviable breeding program, at least according to a Western Horseman

article I read.

You can take the girl off the ranch, but you can’t stop her from browsing horse
websites.

The man’s got money. He’s got land.

So why does he want Longhorn?

We’re a neighbor, sure. But we’re not a major player. We’re mid-sized…were mid-
sized. From what I can see and what I have heard, the ranch and its operations have
shrunk.

I don’t have all the details yet, but I plan to get them.

Maverick nods at me, seeing that my eyes are on him.

I return the greeting with a tight jerk of my chin.

His eyes fall on Celine, and he smiles.

She smiles back at him.

Ah fuck!
“He sleeping with her?” I ask Bree.

“Maybe. He’s known to…ah…keep busy with the women.”

See, this is how Miss Perfect works. She sleeps around, strategically, though. She
probably managed to get this guy into bed because he buys ranches, and she’s been
wanting to get rid of the ranch for as long as she’s been old enough to know that
half the ranch would be hers.

Maverick Kincaid clearly has the morals of a pig—carrying on an affair with a

married woman like it’s nothing. Honestly, it’s a match made in hell. Two people
with no integrity, perfectly suited to tear through other people’s lives without a
shred of remorse.

The man is handsome. I have to give him that.

He paints quite a picture in worn jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, a black button-down,
and a cowboy hat in hand.

His face is all hard lines and sun-weathered skin that speaks of long days
outdoors.

His jaw looks sharp enough to slice through hay.

His dark hair is just a little too long, probably the kind that curls at the edges
of his collar when it gets wet.

Clean-shaven—thank God. If he had a beard, he’d look like he belonged on a 1950s

wanted poster.

He stands like a man used to being listened to.

Tall, broad across the chest, shoulders built from real labor, not gym reps.

But it’s his eyes that tell me this man is cold as a Colorado winter. They’re ice
blue. And even when he smiles as he did when he looked at Celine, they’re not soft—
they’re like cut glass.

If I had to take a guess, this man doesn’t lose his temper. He doesn’t get angry.
He gets even.

He also doesn’t give a shit about anyone but getting what he wants.

How badly does he want Longhorn Ranch? And how will he react when I tell him I’m
not interested in selling, regardless of what Celine wants?

I watch as the last shovelful of earth falls over an opulent casket that doesn’t
suit Rami Delgado.

Papa didn’t want anything fancy. He told Nadine and Earl Cotter, the ranch foreman
and Papa’s long-time friend, that he wanted to be buried on Longhorn, but Celine
insisted that he be laid to rest next to Mama.

Frances Ackerman Delgado, may her soul rest in peace if it can, was a Catholic who
hated the ranch and was buried in the cemetery where there were plots of land
secured for Celine, Celine’s husband, me, my husband if I ever had one, our kids….

Papa hadn’t left any legally binding instructions about where or how he wanted to
be buried—not a word through a damn lawyer or notary—so Celine did whatever she
wanted. I’d only arrived last night, too late to stop anything. Her decisions were
already in motion, and there was nothing I could do.

In any case, Papa was dead, and like he said, “When I’m dead, I won’t give two
shits about what y’all do out here in the world of the living. I’ll be in hell.
I’ll have other problems.”

I smile as I remember his irreverence.

A sob tears through my sister, and then a howl as she folds herself into Hudson’s
arms like she’s on the cover of Grief Magazine.

Her husband pats her back, keeping a bland face.

He probably knows her by now. I wonder how he feels about her.

I know for sure how she feels about him, though.

Narcissistic, overt sociopaths don’t have emotions like normal humans. Yeah, I was
in therapy for a while, so I got a dose of who’s who on the family tree.

Frances Ackerman Delgado. Mother. Narcissistic personality disorder is a mental

health condition in which people have an unreasonably high sense of their own
importance.

Celine Delgado-Wiliams. Sister. Narcissistic Personality Disorder with Antisocial

Traits, colloquially referred to as high-functioning sociopathy, which she masks
with charm. Along with entitlement, manipulativeness, and lack of empathy, she also
has a pattern of deceit, disregard for others’ safety, and willingness to harm or
endanger others for personal gain.

Hudson Williams. Ex-fiancée and current brother-in-law. Dependent Personality

Disorder Traits, or Emotionally Immature Personality. He has dependency issues,
particularly his need to attach himself to someone dominant. He lacks a stable
sense of self or personal direction, making him easily manipulated.

Rami Delgado. Father. No formal DSM-5 diagnosis; character traits consistent with
avoidant coping, passive-dependency, and emotional neglect tendencies.

And there is me.

No clinical diagnosis. But, according to my therapist, I show traits consistent

with Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) and anxious-preoccupied
attachment. Apparently, my trauma isn’t loud; it’s internalized, shaping my
patterns of behavior and self-worth.

Celine is doing what her psyche demands, being the center of attention, and not
even dead Papa is allowed to take that away from her.

I am doing what mine does, which is to lay low and make myself small, invisible if
I can help it—because deep in my bones, I still believe that safety lives in
silence.

I watch as Maverick walks up to my sister and her husband.

I can hear what he says to Hudson. “Is she okay?”

Yeah, dude, she’s fine. But why don’t you wipe her tears and coddle her, yeah?
Hudson replies with an appropriate, “She will be. Just needs time.”

Maverick looks at me, his blue eyes assessing.

Hudson’s gaze follows Maverick’s line of vision. He gives me a short smile. He’s
been doing that ever since I came back and has been trying to corner me for a
conversation.

Like hell!

The time for conversation was ten years ago, buddy. Your time’s up!

I turn away before the heat in my stomach boils over.

After the service ends, everyone starts to move toward the church and the parking
lot. Some will go home, and some will join the other residents of Wildflower Canyon
at Longhorn Ranch, where the wake is being held.

Celine had it catered. Vera, who works in the house and kitchen, was furious about
that.

In Wildflower Canyon, we feed people homemade food.

But then, Celine is more Aspen than Wildflower Canyon, preferring the high-end ski
slopes and boutiques to cross-country skiing and shoveling manure.

But she stayed at Longhorn with Hudson, living in the ranch house with Papa.

It took me a while, but I finally figured out why she did so. It wasn’t because she
liked Longhorn or even wanted the ranch—it was so I wouldn’t come back. I, who
actually love this land. Who loved my father so much that he broke my heart again
and again.

As my therapist says, “Don’t go to a bookshop and try to order flowers.”

My father couldn’t love me the way I needed to be loved—he never had that in him.

“Stop hoping for roses from someone who only ever stocked paper and ink. You have
to accept what he can give, Aria, and let go of the rest.”

And now I have no choice but to let it go. There will be no chance to make amends,
no chance to heal wounds, and put together broken hearts.

This is goodbye for eternity.

I nod at Bree and let her know I want to be alone. She mouths that she’ll wait for
me. I smile, grateful. She’s my ride back to Longhorn.

Nadine squeezes my shoulder. Earl grunts. That’s his way of showing affection.
Tomas, the young man who works for Earl, whom I met only this morning, has red-
rimmed eyes.

I watch them all leave.

I feel Maverick’s eyes on me as he joins the others.

When it’s just my father and me, I lie down beside the grave, the cold earth biting
through my clothes. I rest my cheek on folded hands like I’m back in bed as a
child, watching him sleep, waiting for him to wake up so we can saddle the horses
and get to work.

Ranch mornings.

Dust and dew.

His voice, rough and kind, calling me “cowgirl” as the sun came up over the canyon.

“Te amo, Papa,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

The breeze carries the faintest scent of sage and old wood smoke, which is how Papa
used to smell.

I close my eyes and try to believe it means something.

I lie there for, I don’t know how long, but by the time I stand up, my body is
stiff.

I’m cold. I feel frozen.

I brush my hands on my thighs.

I look at Papa one last time. “I’ll take care of Longhorn,” I vow.

As I walk to Bree’s car, I know the fight I’m embarking on won’t be easy. My sister
doesn’t fight fair.

Hudson…well, he’s Celine’s problem now.

Wildflower Canyon is probably going to be on Celine’s side, wondering about the

interloper who’s interfering with Longhorn.

I know that I’m already walking into a stacked deck.

Kaz is with Bree by her car when I get there.

I give him a quick hug.

I know Kaz. Knew him well when we were younger until he moved to Aspen with Silas
and Tansy Hawthorne after his father passed away.

“When did you come back?” I ask genially,

“Been a few years. Hear you’re raising grapes in Napa.”

I tipped my chin in acknowledgment. “I hear you’re flush with cash and keep showing
up in other people’s business.”

He gives Bree a wry look. She shrugs, not denying she’s the one who gave me that
piece of gossip.

He’s a good guy. Helped Bree keep her uncle’s ranch when the taxes would have left
her with nothing.

“Me? In other people’s business?” Kaz shakes his head, amused. “You know me, Aria.
I’m all about my own business.”

“Speaking of which.” I tilt my head and give him an amused look. “I also heard that
you bought out the old McAlister land. Ten thousand acres, working cattle ranch.
Tore it all out. Turned it into some high-end retreat for rich boys with rifles and
credit cards.”

Kaz groans. “Don’t give me the third degree, will ya? I’ve heard it all from the
locals.”

“And he still does whatever he wants,” Bree says in a sing-song manner.

“Yes, I do, and you like it.”

I chuckle despite my heavy heart. “Are you sleepin’ together?”

“No!” Bree screeches.

“She wishes,” Kaz growls.

Bree grabs my hand and pushes me toward the passenger side of her truck. “Come on,
let’s get you to Longhorn before you say something that makes me wanna drive you
into the dirt like a T-post in dry ground.”

When she tells me, as she drives, how everyone who’s anyone is probably at
Longhorn, I sigh, “So, when I walk in there, everyone is gonna know I’m here.”

“Baby Cakes,” Bree snorts. “I think you’ve forgotten what Wildflower Canyon is
like. Word travels fast here. Someone probably started talking the minute you
stepped off the plane. Aria Delgado—home from the ashes.”

MAVERICK

The sisters couldn’t look more different.

Celine is a blonde, petite woman with milky-white skin and blue eyes. Her blonde
hair is lush, blow-dried, the loose waves flirting with her shoulders. She’s
stunning in a Marilyn Monroe sort of way.

Aria is a brunette, tall—easily around five foot ten—with the kind of posture that
comes from years spent in saddles and in fields, not from ballet classes or
etiquette schools. Her skin favors her father’s side of the family, a warm sun-gold
tan that doesn’t fade with the seasons, and her features are strong, hard rather
than delicate. Her eyes are a dark brown with hints of hazel. Her hair is pulled
back in a no-nonsense French braid, with a few auburn wisps broken free to frame
her rather plain face.

While Celine is wearing a lot of bling—jewelry she inherited from her mother, Aria
wears only a watch and small pearl drop earrings.
Her black dress tells me and everyone else who looks at her that she doesn’t have
any curves. Her tits are small. Her ass is passable.

Even her coat is impractical and far removed from Celine’s mink.

I watch her with curiosity, which is natural since I’ve heard a lot about her from
Celine, but this is the first time I’m seeing her.

Aria doesn’t have Celine’s high-sculpted cheekbones or bee-stung lips.

Her nose is small and slightly crooked, like it was broken once and never set
right.

Her eyes—wide, clear, and unblinking—aren’t brimming with tears, but carry the
weight of old sorrow.

She wears no lipstick, no artifice, just a softness that feels lived-in.

By most standards, she’s plain.

But she stands out.

Her face may not be beautiful in the usual way, but it is…arresting.

I’m not the only one who’s thinking of the older Delgado sister. Aria is taking up
plenty of real estate in Celine’s head.

“She’s only here because he’s dead,” she says mournfully as we drive to the ranch
house in my Chrysler. I have one of the ranch hands driving us for the day, so the
three of us are seated in the back.

“He’s her father, too,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

I don’t want to be part of the Delgado family drama, but I feel an irrational need
to defend Aria.

“She doesn’t care,” Celine spits out.

I didn’t argue, but I saw the pain in Aria’s eyes. She’s grieving—there’s no
mistaking that—and it was only confirmed when I watched her hang back, then lower
herself to the cold earth beside her father’s grave.

She lay there, silent, curled close to the stone like a daughter searching for
comfort one last time. There was something raw and childlike in the gesture, but
not performative.

Aria doesn’t appear to cry for show; she mourns in quiet shadows. She holds
everything in, only letting it out when no one’s looking.

Celine, on the other hand, wears grief like a costume. She plays it for the crowd.
She’s good at it.

“Come on, Celine, just because she’s not wailing like you, doesn’t mean shit,” her
husband snaps.

We’re not in public, and Hudson has dropped the good-husband routine.

I became part of Celine’s circle about a year ago, when things between us got…
friendly.

Not close, but friendly enough.

Hudson had left her and Wildflower Canyon to shack up with his mistress, only to
come crawling back a few months later, hat in hand, full of regret.

I felt sorry for her then.

She made overtures—flirted, hinted—but I never took the bait. I don’t sleep with
married women, no matter how messy their marital lives are.

Celine and Hudson are a strangely co-dependent couple.

I’ve told Celine more than once—usually when she’s in full rant mode about Hudson—
to just divorce him already. She calls him a loser, says she deserves better. I
don’t disagree. But no matter how often she swears she’s done, it always loops back
to the same old cycle: hate, love, blame, need.

Like clockwork.

Like an addiction?

“You always had a soft spot for her,” Celine complains, tears filling her eyes.

She cries easily. At the drop of a nine-gallon hat, as the cliché goes.

There’s something soft about Celine that makes a man want to protect her, take care
of her.

That’s not a feeling that her sister evokes. No, she looks like someone who can
take care of herself. There is a hard-as-nails quality about her. And I don’t think
she appreciates a man who opens the door for her or pays her tab.

“I’ve known Aria longer than I’ve known you,” Hudson remarks as he looks out of the
car window.

Aria and Hudson had been friends, from what I gathered, and had come to Wildflower
Canyon for a visit. She’d just been twenty and Hudson a year older. He had fallen
in love with Celine, who is two years her sister’s junior.

They married in a hurry because Celine was pregnant.

After the miscarriage, she couldn’t get pregnant again. Not being able to have
children has taken its toll on them. It’s another crack in a foundation already
worn thin.

“You are my husband, not hers.”

Celine has tears streaming down her face. Of course, she does. She’s one of those
women who manage to look beautiful even when they cry, like a heroine from a Jane
Austen novel, delicate and tragic. When my sister Joy cries, it’s full-on blotchy
skin, red nose, and hiccupping sobs. In sharp contrast, Celine’s sorrow photographs
well.

I watch almost unperturbed.

I’ve been with this couple often enough over the past couple of years, since I've
gotten to know them, to know that this kind of drama is part of their marriage.
Hudson says hurtful things that she probably goads him into by nagging him or being
needy. Then, she cries and….

“Baby, come on.” Hudson pulls her into his arms and kisses her hair with the air of
an exhausted man.

She sobs softly.

As much as I like Celine, the way she spirals whenever Hudson is around tests the
limits of my patience.

I turn away from them, wishing the driver would get us to Longhorn Ranch fast so I
can get a drink.

I intend to talk to Aria while she’s here, which, according to Celine, is not going
to be for long. The will’s being read in two days, after which I’m hoping to
finalize the deal and fold Longhorn into Kincaid Farms.

I’m going to make sure everyone who works there is taken care of. Earl can do
whatever he wants—I will take care of him. Nadine, I’m hoping will stay on. She’s
the reason that Longhorn has been surviving—she runs the farm and orchards with
mechanical precision. She’ll be an asset across my company.

The Longhorn herd’s not as large as it used to be. It shouldn’t be hard to

integrate it into mine.

Give it six months, I calculate, and Longhorn will be completely absorbed.

I’ve already gone over the price with Celine, and she liked all the zeroes. It’s a
fair market rate. I’m not doing her any favors. She’ll get half, same as Aria,
unless Rami tinkered with his will.

Though if you ask Celine, her sister doesn’t deserve a damn thing—she left, after
all. Ran away when things got hard.

I disagree on that account. Neither Celine nor Hudson has done much for Longhorn,
considering they lived here.

Hudson worked in accounting for a while, but then Rami fired him.

Celine spends more time in Aspen, which is where I get together with her socially.

I’ve been keeping her at an arm’s distance as she’s made it clear she’d like us to
start our sexual relationship. But call me traditional! I believe in the sanctity
of marriage—even if neither Celine nor her husband seems to.

“Why did she have to come?” Celine mumbles against Hudson’s chest.

“She’ll leave soon,” he assures her.

My mind wanders back to Aria Delgado.

I can see her standing over her father’s grave, huddled in that inappropriate coat.

I’ve been told she’s the flighty, selfish older sister—the one who bolted to
California chasing dreams and men. That’s the story most people tell around
Wildflower Canyon.
But talk to the folks who really knew Aria, and the accounts don’t all line up.
Some say she had her reasons.

Still, the facts are facts: she left, and she never came back. Not for holidays.
Not for harvest. Not until Rami died.

“She may not want to sell,” Nadine warned me just yesterday when I met her at the
co-op in town.

It’s just bluster, I’m sure of it.

Resurrecting Longhorn will take time, grit, and a whole lot of resources—none of
which I imagine a woman who walked away from her roots is willing to invest,
especially given the ranch’s financial state.

She’s not going to last—not when cattle die, fences snap, and winter hangs on like
a bad grudge. She knows fuck all about farming. She apparently works at some fancy
winery in Napa Valley—that ain’t gonna help her in an honest-to-God ranch in
Wildflower Canyon.

I mean, what is she going to do with it? Walk through the farm and pastures in
those high heels she wore to the funeral?

By the time we arrive at the ranch house, Celine has fixed her makeup, and the
couple is back to showing off their golden glow.

In Wildflower Canyon and Aspen, Celine is well-liked and popular.

She gets invited to all the society nonsense that we now have because of people
like Kaz Chase and the tech bro lot moving here. She’s also involved with some of
the volunteer work that the city does.

Her marriage might be in the toilet, but I don’t judge her for that. People stay
together for all kinds of reasons.

“Oh, Duke, thanks so much for coming.” Celine gives Duke Wilder, owner of the
biggest ranch in Colorado, a hug. He’s known her for a while and likes her, as I
do. Elena, his wife, is not a hugger, so she extends a hand and shakes Celine’s,
smiles politely, says “I’m sorry for your loss,” and then walks up to me, rolling
her eyes. She’s one of the few people who openly don’t like Celine, which includes
my sister. They both say there’s something fake about her.

Elena is an excellent horse trainer and a close friend, but I don’t know if she’s
the best judge of character, considering she’s hooked up with Duke.

He’s an asshole, but he loves her and she loves him, so I haven’t had any reason to
break his bones…lately.

“You know she’s already asked Duke if he’ll buy the place, in case you back out,”
Elena tells me.

Celine is being careful, and I don’t blame her for that. Deals fall apart for a
whole host of reasons, and she’s trying to protect herself. I wish she’d talked to
me about it, but I don’t hold it against her. I’ll talk to her, calm her down, and
we’ll figure this out.
“Come on, let’s get a drink,” I suggest.

We walk to the bar in the large living room where the party is being held.

A suited-up bartender pours us a whiskey each. Wild Turkey—strong, spicy, and a

favorite among ranchers.

“Cheers.” I hold up my glass, and she clinks hers against it.

We drink down the alcohol like a shot.

After, we slam the glass down on the bar counter with a thud and a chuckle. Cowboys
will treat every bar like a dive bar—that’s how we roll.

“You know the sister?” I ask once we take our second glass to the living room and
find a quiet corner, where there aren’t a shit ton of people pretending grief.

“Sure. We all grew up together, ya know. But we weren’t friends. Bree and she are
close. Kaz knows her well…or used to, considerin’ she’s been gone so many years.”

“She’s not exactly how I thought she’d be.”

“And what did you think?” she asks.

“I was expecting to find a polished flake in high heels, maybe a little Botox
around the eyes. She’s in high heels, but no Botox, and I’m not sure about the
flaky part. She doesn’t seem frivolous. Very serious eyes,” I explain.

“Why you lookin’ at her eyes, Mav?” Elena slaps my arm.

“The eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul,” I reply with mock seriousness.

She huffs out a laugh. “Well, she left a year after Duke did, so it’s been a
minute. There weren’t any stories about her. Celine was the favorite Delgado
sister, and she got all the attention.”

“She was an excellent foil to Rami.”

Elena seems to consider my words. “You know what? Rami was salty as fuck, but I’ll
take his blunt cowboy manner over Miss Beauty Queen there, any day.”

I tug her ponytail. “Stop judgin’ people.”

“I’m not judgin’, I’m stating facts…based on my gut.” Elena’s phone beeps, and she
pulls it out from the back pocket of her jeans and sighs dramatically. “Ah, damn!
Got to go. Horse trouble.”

I shake my head, amused. “You made Hunt send you that text.”

Hunt is the Wilder Ranch foreman.

She gives me a ‘what you gonna do’ look.

“I hate this shit, but Duke knew Rami and felt he had to give his respects,” she
admits. “But now that we have horse trouble….”

“Got it!”
She goes on tiptoe and kisses my cheek.

“Every time I turn around, you’ve got your hands on my wife.” Duke’s tone is only
half playful.

“Don’t blame me because your wife prefers me to you,” I shoot back.

Duke wraps an arm around Elena.

Prickly, strong, prideful Elena, who melts into him. It warms my heart to see them
so in love. She deserves all the good in the world…and maybe Duke does, too, when
he isn’t pissing me off.

“Seriously, Kincaid, you need to find your own woman.” Duke brushes a kiss against
his wife’s temple.

“Oh, hush.” Elena cuddles up to Duke. Never thought I’d ever see that sight,
knowing Elena as well as I do.

“And you need to stop planting your lips on other men?” Duke admonishes her softly
and then whispers something in her ear that sounds a lot like ‘your lips are for
my….’

“Get the fuck outta here,” I groan. “I don’t need to see you both behaving like
teenagers.”

As Elena tugs Duke away, she laughs. “You coming to the auction?” Duke asks over
his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

He’s talking about the early-spring Canyon Heritage Sale—mostly cattle, a few
bulls, some high-end breeding stock: good cattle, clean lines, no bullshit. You
learn a lot about a ranch by what they bring to auction—and how they stand behind
the rail.

This is where real ranchers show up and real money gets exchanged.

I know Wilder Ranch will be selling, which means I’ll be buying.

I walk around, make small talk, and occasionally bump into Celine and Hudson, who
are making the rounds.

People are sympathetic and kind. Like I said, Wildflower Canyon likes Celine—sees
her as a little vapid but sweet.

I talk to plenty of people—except the one I want to.

Where the fuck are you, Aria Delgado?

I go up to Kaz, who’s arguing with Bree as they both always seem to do.

I wish the two would just fuck and get it done with.

“Tell him that what I do with my land is none of his business, Mav,” Bree drags me
into their discussion.

I raise my hands, palms out. “I’m Bennet, and I’m not in it!”
Kaz laughs.

Bree makes a sound that’s a cross between a screech and a sigh. She walks away.

I turn to Kaz. “I hear you know the older daughter.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I do.”

“What’s she like?”

He gives me a puzzled look. “You worried she isn’t going to sell?”

No, I’m curious as fuck about her, but let’s go with that!

I nod.

“It’s been a while…so…I can’t really say. But from what I know from Bree, she’s
pretty well settled in Napa. Has a senior position at a vineyard and makes decent
money. I doubt she wants to come here and give all that up,” he muses.

“What does she do there?”

His brows draw together. “Fuck if I know, Mav.”

I’m about to probe some more when I see her. She’s got on a black cardigan over her
dress, and she’s wearing Ugg boots over her tights.

I almost smile.

She finally gave up fashion for comfort.

Maybe she’s more practical than she appears, which means I have a good chance of
convincing her to sell.

Get The Mountain Echoes

ALSO BY MAYA ALDEN

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A MODERN VINTAGE ROMANCE

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Kiss From A Rose

Against All Odds

WILDFLOWR CANYON

The Wrong Ride Home

REGRETFULLY YOURS

Ansel

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maya Alden is a Top 5 Amazon author and is known for her angsty and fast-paced
contemporary romance novels.

CONTACT MAYA

www.MayaAlden.com