mltmwf by onechangeatthetime

Table of Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Epilogue

TEMPT ME WITH FOREVER A NOLA HEART NOVEL

MARIA LUIS

ALKMINI BOOKS, LLC

CONTENTS

Tempt Me With Forever Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 29. From the desk of ThatMakeupGirl Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Epilogue Dear Fabulous Reader

Acknowledgments Also By Maria Luis About the Author

Never trust a bad boy. That’s what Beauty Influencer Lizzie Danvers tells her YouTube subscribers after getting dumped on Instagram. Lizzie may have the devil’s luck in choosing men, but she’s determined to prove that the age-old “once a playboy, always a playboy” theory is bulletproof. All she needs is thirty days and one sexy commitment-phobe to do it... By day, Gage Harvey helps his twin at Inked on Bourbon, tattooing butterflies onto every female under the age of thirty. By night, he works for New Orleans’ Special Operations Division, fulfilling a family legacy to protect his city. Relationships aren’t on his radar--until the hot-as-hell woman on his tattoo table glances up at him, a butterfly half-inked on her ass, and propositions him. Gage should say no--nothing good ever comes from entertaining crazy women. But for the sake of playboys everywhere, he’ll take one for the team, and prove to Miss Lizzie Danvers that bad boys are the only men who will tempt you with forever.

Copyright © 2017 by Maria Luis All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Book Cover by Najla Qamber Designs Editing by Indie Editing Chick Proofreading by Tandy Proofreads Created with Vellum

Tia Rosa, Every hope, every dream, every goal I have ever had, you were my biggest cheerleader. No matter how high I reached, or how far I moved away, your laughter, saucy humor, and strength always grounded me. This one is for you, Tia. I hope the butterﬂies will make you smile, the scene in the nightclub will make you laugh, and every word would make you proud. Love you.

Good job, honey.

CHAPTER ONE

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

t what point did hashtags become an acceptable form of conveying that one has, in fact, terminated a relationship? Seated at her vanity mirror-turned-o ce space, Lizzie Danvers stared at her phone, a glass of wine on the desk beside her mason jar of ride-or-die makeup brushes. The brushes were top of the line—her bread and butter—thanks to her career as a beauty influencer. The wine was necessary because, well, she’d just been dumped over Instagram. Publicly. With creatively used hashtags. And a photo of a superimposed red X over her face. “Who does that?” she muttered as she reached blindly for her wine. At the rate she downed the pinot grigio, she’d be better o drinking straight from the bottle. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and this was desperation at its finest. The damn photo had been liked no less than thirtythousand times in the last twenty-five minutes since Scott had posted it. With each minute that passed, the comments doubled, tripled, quadrupled. And Lizzie watched them all unravel down the screen like something out of a horror movie. In other words, the horror movie that was now her life.

Because her ex, another YouTuber, had followers, and lots of them. You never should have trusted a gamer. Yeah, that’d been her first mistake. Her friends had warned her about Scott Manson. The thirty-five-year old might have the face of an angel, and the voice of a fallen angel, but he was slick. Real slick. And, sure enough, Lizzie had fallen for his charms—including his promise that he was good with his hands. Considering he spent all day thumbing a controller, she’d figured it had to be true. Ha. The only thing Scott did well with his hands was play World of Warcraft and jerk himself o . Which made his public dumping even more ridiculous because the jerk had seen fit to claim that Lizzie was hopeless in the sack, that she’d bored him, and . . . She squinted at the photo’s caption, her gaze tracking the words for the twentieth time: It is with sad regret that I announce my split from Lizzie Danvers, otherwise known as ThatMakeupGirl across social media. In case you’re wondering why, let’s just say that a man likes to be pleased. In bed. From a woman who not only knows what she’s doing but is more exciting than a ball of cheese. Mansonites, you know how much I hate cheese, so this says a lot. Anyway, let’s just put it this way: #terminated #MansoniteGaming #bettero withoutyou #singleforlyfe #ihatewingedliner #shallowbytches Lizzie honestly didn’t know what she found more appalling—the fact that he hated cheese (this should have been her first tip-o ), that he couldn’t spell worth a damn, or that he thought her shallow.

She wasn’t going to touch the bad-in-bed comment. Clearly, he was delusional. But as for the shallow bit . . . Sure, she got heat all the time for applying makeup for a living. Lizzie heard it all— airhead, bimbo, waste of space. Whatever. If she could make young women and men feel conﬁdent about their looks, to enhance and show o their already beautiful features, and still make money doing so, then she didn’t care what anyone called her. Sticks and stones, and all that jazz. But this—this was bad. This was potentially career-ending. It was nearly midnight; by the next morning, she had no doubt that Scott’s post would be trending everywhere. The people loved him. Lizzie did not. After another sip of wine . . . Oh, who was she fooling? She chugged the glass. One swallow. One loud hiccup. One drunken swipe of her hand across her mouth. Really, she should leave well enough alone. Be the bigger woman. Prove to the world that she didn’t care if Scott Manson died with only his right hand for company. Not her problem. She’d planned to dump him anyway. He’d only sped up the process. Another comment popped up, and she recognized the username, sunsetgurl, as one of her die-hard followers. You just gonna take it like that @ThatMakeupGirl??! Lizzie traced her ﬁnger around the rim of her glass. Was she? Was she just going to sit back and let one “playboy” embarrass her like this? It wasn’t her heart smarting; in all honesty, in four months of dating Scott, she’d learned pretty quickly that he wasn’t The One. But he’d charmed her into believing that he was di erent than her

string of exes—in other words, troubled bad boys who never shaped up into men worthy of a painful Brazilian wax, let alone a long-term relationship. She was over charmers. She was over bad boys—those who were wannabes and those who were the real deal. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she was too drunk to think clearly. But she did know that sunsetgurl was right; she was not going to take Scott’s public humiliation like the quiet victim. Yeah, not happening. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Lizzie hadn’t spent the last decade, since the very day she’d turned twenty, creating a recognizable brand to just hang her head and retreat from her business when the flames flickered. She stood up for herself, always. And right now, it was necessary to show the world that Scott’s words hadn’t clawed at her pride. She was unfazed, in every way that mattered, and there was no better way to prove that than to hop onto her home-away-from-home and deliver that message to the masses. YouTube, here she came. Launching up from her chair, she set up her equipment— or as much as she cared to do at midnight. Ten minutes later, she had a full glass of wine, a swipe of gloss on her lips, and a burning fire to do some major damage. Petty isn’t a good look, girl. Yeah, well, Petty hadn’t ever been #terminated via Instagram. Desperate times. She cast a quick glance in her mirror, flu ed her caramelaccented brown hair, and flicked on the recording button. Game on. She smiled brilliantly at the camcorder, which sat on a tripod behind her laptop.

“Hey, dolls!” More smiling. Wider. Toothier. Screw you, Scott Manson. “Today’s video is a little bit di erent. For one, I’m not coming to you with a Chit Chat Get Ready With Me or a full face glam tutorial. Nope, by the time this video goes live, you will all have seen that I was dumped. Epically.” Lizzie held up a hand as though warding o her viewers’ gasps of horror—she was so accustomed to speaking to the camera like her fans were physically present that it was truly second nature. She sipped her wine for liquid encouragement. “So, here’s the thing. We all know that on my channel, I’m all about self-confidence. Loving yourself first, and treating yourself with respect. Well, dolls, that’s still the case tonight, but after what I just saw, I have to take a stand. Why is it ‘funny’”—she threw up air quotes—“for a man to completely tear at a woman on social media? I’ve been reading these comments, y’all, and if I weren’t so secure in myself, they’d be enough to throw me into a depression.” You are drinking by the glassful. Lizzie purposely took another sip of wine. “Slut shaming is not okay, dolls.” She pointed her glass at the camera, absently noting the way the liquid sloshed violently against the side. “It’s never okay. Have some respect.” Swallowing against the hurt, Lizzie shoved her chin up and narrowed her eyes. She saw herself in the viewfinder, and she wondered who that angry woman was staring back. A woman scorned, that’s who. Her caramel hair was still curled perfectly from early that morning and her foundation hadn’t budged, thanks to a facial setting spray she’d tried out for an upcoming First Impressions video. But when she met her blue eyes . . . yeah, that angry person wasn’t her.

Lizzie had spent a lifetime working to keep a level head. To the outside world, she was Bubbly Lizzie Danvers. Flirty Lizzie Danvers. That was her brand. At this point, it was her, although sometimes she wished that weren’t the case. Tonight, her eyes told a di erent story. Glittering (and not because of her duo-chrome eye shadow) and rimmed with black liner, she looked ready to kick some ass. Scott Manson’s ass. The ass of every bad boy in the world who’d wronged her, stood her up, called her an idiot, and deemed her a “shallow bytch” because she loved makeup, who treated her as though she was only good for what existed between her legs. When she’d first started on YouTube, she hadn’t realized all that would come with it—including all the man-whores who deemed her an easy lay. She was over it. All of it. She tossed back the rest of her wine. “Never trust a bad boy, doll. Don’t trust them when they whisper sweet words in your ear. Don’t trust them when they wine and dine you, and definitely don’t trust them when they promise you forever. They may look good, but I can promise you that the saying is true—once a playboy, always a playboy. They will lure you in only to spit you back out. You’ll change, wondering what you did wrong; they never will, I can guarantee you that. And I’m going to prove it.” What are you doing? Lizzie’s fingers tightened around the wine glass. She should cut the recording. Pretend none of this had happened. She’d had too much to drink, had spent too many minutes staring at the comments on Scott’s post calling her both a prude and a slut, depending on the commenter. Emojis were included for the benefit of all—not. Back away, girl. Back away from the camcorder.

She couldn’t. Not this time. It was time to prove once and for all that bad boys were not redeemable, that they would always be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, preying on women who only wanted love and a ection. “Thirty days, doll,” she heard herself say. “Within thirty days I’m going to prove that bad boys will always be just that —a bad boy, no matter what romance novels and rom-coms tell you otherwise. And I’m not going to do this Kate Hudson-style, y’all. I don’t need to act crazy or be wild in order to lose a guy. I’m going to . . .” She stiﬂed a hiccup, and her throat burned with the kickback of the booze. “I’m not trying to get rid of the bad boy—I-I’m going to ﬁnd New Orleans’s biggest commitment-phobe. The biggest. We’ll date. Thirty days. Weekly check-ins on my channel. And when Day Thirty rolls around, I’m going to show you that he’s no di erent than he was on Day One. He won’t ever change, and us, women? We’re always going to be the ones that end up brokenhearted.”

CHAPTER TWO

“A

nother butterfly up front. It’s your round, man.” Gage Harvey paused, fork halfway to his mouth, as he glanced up at his twin brother, Owen. “No can do,” he drawled. “I’ve reached my butterfly quota for the day.” Hell, he’d reached his butterfly quota eight years ago when Owen had opened Inked on Bourbon, the city’s hottest tattoo parlor. Back then, Gage hadn’t known anything about tattoos, save for the fact that he liked them, and Owen had filled every inch of Gage’s arms with ink. Most of his chest, too, for that matter. They’d each had a role to play: Owen tattooed people for a living, and Gage locked people up in jail as a cop for the New Orleans Police Department. Then Owen had dropped the bomb about opening up his own place, smack in the middle of the French Quarter. At the damn intersection of Toulouse and Bourbon streets, of all places—it didn’t get busier than that, and it sure as hell didn’t get any more touristy. But tourists equaled business, and business equaled money, and Owen, older than Gage by three minutes and fourteen seconds, was all about creating a nest egg for unforeseen events.

Gage lived for the unexpected. Hell, as a member of the NOPD’s Special Operations Division, better known as S.O.D., he thrived o the unexpected. He was just as hooked to the adrenaline rush as he was to the need to protect the citizens of New Orleans, just as his father had done, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. He was a fourth-generation cop. Then Owen had laid out the guilt trip, coercing Gage into a tattoo apprenticeship he never wanted, all so that he could work as Owen’s second-in-command whenever he wasn’t suited up, busting down doors, and saving lives. All so that you can tattoo butterflies. Gage popped a sliver of steak into his mouth, chewed, and then washed it down with his energy drink. “Pretty sure I had my contract amended last month. No more butterflies.” Owen rolled his eyes, eyes as black as Gage’s, and pushed the o ce door shut. Folding his arms over his burly chest, he stared down at Gage over the crooked bridge of his nose. A nose Gage had broken back when they’d been thirteen and battling it out over a chick they’d both liked. They’d been idiots, back then. “One more butterfly,” Owen said. “It’s not my fault that women come to N’Orleans wanting to be inked with something delicate.” Gage pointed his fork at his twin. “As owner of this joint, you should convince them to go for something original. Hell, I don’t know, suggest they go crazy and go for a skull or something.” Behind Owen’s trim beard, his mouth hitched upward. “Yeah, because that’d go over well. Sorority girl with a skull on her ankle? I can just see the stampede of horrified mothers busting down the door.” Yeah, so maybe not a skull then.

Owen had been smart to buy the space here at Toulouse and Bourbon, but in doing so, he’d set himself up for a lifetime of butterflies for the women and Celtic armbands for the men. Sometimes things got wild and there was the chance to do a pretty awesome bit of artwork, but more often times than not . . . butterflies, all day every day. It was enough to make a thirty-four-year-old man—in other words, Gage—cringe indefinitely. Especially since Gage worked at Inked as a favor to Owen; it wouldn’t ever be his main gig. Which meant that while Owen frequently tattooed celebrities and famous N’Orleanians, Gage got the leftovers. He pushed his lunch away with a sigh. Time to suit up and shut up. Faster he got this over with, the faster he’d be heading Uptown to do real work. “Where she want it?” he asked, scrubbing his hands in the sink. Owen’s o ce was large and dominated by black furniture. Leather couch, leather chair, mahogany desk. He’d outfitted the room with a sink for easy access, along with a mini fridge and a microwave. Photographs of some of his best work decorated the walls, and it hadn’t escaped Gage’s notice that his twin had added a few photos of Gage’s work, too. When Owen didn’t answer immediately, Gage slid his eyes over to his brother. “Ankle?” he prompted. Owen glanced up at the ceiling. Oh, Jesus. Gage pinched the bridge of his nose. “Another asstattoo?” “She’s cute,” was all Owen said, which Gage took as confirmation that, yep, he’d have his hands all over some sorority girl’s butt for the next twenty minutes—forty, if she wanted shading done. It wasn’t the placement of the tattoo that bothered him.

Nope. It was the fact that once he had his hands on her skin, the chick usually took that as invitation to hit on him. Blatantly. Without hesitation. Gage had enough on his plate already; he didn’t need to add a girlfriend to the mix. “You owe me,” he muttered, shoving past his brother and opening the door. Since their receptionist was on maternity leave, it fell to Owen and Gage to handle front of the house. Last time they’d let the other tattoo artist, Jordan, man the phones, he’d ended up screwing a client in the closet. The sounds of masculine grunting had horrified the mother and daughter duo sitting on the couch, plastic Mardi Gras beads encircling their necks. Jordan had e ectively been suspended and warned to keep his dick in his pants. The mother and daughter had gripped their beads, cheeks blooming red, and ran from Inked as fast as their flip-flops could take them. Another sign of a tourist—no self-respecting N’Orleanian would ever wear sandals on Bourbon. Not if they didn’t want to catch an STD or end up dead from a fatal disease. Gage headed straight for the vintage marble-topped bar, which functioned as their receptionist’s desk, only to see a woman facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Bourbon. He cataloged the back of her in a heartbeat. Perfectly tousled brown hair. O -the-shoulder white blouse. Form-fitting black skirt. Slim calves, trim ankles, and a pair of fuck-me black heels that could do double-duty as a weapon if she was so inclined. “You here for the butterfly?”

At the sound of his gru question, she turned around, and Gage felt his gut clench with unexpected lust. Owen hadn’t had the right of it; this woman wasn’t cute, she was gorgeous. The sort of breathtaking that had you questioning your sanity. The sort of breathtaking that made you wonder what the hell you could say to get her into your bed, her slim legs wrapped around your waist, and her breath hot and fast against your neck. Damn. Blue eyes lit with nervous anticipation as she rubbed her hands together. The motion jostled her bracelets. And, if her shirt weren’t so loose, he’d have had the opportunity to see if all that rubbing and jiggling a ected her breasts too. “I am,” she said with a bright smile—straight white teeth, lips painted the color of a ripe plum. He wanted to see the color mussed, kissed into nonexistence, and discover the true shade of her lips. Get a grip, man. Right. Right. He ran a hand through his dark hair. This is what he got for spending the last few months with only his right hand. Between work with S.O.D., and then spending every free moment helping Owen here at the parlor, Gage hadn’t had a night to himself in what felt like forever. Or a day, either. He lived two lives, and neither of them left room for casual sex, which was the only sort of sex he engaged in. Swallowing his lust, Gage motioned for her to step up to the vintage bar. “Let’s get your paperwork settled.” He pulled one of the already prepared clipboards from the pile, and then slid it over to the woman, a pen on the side. “This your ﬁrst tattoo?” She slipped her purse from her shoulder, dropping her head to sift through the contents. “It is,” she said, placing a

gold wallet on the bar. “I’m turning over a new leaf. Doing something new with my life, and I figured that a butterfly is—” “Metaphorical?” Her stunning blue eyes leapt to his face. “Yes!” she exclaimed, either ignoring his dry tone or oblivious to it. “That’s it exactly. I mean, I know I could have gone with something a little more original, but—” She crooked her finger at him, and he fell for it, leaning in close as she mockwhispered, “I’m deathly afraid of needles. Silly, isn’t it?” The cop side of his brain wanted to say that her aversion to needles was a good thing. In the fourteen years that he’d been on the force, he’d witnessed way too many drug overdoses to count. But this woman . . . Gage inched his gaze down to those plum-colored lips of hers. Yeah, women like her weren’t in that world; they didn’t exist in the underbelly of his beloved hometown. And so he only smirked and said, “You’ve still got time to rethink this. Once we start, trust me when I say you’ll only look ridiculous if we stop midway through.” She cocked her head to the side, surveying him with a single look. “Good thing I’m getting it done on my butt, then, right? No one will know if I cry mercy. No one but me and . . . you.” Gage laughed, loudly. “Want me to o er you a strip of leather to bite down on?” Her eyes narrowed. “Does that cost extra?” “I’ll make it free just for you.” He tapped his hip, drawing her gaze down to his worn Levi’s. “Leather belt meet to your satisfaction, princess?” Her reaction surprised him. Instead of blushing like any of the other women who waltzed into Inked, this one planted her hands on the

marble, bit her bottom lip, and saucily whispered, “Where do I sign up?” Heat raced up his spine, and a strangled laugh stuck in his throat. Damn, but he liked her. Liked her spunk and the teasing glint that appeared in the form of twin dimples in her cheeks. Gorgeous and witty—if Gage had a type, and usually he didn’t, this woman would be it. He wondered how long she was in town for. She had West Coast written all over her, though her accent didn’t have a hint of California sunshine. “Let me grab your license,” he said, for once thankful that records were a necessity. Her long lashes fluttered down as she fished around in her wallet, pulling out both her I.D. and a black Amex credit card. Gage checked back a low whistle. Either this woman was a high-roller or she was related to someone with a lot of money. Subtly he checked out her ring finger. Empty. Good news. “Here you go.” She gave him another bright smile and slid the I.D. across the marble with the tip of her manicured finger. “Do you by any chance have a restroom I can use?” She lifted her purse and gave it a little shake. “I brought a pair of shorts to change into, considering the placement of the tattoo.” She winked playfully. Gage’s cock hardened. Jesus, five minutes in her company and he was panting after her like a teenager. “Yeah.” He jerked his chin toward the hallway o to the right. “First door on your left. Can’t miss it—there’s a mural of a Roman bath on it.” “Great!”

Her heels tip-tapped against the floor, and just before she would have left his sight, she twisted around, hand on the wall, one foot rubbing the back of the other enticingly. “You can leave the belt on the bar for me,” she said, a slow smile tugging at her lush lips, and then she disappeared. Gage squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head. Either he was that desperate for the touch of a woman or his next client was about to make him come in his pants. Not once in eight years since Owen had opened Inked on Bourbon had Gage ever wanted to take a patron home. He lived by certain codes of morality, and fucking someone who had just paid him, however indirectly, was on his list of things not to do. Not today. Today, he was going to find a way to get that woman’s number and take her out for dinner. After that, he planned to feast on her body. Every single inch of her. The sound of shouting caught his attention, and he opened his eyes. A second line paraded down the street, plastic go-cups in hand, Mardi Gras beads strung around their necks, and a marching band trailing behind the partiers. A motorcycle cop pulled up the rear, helmet on and leather jacket zipped up to the neck despite the warm September weather. Gage caught the man’s finger-salute and returned it with a brief wave—most of the NOPD knew he worked at Inked when he wasn’t on a tour of duty, and they often came in to get tatted themselves. He glanced down, eager to discover the woman’s identity. Surprise hit him when he saw “Louisiana” stamped across the top. Her photo was demure—no plum lipstick, that’s for sure. He saved her name for last. Height: five-five. Weight: one-thirty-five. Eyes: blue. Hair: brown. He skimmed up, and stopped dead.

Elizabeth Danvers. Lizzie Danvers. Oh, fuck no.

CHAPTER THREE

izzie slipped a pair of basketball shorts over her hips in the bathroom of Inked on Bourbon. “You can do this,” she told her reflection in the large mirror above the sink. “All you have to do is ask.” And run the risk of rejection. No biggie. She hadn’t expected to find her perfect bad boy when she’d walked into the tattoo parlor today. She also meant what she’d told Mr. Hottie up at the front—she was turning a new leaf. Getting a new start on life. It’d been two weeks since Scott had dumped her, and therefore one week and six days since she’d uploaded the video to her YouTube channel, and set the beauty industry on fire with her challenge. She’d received no less than four hundred emails since. Some praised her for taking a stand, some told her to sit back down and get her head out of her own butt (albeit with more colorful language), and some pushed and prodded to uncover if she’d corralled the city’s best charmer into dating her yet. Planting her hands on her hips, she gave herself a dark glare in the mirror. “This wasn’t your brightest idea,” she muttered. “Now you have to dig yourself out.”

Thirty days dating the city’s biggest heartbreaker. This was why drinking to excess was a bad, bad thing. Because the next thing you knew, you’d announced to six million people around the world that you were going to prove to young girls everywhere to never trust a bad boy. A week ago, her challenge had started trending with the hashtag, #badboyirredemption, which wasn’t even grammatically correct. A person could only be redeemed, not the other way around, but that was the twenty-ﬁrst century for you. No one cared about the particulars, and now thousands of people were coming forward to announce taking up Lizzie’s challenge right along with her. Lizzie had drunk more wine in the last two weeks than she had in her entire life. But now . . . now things were looking up. In deciding to get her ﬁrst tattoo, she’d also met the hottest guy she’d ever seen. No wedding band, thankfully, and his smile was all long, hard sex. He was . . . perfect. Lizzie slipped her skirt over her purse, and then hooked the arm strap over her wrist. Time to do this. Oh God, I think I’m going to throw up. Pressing a hand to her belly to ease the nerves, Lizzie threw back her shoulders. Flirty Lizzie Danvers. Bubbly Lizzie Danvers. Right now, she could be nothing less if she wanted to keep Mr. Hottie from running in the opposite direction. Although she did feel a little ridiculous wearing high heels and a pair of her older brother’s shorts with “NOPD” emblazoned down the length of her left leg. No matter. Lizzie swayed her hips and smiled wide, with a lot of teeth, back to the front of the parlor.

At the sight of him, she sucked in her breath all over again. Gorgeous. Ruggedly gorgeous, but gorgeous all the same. Dark, messy hair that begged for a woman’s fingers; black eyes as deep as the night sky over the Mississippi River. His skin was tan, a beautiful olive that looked perpetually sunkissed. And his mouth . . . it was the stu of fantasies, full and perfectly formed. If he’d been a woman, or a man so inclined to wear a little lip product, that mouth of his would be plastered on every billboard in the country showcasing the season’s hottest glosses. But he wasn’t that sort of man; she knew that from a single glance. He was all hard muscle, dressed in worn jeans, heavy boots, and a white T-shirt that molded perfectly to his ripped torso as he typed at the computer. Ink coated his arms, stopping at his wrists. Thick wrists. Long, tapered fingers. Big hands. She wondered how those hands would feel on her body. He twisted around at the sound of her heels hitting tile, and she might as well have felt the cool blast radiating from him like a physical force field. Where his eyes had been hot just minutes ago, they were chilly now. And his mouth was a straight line of ambivalence, as though he hadn’t just o ered her the use of his leather belt. “All set?” he asked, voice gru and deep. She’d caught the slightest hint of a twang before, as though maybe he hadn’t always grown up in New Orleans. “I’ve already traced out the image you emailed us, down to your size specifications, along with the color scheme you picked out.” Pink. Purple. Turquoise.

“I like bright colors,” she said, refusing to feel embarrassed. It was her tattoo and her derriere—and even if she didn’t see the damn thing all the time, she wanted to know that the butterﬂy was an accurate representation of what she wanted. “Never would have guessed.” Lizzie’s shoulders inched up at his dry tone. “Is it going to take a long time?” In other words, how long do I have to get you to agree to date me for thirty days? Gesturing for her to follow him, he led the way to the back of the parlor, where three low-seated tables were positioned. Tattoo equipment sat beside each table, and Lizzie couldn’t even begin to describe what they were. He patted the far table. “Depends on how many breaks you need. Could be as short as twenty minutes, could be over an hour.” An hour of being punctured over and over again. Why had she thought this a great idea? “Have you . . .” She swallowed her nerves and stepped up to the table, pressing her knuckles into the cushioned leather after she set her purse on a spare chair. “Have you done the butterﬂy thing before?” He chuckled darkly. “You have no idea. All right, let’s do this.” Dark eyes zeroed in on her face. “Or are you gonna back out?” “Absolutely not.” Except now she sort of wanted to. She hadn’t been lying about her fear of needles. “Great. Get on the table, Miz Danvers. Stomach-down, please.” She shivered at the sound of her name o his tongue, then lifted one knee and then the other onto the table. On all fours, she glanced over at him; her gaze was level with his

flat stomach, and she tipped her chin back to meet his gaze. “You might want to get that leather belt ready. I’m a girl who likes to go all-in, but . . . needles, you know.” For a moment, he neither moved nor seemed to breathe. Body as still as finely cut marble, he clenched his jaw and averted his eyes. Had she pushed him too far? Crap, crap, crap. There was a fine line between flirty and bold; the first was like nectar to bees, the second like a light-zapper to mosquitoes. If she didn’t watch herself, she’d zap this opportunity into nothingness. Lizzie turned away and lowered herself to the table. Her shirt shifted upward, creasing across her lower spine, exposing her skin to the cool air from the ceiling fan whirring above them. With her cheek pressed to the table, she inhaled the smell of leather and edged her hand over the waistband of her shorts to tug them down. “Right side, please.” He made a strangled sound in his throat before she heard the stool creak with his weight. The soft fabric of terrycloth covered her left butt cheek. “Why here?” “Because then it’s only for me and my significant other.” Not that she had one of those. She’d have to get over her bad track record of dating losers for that to happen, but still, she had hope. She’d have even more hope once this dating challenge ended and the whole world wasn’t watching her every move, demanding updates on #badboyirredemption. There was the snap of latex gloves and then the smell of anti-bacterial wipes as he swiped the wet paper over her skin. Goose bumps pebbled on her arms. Whether from the wipe or the promise of his big hands, she didn’t know. “Where are you thinking you want this? Higher, toward your hip bone?”

Propping herself up on her left elbow, she twisted just so to point out the placement. Dead center on her right cheek. That way, even if she wore a bikini, no one would ever know but her (and Mr. Hottie) that her tattoo existed. It was her little secret, away from her subscribers and social media. Just hers. “Got it.” Tracing paper smoothed out over her bottom as Lizzie resumed her position, trying her best not to appear antsy. C’mon, girl, now’s your time. She sucked in a shallow breath. “Not that I have a significant other.” His hands stilled. “Thanks for the info.” Had she read him that wrong earlier? “Do you?” she asked, throwing hell to high water. He didn’t answer. Instead, the stool rolled backward and his big body slipped away, taking the terrycloth with him. “Take a look and let me know whether that works for you. Placement, color, size—if you’re cool with it, we’ll get to the actual ink.” She wasn’t sure if she was ready for the actual ink. Lizzie slipped o the table, struggling to maintain her composure as she posed in front of the mirror, her butt to the glass. The butterfly was just as she’d imagined it— roughly half the size of her palm, and shaded like a vibrant sunset over Lake Pontchartrain. Within each wing, he’d incorporated her request of a delicate, black fleur-de-lis, New Orleans’s infamous emblem of French royalty. The butterfly mirrored her need to spread her wings and see the world. The fleur-de-lis was a constant reminder that, no matter how far she flew, her heart always belonged to New Orleans. She dug her fingers into the elastic waistband. “It’s perfect.” She lifted her gaze, and was surprised to meet his

in the mirror. “You didn’t tell me your name. If you’re going to have your hands all over my butt, the least you could do is introduce yourself.” “Gage Harvey.” He looked part-rebel, part-savior, as though he had one foot in two di erent worlds. But his name . . . his name matched him perfectly. Brash. Sexy. She turned to face him and o ered a smile. “Nice to meet you, Gage. All right, let’s do this before I lose my courage altogether.” Within ten minutes, she had her butt exposed to anyone who walked past, a needle injecting ink into her skin, and the hottest guy she’d ever seen bent over said behind. It was heaven. It was hell. It was . . . painful. “You’ve got to stop squirming,” he grunted for the sixth time. “Unless you want this looking like something out of a kindergarten class, tough it out.” Tough it out? Lizzie ground her teeth at the pressure of the needle holding steady in one spot. “You sound like my brother. Take the pain, Lizzie. Ignore the hurt, Lizzie.” Another deep breath in through her nose. “I don’t do pain.” He swiped a rag over her ass. “You’ve come to the wrong place, then.” “Your bedside manners are atrocious.” “Tell me something I don’t know.” Gage drew back, the leather stool creaking again beneath his weight. “You keep moving around like that and this butterﬂy is going to end up a whole lot bigger when I can’t stay in the lines. Keep still.” You can do it, you can do it, you can do it. Think about something else—anything else. “Do you have a girlfriend?” Smooth, Lizzie, real smooth.

“Asking for a friend?” he replied in a voice as husky as whiskey. Well, it was now or never. She could either make it happen and get started on her thirty days or accept a very public defeat after an already very public breakup. “Asking for myself.” That stopped him. The tattoo machine quieted, and the reprieve from the incessant thrust of sharpness faded into a dull ache that she welcomed with open arms. “Answer me this,” he said, dragging the towel over her backside again, “you have any relation to Nathan Danvers?” Her left ear dug into the table as she twisted her head to look back at him. “You know my brother?” His mouth flat-lined. “We work together.” Lizzie let out a pained laugh—he may have paused in the tattooing, but her skin still smarted and her eyes still watered from the hurt. Her hand curled into a fist by her face. “I wouldn’t trust Danny with a tattoo if my life depended on it.” Shaking his head, he rolled back to the table again after switching out the ink color. “We’re both in S.O.D. He’s with K-9, I’m in tactical.” He flicked a little mechanism on the tool he held, and then leaned in. “I see him at least once a week, and have for the last year.” Lizzie’s heart jolted with the words, as well as with the sound of the tool starting up again. But her brain, for the first time since sprawling out on the table, wasn’t focused on the tattoo—nope, it was one-hundred percent centered on the fact that Gage Harvey worked with her brother in the city’s version of S.W.A.T. Well, that explained his sex appeal. He was badass to the bone. “I don’t . . .” Swallowing, she squeezed her eyes shut and continued, “So what you’re saying is, because you know my

brother, you’re not interested?” “I don’t mess around with my coworkers’ wives, sisters, daughters, and especially not their mothers. No o ense, princess, but no woman is worth losing the best part of me.” Nails scraping the bed as the needle scraped her ass, Lizzie bit out, “That’s awfully presumptuous of you, wouldn’t you say?” “It’s a fact.” It was just like a player to claim his dick was superior to his heart. Damn it, Gage Harvey was perfect. “What if I said I’d be willing to take the hit if Danny had something to say about us going on a date?” The sound of his soft chuckle settled around her like a heated blanket. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume that I even want to go on a date with you, wouldn’t you say?” That sti ened her spine, and he pressed a hand to her lower back, a silent encouragement for her to relax. Lizzie gulped down another breath. “You o ered me your leather belt.” “I’m a good Samaritan—it’s part of my job description.” “I was under the impression that your job description focused more on taking down drug lords, not helping little old ladies across the street.” “I’m a man of many talents, Miz Danvers.” And I want to see those many talents. Oh, God. She was a hot mess. Still, she wasn’t a quitter. It was time to pull in the big guns—be open and honest about what she wanted from him. “I was dumped a few weeks ago.” Not a good opener, especially not when he sharply replied, “I’m nobody’s rebound.”

“I wasn’t—I-I mean . . . that’s backstory. Scott was a dick, anyway, so trust me when I say no one is a rebound to him. Oh!” Her teeth snagged her lower lip as she bit back a whimper. A hand landed gently on her shoulder. “Breathe, Lizzie. You’re good, and you’re done.” “I am?” “Wanna see?” She absolutely did. Gage grasped her elbow, helping her o the table so she could—admittedly—hobble to the mirror. With the back of her shorts still cupping the bottom of her butt, Lizzie glanced over her shoulder. It was . . . beautiful. Exactly as she’d imagined. The wings had the appearance of mid-flight, and the shading was done to perfection. If she’d been braver, she would have asked for the reflection of the city skyline within the shape of the wing, but she didn’t have that sort of courage under the needle. But the fleur-delis was perfect, as was the way Gage had taken small liberty to add wisps of movement, air being disturbed, just alongside the wing. She wanted to hug him. “Exactly what you envisioned?” Lizzie nodded. “It’s gorgeous, thank you.” “We’ll go over how to take care of it before you leave. Let me grab some ointment and a patch. You really don’t want it rubbing against fabric for at least the next few hours.” He was already pushing her out the door and she hadn’t even asked him about . . . everything. Obviously, he knew her brother, but Lizzie didn’t think Danny would care. Her older brother was so even-keeled; he rarely lost his temper, and he’d never once cared who she’d dated in the past.

Though he has hated all of your exes. With good reason, of course. But Gage Harvey would be di erent. “I need a boyfriend for thirty days.” The words—oh God, did she have no self-control? She watched in abject horror as he faced her, his dark brows raised in surprise. Jaw clenching, he said, “Like I mentioned, I’m not anyone’s rebound. Find someone else.” It was now or never. If only her ass wasn’t completely exposed as she pled her case. “Long story short, I was dumped on Instagram, of all places. I don’t know what my brother has told you, but I run a YouTube channel about makeup. Which means that I have loads of followers, millions of followers. And after getting dumped, I got drunk.” “As one generally does.” He gestured for her to lean up against the table, and she did, hands gripping the edge as he swapped out gloves for another pair and then slicked ointment over her abused skin. A large bandage was ﬁtted over her next, and then he stepped back, stripping o his latex gloves. “You can pull up your shorts now.” Two weeks. In her entire life, she’d never experienced such embarrassment as she had in the last two weeks. With sharp motions, she slipped the shorts up to her waist. “I got drunk and I did something stupid—I uploaded a video which promised the world that I would prove that no one should ever trust a bad boy. It’s trending. There are hashtags.” Gage’s dark eyes ﬂicked down to her high heels and then back up again. “So, what? You want me to step up to the plate? Get involved in some crazy scheme all so you can make a fool out of me?”

“What?” She stepped forward. “Absolutely not. I want to prove that the bad boy never sticks around, not even when they promise you forever. I wouldn’t be doing this at all, but now people are joining the cause, so to speak, and I’ll . . . I feel as though if I don’t do this then I’ll be laughed out of the world I’ve belonged to for a decade.” His nostrils ﬂared as he met her stance and stepped into her bubble. Gage Harvey was six-two, at least, and Lizzie had to tip her head back to look him in the eye. In a low voice, he growled, “What’s in it for me?” Her palms turned sweaty at his nearness, and her heart gave an extra thump as though encouraging her to question her sanity. Already done. “Being a good Samaritan,” she whispered. “Think of me as that little old lady you’re helping across the street.” The slow, methodical perusal he gave her made her feel needy. For him. “Don’t know if I can do that, princess.” Time to go in for the kill. “You don’t strike me as a coward, O cer Harvey.” Dark eyes glittered as he leaned in. “You might be able to play that game with someone else, Miz Danvers, but that shit doesn’t work with me.” “What does work, then?” His chin jerked back. “Excuse me?” “I need a boyfriend for thirty days. I need to hold my head up high and pretend to the world I’m redeeming the bad boy, even though we all know it’s an impossible feat. It can be all for show.” Lizzie held herself very still, refusing to look away from the tight lines of his rugged face. “Was that your brother who I met when I came in? Your twin? Aside from the beard, y’all look exactly the same. If he doesn’t know Danny then I’m sure he’d be more inclined to help a girl out when her entire business might just come crumbling down . . .”

Lizzie released a squeak when he pressed her up against the mirror. The glass cooled her arms, and she felt the sting in her right butt cheek at the abrupt contact. His inked arms came up on either side of her, gripping the mirror’s frame so there was no escape. She was sandwiched between a mirror and a hot, tattooed male. You probably should have picked a more malleable target. “Looks like you’re in luck, princess, as I’m feeling awfully kind today,” Gage ground out, his face a dark mask of frustration. “And you’ll leave Owen out of this.” “Wait, you’ll do it?” Don’t jump up and down, don’t jump up and down. Relief loosened her ﬁngers from their balled ﬁsts. “Oh, my God, thank you. I really . . . it’s just that you’re rather perfect for it all. I don’t expect anything, honestly. At this point, it’s more about saving face and not looking like a complete fool. I can pay you, if you want. Name your price and—” A masculine hand gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “Thing is, princess, when you bargain with a bad boy, you should always know he’ll up the terms.” She couldn’t breathe, not with him so close, not with her breasts tingling and her butt stinging. “More money?” “One night. You get me as the show-pony you want so badly, and I’ll get you in my bed.”

CHAPTER FOUR

age’s shoulders bumped against his brothers’ as the bearcat rumbled down the street in New Orleans’s Central City. The air was sti and eerily quiet in the armored vehicle—sometimes he and the other guys in his unit prepped with music; more frequently, they sat in silence. It was a routine call—task force was already at the house on Galvez Street, setting up the perimeter and clearing out the block. By the time Gage and his brothers showed up, they’d have only one job: clean out the house and get their guy—a thirty-eight-year-old male who was wanted for homicide. Unfortunately, nothing about Gage’s job was routine. The unknown lurked around every corner, and there was always the chance that everything they’d planned for would go straight to hell. “Routine” was a word that went only so far in his life, but if he wanted to make sure he wasn’t the one to make everything FUBAR tonight, then he needed to get his head on straight. Stop thinking about Lizzie Danvers. What the hell had come over him today? Seriously, the way that he’d pressed against her at Inked? That sort of aggressive behavior wasn’t him. When it came to women,

Gage always held the opinion that there were more fish in the sea. Why slap cocks with another dude, trying to prove ownership, when the next woman would do just as well? But then Lizzie had brought up going to Owen with her ridiculous proposition, and he’d seen red. That sure as hell wasn’t happening. For one, Owen was hung up on a chick he’d had a one night stand with the month before. No amount of persuasion was going to get him o the bandwagon that was Savannah Rose. Second, even if Owen wasn’t su ering from a case of unrequited love, he wouldn’t go for a girl like Lizzie Danvers —Gage wouldn’t have let him. “You okay, man?” Gage jerked at the sound of Luke O’Connor’s voice. A former army sergeant, the man was the closest thing Gage had to a best friend outside of Owen. Which was, aside from the fact that he saw Nathan Danvers frequently in the field, how Lizzie’s name had rung a bell. Luke’s wife, Anna, was besties with Danvers’ wife, who was, in turn, besties with Lizzie. That whole group was practically incestuous, and Gage made an e ort to avoid joining the festivities when the women were included into the mix. Nothing against them, but the last time he’d gone out with a few of them, the outing had turned into one whole smorgasbord of marriages, kids, and mortgages. Gage preferred conversation that didn’t include any of the above—save the mortgages bit. His was a bitch-and-a-half, and he’d be paying o his damn house until the day he retired, no doubt about it. “I’m good,” he finally said.

He wasn’t good. He’d just signed up to date a friend of a friend’s sister because he’d let his cock do the talking. “You sure?” Luke elbowed him. “Exorcise whatever thoughts you have, Harvey. We’ve got a job to do.” One job. They had one job. And, fortunately, it was a job Gage did very well. Hell, it was a job he’d wanted since he’d accompanied his father to work when he’d been seven, and he’d seen S.O.D. dressed in their riot gear, looking like modern-day avengers for those who couldn’t protect themselves. The bearcat slowed, then ground to a halt, and there was a collective inhale in the van. Gage’s fingers clenched down on the handle of his body shield. Training had beat a mentality of unison among them, as though they were a decked-out, armored school of fish. Routine conditioning of doing the same thing day in and day out for years had conditioned their brains to think as one. Gage wasn’t the oldest guy in the unit, but he’d been in S.O.D. the longest, and it fell to him to corral them all and set up their next move. At Gage’s signal, the guy closest to the door, Timms, unlatched the double doors and they filed out. Out of his periphery, he spotted task force positioned in place, their navy blue BDU’s blending into the night. A cruiser marked with “K-9” sat one house over, and Gage would bet his left nut that Nathan Danvers sat inside with his Belgian Malinois, waiting for the moment to strike. Like S.O.D., K-9 wasn’t relegated to a single district; the city of New Orleans was their oyster. Time to get this shit done. In pairs, sandwiched shoulder to shoulder, they moved up to the rotted house. Vines crawled up the wood panels, and

the roof sagged like it might cave in at any moment. A lone light hung by the front door like a beacon. On his left, Luke muttered, “Hooah,” like the good soldier he once was. Gage had never served in the military, but after a year of working side by side with the guy, he echoed the call, “Hooah.” Their combat boots thudded up the rickety porch steps. Deep breath, man. Deep breath. He shifted his shield, unfurling his fist as he knocked heavily on the door. “Police with a warrant!” he bellowed, and then his boot connected with the door. The wood creaked, swinging wide open to reveal a dark room as the hinges gave way. Luke’s arm shot out. Pop! Light burst in the dark room, the flashbang brightening the hellhole up like Fourth of July. Gage scouted the space from behind the eye-shield of his helmet. Ratty furniture sat scattered around, and a rug carpeted the floor. “Let’s go, boys.” They moved in, tracking the space for their target. They checked each room thoroughly, and the high of the moment seeped like a drug into Gage’s veins. This was what he lived for, the high he craved: the push and pull of putting the bad guys in jail and doing everything in his power to protect his city, just the way the men in his family had done for generations. Except for Owen. Owen had opted out, quitting the police academy the day after their father was hit by a drunk driver up on the I-10 while handling a breakdown. Ben Harvey hadn’t stood a chance. By the time the ambulance arrived seven minutes

and forty-six seconds later, his pulse had already dwindled to a crawl. So Owen had chosen ink, artwork, a life as an entrepreneur. And Gage had chosen this— Their target swung open the kitchen door, a clear attempt to escape into the house’s backyard . . . where more of their guys waited. S.O.D. and task force had the house on lockdown. “Stop!” His voice cracked through the room like a whip. “Get down on the ground, now.” The man didn’t stop—no surprise there. He ﬂed out the door and Gage didn’t hesitate. He’d chosen this life, a life that wasn’t clear-cut. Black. White. Good. Evil. There were always shadows of gray. This was him, continuing the family legacy, doing more than just sitting on a stool and inking people’s skin. He’d never once stopped to wonder what if he didn’t come home. What if this was the end for him. Those hesitations spelled out certain death. But for the ﬁrst time in his life, as he swept into the night with his brothers by choice, he wondered what if. And it all had to do with Lizzie Danvers.

CHAPTER FIVE

“C

aramel mocha iced co ee!” Lizzie glanced up at the front of the co ee shop —her favorite in the city—and immediately scoped out the front door. Again. Gage Harvey was late, although maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe he’d come to his senses and had decided to blow her o . Maybe he’d caught on to her desperation, and realized that not even a night spent with her in bed could make up for it. She still couldn’t believe that’d been his bargaining chip, like something out of a rom-com or a steamy romance novel. Especially as she was trying to prove that real-life bad boys were nothing like their ﬁctional counterparts. But she’d be lying if she said that the o er wasn’t intriguing. After months of bad sex with Scott (and the sex had been infrequent, at that, thanks to him living in Oregon), Gage’s proposition enticed her in more ways than one. And since Lizzie was fully aware that their dating was nothing but a front, it left her with the opportunity to sex the guy up and walk away unscathed. It was exactly what she

needed. She was over giving her heart to men who had no intention of returning the favor. At least Gage’s request for a night in her bed lacked the awful stench of bullshit. He didn’t bother with a B.S. promise of forever. Instead the heated look in his black eyes had issued an altogether di erent sort of promise: he’d make her feel good, perhaps better than she’d ever felt in her life, and Lizzie was down for that. One-hundred percent. “Sorry I’m late.” The deep baritone startled her as the man of the hour slid into the seat opposite hers. He wore another white T-shirt, and the soft fabric stretched across his broad chest. On his head was a purple Louisiana State University baseball cap. The brim was curled, the edges frayed from age and use. Yeah, Lizzie pretty much had no qualms about jumping into bed with Gage Harvey. She wasn’t one for casual sex, always preferring the relationship route, but maybe that’s where she’d gone wrong in life. She always wanted more, whether it came to the ThatMakeupGirl brand or her lesser-known photography business. She never allowed herself the chance to enjoy the moment. This was her chance to do just that, and she couldn’t be luckier. Opportunities to climb onto the lap of a man like Gage Harvey didn’t come around every day. Tapping her mug, she tipped her head to study him. “I’ll grab you a co ee. What do you prefer?” His tattoos rippled as he leaned forward, forearms landing on the table. His shoulders bunched, the muscles beneath his shirt shifting and clenching and warming her up like the co ee she inhaled every morning. “I don’t drink co ee.” A ﬂaw, thank God. “You don’t drink it at all?”

“Nope.” “And you’re a cop?” “Have been for the last fourteen years.” A lifer then, just like her brother. “What about donuts?” she teased, wanting to erase the tired shadows from beneath his eyes. “Fancy a powdered one?” He grinned slowly, sexily. “Don’t eat ’em.” Another flaw. “Tell me, Gage”—she mimicked him and leaned in—“are you human under all that ink?” “Debatable.” He winked, and Lizzie pressed her knees together under the table. “Honestly, I’m just not a fan of shit that will screw with my performance on the job. Co ee keeps me wired, but I can do the same with an energy drink.” “And donuts?” “They’re on a mission to grow my waistband. It’d be hard as hell to climb over a chain-link fence if I can’t even lift myself o the ground.” The image of him scaling fences was hotter than she wanted to think about. “All right, fine. On behalf of womankind, I support this decision. But, I have to ask . . .” He pushed up the brim of his hat with one finger. “I might have an answer for you, princess.” She lowered her voice to a purr. “How do you feel about cheese?” “Is this a make or break moment for me?” His husky baritone curled her toes, even as she replied, “Absolutely.” “Then I should probably let you know that I’m not a diehard fan. If it’s on a sandwich or pizza, we’re good. Eating cubes of cheese on the other hand? Not my thing.” Lizzie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—another cheese-hater. What had she done to deserve this? She placed her hands on the table and made an elaborate show of standing up. “Well, I guess we’re done here . . .”

Twisting his ball cap around so that the bill shaded his neck, Gage stared up at her with a half-grin. “Quickest relationship I’ve ever had, fake or otherwise. Good thing we didn’t get to the marriage bit—we’d have a hard time splitting our assets.” His dark eyes dropped to her waist. Reaching across the small co ee table, Lizzie tapped his chin to command his attention. “One, my butt is doing just fine.” “Did I ask about it?” Her brows furrowed. “You mentioned assets. Pretty sure you were hinting at other things.” Gage folded his arms across his chest, his expression turning serious. “If we’re going to do this, you should probably know that I’m a straight-shooter. Beating around the bush in my line of work can get someone killed. So if you want to know exactly what I mean when I say something, just ask.” Lizzie’s butt collided with the seat. A bad boy who didn’t speak in riddles? Who knew such a magical unicorn existed? “All right,” she said, mimicking his pose and crossing her arms, “then I want to know why you agreed to date me. You accused me of trying to embarrass you, and then you mentioned that you would never cross my brother. Yeah, you mentioned the one night stand, but honestly?” Lizzie met his gaze unflinchingly. “I don’t trust it. You caved way too easily.” “You want honesty?” She nodded, and her heart cranked up its thumping tempo. Drawing o his ball cap, he tossed it on the table and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “It was the fear.” Her stomach dropped. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t look away, and Lizzie didn’t either. “When she was still alive, my grandmother used to go on and on about airs. I had no fucking idea what she was talking about—not a single clue. I’d look out at the blue sky and think to myself, the sky don’t look a damn bit di erent than it did earlier. Drove me insane to think that she knew some secret language neither Owen or I could decipher.” The words wrapped around her, a soft rasp with that subtle not-quite-New Orleans drawl, and Lizzie was sucked in. Did his twin sound exactly the same? He hadn’t said much the other day at the tattoo parlor. Or had their life experiences individualized the cadence of their speech, turning Gage’s voice husky and seductive, though his phrasing was hard, jaded, like the handcu s he locked around wrists and the gun she’d noticed under his shirt when he’d sat down. “When I finally got it,” he went on, “I felt like the biggest idiot. Airs—she meant the sort of uppity attitude a person shows to the world.” Lizzie’s shoulders twitched at the implication coating his words. “Are you saying that I’m uppity?” “I’m saying that you put on airs, princess. Bubbly airs, flirty airs. But when you talked of your business, of losing it all, I saw past all that to the fear. And that’s why I agreed, because your job is clearly who you are . . . and I’m the exact same way.” Well, hell. Lizzie blinked. And then blinked again. And then opened her mouth to say, “I don’t know what to—” “Doesn’t mean you won’t be filling your brother in about all of this.”

Her mouth fell open, snapped shut, and then gaped again like a ﬁsh’s. “But you already said that . . .” Gage picked up his hat and settled it on his head, cutting his gaze from view. “You want my help? That’s my one stipulation. Your job means enough to you that you’ll agree, I know that. Well, my job is everything to me. It’s who I am. And I’m sure as hell not going to let your scheme interfere with everything I’ve worked toward during the last fourteen years. It’s your call.” Did she really have a choice? He’d verbally and mentally worked her into a corner, backing her so far in that there was little chance for escape. Shifting in her seat, she eyed Gage Harvey and plotted out her next step. He was too headstrong to browbeat into the direction she wanted to take, that was clear to her now. Still . . . “How well do you know Danny?” Gage didn’t bat an eye at hearing the nickname she’d given her brother as a kid, instead of his real name, Nathan. “I see him weekly. Last time I ran into him out in the ﬁeld, his beloved dog tried to hump my leg.” Lizzie grinned at the hilarious visual. “Rocky is a little horny. It’s sort of his thing.” “Didn’t think he was going to let me go.” Gage shook his head, as though dispelling the memory. “Anyway, it’s up to you. Are you so desperate to go through with this that you’ll fess up to your brother?” Was she? Danny knew how much ThatMakeupGirl meant to her, and the fact that her phone had yet to quiet since the whole showdown had happened proved that her fans were rabid for more information. They wanted updates and, thus far, Lizzie had a whole lot of nada to give them. She eyed the man across the table, tracing his muscular arms and the way that his T-shirt dipped down into the

smallest V to reveal more ink on his chest. “You’re not at all what I imagined,” she said. While he had the arrogant note down pat, it was very clear to her that he wasn’t the immoral playboy she’d expected when first meeting him. His smile was wry and a little self-deprecating. “Looks can be deceiving, wouldn’t you say?” The question struck a nerve. Airhead. Bimbo. Waste of space. She wasn’t any of those things, and yet she heard the words more frequently than she liked. Lizzie wondered what sort of things Gage Harvey heard—were the tattoos enough to lump him into a “bad boy” category all on its own? Didn’t you think the same thing about him? A flush swept over her chest as the shame set in. She’d stereotyped him the way thousands of people did to her each day, and that was a hard pill to swallow. She averted her gaze to the co ee mug clasped between her hands. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” Her chest expanded with a heavy breath. “I make a point to never look at someone and judge them based on their appearance, and yet I did that with you. I took one look at the tattoos and your flirty demeanor and I judged hard. That wasn’t fair.” Silence greeted her, as though he was absorbing her words and internally cataloguing them. Then he leaned back in his chair, his thumb drumming a beat on the table, all masculine ease, and said, “C’mere.” Shock slipped down her spine. “What?” Dipping his chin, Gage lifted his hand from the table and gestured at her. “Appearances are what you need for the next

thirty days, princess, and I’m going to give that to you. Come here.” She moved at once, her chair skittering back across the tiled floor. Lizzie had never been the sort of girl to bend to a guy’s will, but this guy . . . she was finding it hard to tell Gage Harvey no. Harder, still, to separate the fact that their relationship was nothing but a sham to ease the ru ed feathers of her fans. Within a heartbeat, she stood before him in the V of his legs. To an outsider, they looked like any other couple sharing a bit of a ection. Only they knew how inaccurate it was, which didn’t at all explain the fact that Lizzie was tempted, really tempted, to know everything about him. He’d pushed up his hat just far enough so she could see his black eyes, eyes that stared up at her with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. “Take a seat.” She swiped her tongue over her bottom lip, finding just a little satisfaction when his gaze hungrily tracked the movement. “You’re on the chair,” she said, being purposely obtuse. He patted his jeaned thigh, and then spread his arms wide. “I am the chair. Sit down, Lizzie.” Lizzie, not princess. She didn’t know if her name sounded more personal coming o his lips than the ridiculous, uppity nickname he’d given her. But she sat. Twisting just so, so that her butt landed on his left thigh and her knees knocked against his right leg. His cologne, a subtle scent that was pure laundry detergent and soap, enveloped her.

Do not snuggle into him. Tempting, though. Oh-so-tempting, especially when his lips found her ear to whisper, “How about a nice photo-op? To show that you’ve discovered the city’s biggest commitment-phobe? New Orleans’s biggest bad boy?” Oh God, he’d watched the video. The video. Embarrassment clogged her throat, and Lizzie made a move to shift o his lap. He hooked an arm around her waist, stalling her ﬂight. “Appearances,” he said with a soft caress of his hand up her side. “We both know what the score is, Miz Danvers. Thirty days of make-believe. Grab your phone and let’s take a photo. We start now.” Now? With trembling hands, thanks to the lust he’d set ablaze within her, Lizzie snatched her purse o the table and thrust a hand inside for her phone. One picture, that’s all they needed to kick this o . One photo with a caption to introduce her new beau. That’s all. Angling herself on his lap, she held up the phone and whispered for Gage to smile for the camera. “It’s on a timer,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “Five seconds.” She didn’t expect his ﬁnger at her chin, turning her face to his. She didn’t expect to see the desire in his gaze. And she sure as hell didn’t expect his mouth to stamp down over hers in a surprise kiss that prompted a gasp from her lips. It was over before it began, and Lizzie lost all words. Every single one.

Because she wanted another kiss, even as short as the first had been. “I thought . . .” Her arm lowered. Whatever photo she’d captured would have to do. “I thought that I had to talk to my brother first, fill him in on all of this.” “Oh, you do.” “But the kiss—” With a slow grin, he tapped her phone. “Bad boys don’t play by the rules; isn’t that what you told your groupies?” “Well, yeah, but—” “Don’t trust a bad boy when he promises you forever.” He flung her words back at her with a smirk and a soft chuckle. “I’m not promising you forever, princess. Forever isn’t a word in my vocabulary. But I will promise you a damn good time, starting tomorrow. I’m taking you on our first date. Get your camera ready.” His eyes swept over her strappy dress and high-heeled booties. “And as much as I like this look, wear something you don’t mind getting a little dirty.” Dirty? “You said I have to talk to Danny before any of this goes down.” “That leaves you the rest of today to do so. Let me know how it goes.” “You’re bossy as all hell,” Lizzie muttered, scrambling o his lap to fist her hands on her hips. Gage winked. “Something tells me you like me just the way I am, which is a good thing because I’m developing a fine appreciation for that mouth of yours.”

CHAPTER SIX

t was a sad state of a airs that the only male to hump her recently was a dog. “Down, Rocky! Get o my—” Danny’s city-issued police dog didn’t listen. With his big brown paws wrapped around her thigh, the big guy went to town, his furry face a mask of bliss as his tongue lolled out of his mouth. Yup. This was her life. Lizzie curled a hand around his collar and gave a sharp tug on the leather. “Rock, Rocky, c’mon dude, not in public!” The sound of her brother’s raspy laughter caught Lizzie’s attention. Her gaze snapped to his face, noting the good humor in his gray eyes. “Tell your dog to stop treating my leg like a stripper pole.” Nathan Danvers, older by two years, only threw his head back with a boisterous ha-ha-ha. “You’re evil,” Lizzie muttered with another tug at Rocky’s collar, “totally evil. You don’t deserve your wife, you know. She’s way better than—” Jade followed her husband into the entryway, took one glance at the K-9 humping Lizzie, and said, “Didn’t I tell you not to wear those pants last time? You know Rock loves them.”

Lizzie’s mouth fell open. “That’s all you have to say? Blame the pants? I’ll have you know that these suede pants were a steal, a total find. Grabbed them at the thrift shop for a whopping ten bucks when they originally retail for over two hundred.” Danny strolled closer. “Rocky knows quality when he sees it. Can you blame him?” After a short whistle from her brother and a hand command Lizzie didn’t understand, Rocky gave one last desperate hump (oh, God), and then released her to trot over to his partner-slash-father. Panting happily, the dog sat with a heavy thump of his butt on the floor, and stared up at Danny as though to ask, I did good, didn’t I, Dad? Both Danny and Jade reached forward to scratch the pup behind his ears. One of them must have hit a spot because Rocky twisted to the side, neck further exposed for their fingers, as his hind leg thumped like Bugs Bunny. With a mock-glare, Lizzie finally drew o her jean jacket and hung it up on the coatrack by the front door. “You better try to get him out of that habit before the baby decides to spring from your vagina, Jade.” After three years of growing accustomed to Lizzie’s forwardness, Jade Danvers only rolled her dark eyes and made a subtle show of scratching her forehead with her middle finger. “I thought we discussed not using certain language around me.” Lizzie grinned. “Which one got to you this time? Baby? Or the springing from your vagina bit?” “I can’t wait until you get pregnant.” “You’ll be waiting for a while, then. First, we need a sperm donor.” Her brother cleared his throat awkwardly, muttered “boyfriend, you mean, right?” and motioned for them to follow him into the kitchen.

The Victorian-era house had been in the Danvers’ family since Lizzie had been a kid—and she’d always despised it, until recently. Memories of her drunken father generally took hold and overrode all the good, not to mention the one memory that never shook free: a teenage Danny bleeding out in the library, his breathing shallow and fading quickly. Their father had been responsible for that, and Lizzie had never felt even the slightest measure of sadness when they’d learned that he had died in a drunk driving accident a few months later. But still, the memories never faded. Not when Beth, their mother, had decided to keep living in the Victorian, Bayou St. John house; not when Danny had decided to live there later on, after Beth remarried police lieutenant Josh Cartwell and they moved across the Mississippi River to Gretna with Lizzie in tow. Only in the last three years, since Danny had met Jade, had the house with all of its secrets, become a true home. One with sunlight and laughter and open doors that never slammed shut in anger. And in two months, the Danvers family of three would become a family of four. Jade was having a girl, and Lizzie was over the moon for her best friend and her brother. She watched the Miami-born Jade take a seat at the table, one hand going to her belly as the other steadied her stance with a palm to the table. Some women you just couldn’t tell when they were about to pop out a kid; Jade wasn’t one of those women. Her stomach was the size of a watermelon, at least. Danny liked to tease that Jade was about to give him twins, even though all the sonograms showed a single baby girl. Amelia, if Jade had her way.

Sophia, if Danny had his. Lizzie was hoping for an Elizabeth. Once Jade was all settled in, she announced, “I heard a little something through the grapevine about you getting a new boyfriend?” Five hours had been all it took for Lizzie’s photo with Gage to go viral. So much for bringing up #badboyirredemption casually into the conversation. “I, um, may be seeing someone.” Lizzie chose the seat opposite Jade’s and slowly sank down onto it, her leg drawn up under her. “Sort of. It’s complicated.” “More complicated than dating a guy who plays video games for a living?” Danny grabbed plates from the cupboard and set them on the counter. “I told you that Scott was a total tool. You should have listened to me before you went out with him.” Her brother thought all of her boyfriends were “total tools.” “Are you really one to talk?” she tossed back. “Until Jade, you were the worst sort of tool.” “At least I had friends outside of a computer screen.” “Hey!” Lizzie narrowed her eyes. “Watch yourself, big bro. You’re speaking to a woman whose entire life is internet-based.” “Your photography business isn’t centered on the internet, not really.” Giving Jade a grateful smile, Lizzie sighed and pulled her hair up into a bun. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but we both know that Naked You is just as webfocused as ThatMakeupGirl. It’s all right; I’m totally content with the knowledge that I’m a millennial through and through.” And it was true.

While her YouTube channel focused on makeup and skincare, Lizzie also ran a side business that focused on the bare skin. As little or as much as her clients were willing to show. From the time that she’d been little, the human body had fascinated her. While her friends played with dolls and made up extravagant stories about their everyday doll lives, Lizzie had wanted more. Why were they shaped so oddly? Why were their eyes so bulging, their torsos so tiny, their breasts so big? Lizzie had tried her hand at fashion design, only to find that she lacked the patience to sit around at a sewing machine for hours. Drawing outfits was also beyond her. But makeup she’d developed an a nity for, early on. And photography allowed her a glimpse of reality and the chance to observe people for who they really were beneath the gloss and the foundation, sometimes even beneath the confines of clothing, too. Naked You provided a creative outlet to dress people down, whereas ThatMakeupGirl was all about the glitz and the glam. Two sides of Lizzie, and yet very few people knew that she was the photographer behind the inspiring social media account. As in, only Danny and Jade, along with her mother and stepfather, were aware of Lizzie’s other business. She wasn’t ashamed of her work; if anything, a need to keep a part of her life private had unintentionally evolved into secrecy. Heaving a small sigh, Lizzie rose to help Danny set the table. “Just say it,” she said, catching her brother’s narrowed gaze. Never one to mince words, he handed her the bowl of pasta sauce and gave exactly what she’d asked for: “You’ve

got to pull back from social media, Liz. Your life is online. Your friends are online. Your businesses—both of them—are online. Your relationships with guys, lately, have all been online. Aren’t you getting a little sick of the distance factor?” She’d been sick of the distance for years. But the longer she’d stayed in the game, the harder it became to separate herself from it. If it weren’t for her family and friends in New Orleans, she’d have no roots. Just like the butterﬂy on her butt, which was healing quite nicely, thank you very much, she’d be ever restless and never in the present. “I do take my photos for Naked You locally,” she said, placing the bowl on the table. “That counts for something, right?” Jade gave her A Look, one that she’d no doubt deliver to AmeliaSophiaElizabeth the moment she messed up for the ﬁrst time. “Amor, you don’t even use your real name when you operate Naked You.” Her heart clenched. “Lizabeth Vittoria is very close to Elizabeth Victoria.” Danny came up beside her with the pasta and a bottle of wine. He set the cabernet far away from his wife, as though knowing she’d be tempted to have just a sip. “It’s a lie.” It wasn’t a lie, it was . . . “Dramatization,” she said out loud, “I’m just making sure my identities stay separate. A lot of young girls watch my YouTube videos. Naked You is all about the naked form. The two can’t co-exist.” “I don’t think that’s the issue.” Her lips pursed. “Are you about to lecture me, Nathan?” His brows pulled low at her use of his real name. “All I’m saying is, you’ve been pushing ThatMakeupGirl for a decade now. Same shit, di erent day. Don’t you ever wonder if it’s not you anymore?” Yes.

All the time. But she owed it to her fans to keep going, especially those who had been with her from the start. She’d watched them all grow up; they’d traded emails that spanned longer than some marriages lasted. She’d received baby photos in the mail and even a few graduation caps. YouTube had given her a job; her fans had given her a purpose. Swallowing hard, Lizzie fiddled with her fork. “It’s why I started Naked You—to give myself an outlet in a completely di erent atmosphere.” “And now you’re going to date Gage Harvey just to satisfy people’s thirst for drama?” “Nathan.” Jade’s quiet reprimand was paired with a hand to his forearm. Lizzie’s brother was huge, more mountain than man, but at his wife’s touch, he let out a big sigh. “You’re going to get hurt again, Lizzie.” “How do you—? Did you see the photo of us online?” “Who didn’t see the photo of you two locking lips? I’ve already seen it on three di erent websites today. But no”— Danny shook his head—“I knew before the photo. Your boy Gage told me himself.” “He did what?” Annoyance balled her hands into fists as she thought of Gage from that morning at the co ee shop. He’d been so smooth, so suave, in telling her that she had one evening to clue her brother in about their fake relationship. The fact that he’d already— Lizzie pressed her knuckles to her mouth and counted to five. No, make that ten. Just to be sure she didn’t reach through her phone and strangle the hot-as-hell cop. “All right,” she muttered, “I’m calm.” “Your skin looks a bit red,” drawled Danny as he dumped pasta on Jade’s plate, then Lizzie’s.

It took everything in Lizzie’s power not to sound bitter when she ground out, “It’s called blush.” “Nathan,” Jade said, already digging into her pasta, “be nice to Lizzie.” “Or what?” “Doghouse, my love.” That was all Jade said, and Danny gave in without a ﬁght. “In case you’re wondering, we had to deliver a warrant the other night. Harvey was there with S.O.D. It was a damn good scene, by the way. The client tried to slip out the back, and we were all there waiting for him—” Jade laughed. “It always gets me when you call them clients.” With a smirk, Danny swirled his fork in his pasta. “The Public Integrity Bureau’s new technical term for anyone who’s on the wrong side of the law.” Lizzie poured herself a glass of wine and took a healthy sip. “Can we get on with the story? The two of you are going to put me to sleep with all the cop lingo.” Despite the fact that Jade looked ready to pop, her belly was so large, she still worked full-time for the NOPD’s crime lab. Back in the day, she and Danny had run into each other frequently in the ﬁeld, even after they’d gotten together. Nowadays, from what Lizzie understood, their meetups didn’t happen as frequently. Her brother’s move into the K9 unit meant that he was needed all over the city, and rarely camped out on one scene long enough for Jade to show up. Danny leaned in, planting one forearm on the table as he met her gaze. “You’re a fun-killer. It was a good night. Anyway, after task force brought the client to lockup, Harvey came on over. You can imagine my surprise when he wanted to talk about you.” Lizzie drank more wine. It was either that or beg for information.

And her brother was not above making her work for it. They were siblings all the way to their core. “So?” she prompted when the silence stretched too long. “What did he say?” Dropping back in his chair, Danny folded his hands over his flat stomach and watched her. Rocky, though he was never given table scraps, pranced over and laid his head on his dad’s thigh. The drool was real. “Besides the fact that he had his hands all over you for that ridiculous tattoo?” Danny’s shoulder lifted. “Not much. Said that you surprised him with a hell of an o er he couldn’t refuse. I’m guessing he’s your commitmentphobe?” She was never going to live that video down. The next thirty days couldn’t end fast enough. O ering a half-smile, she said, “He seemed to fit the bill.” “Considering that I’ve never known him to have a girlfriend, you’re probably right.” Trading a glance with Jade, Danny added, “I’m just—we’re just worried you’re signing yourself up for heartbreak here. I know it’s all part of your plan, but do you really know what you’re doing?” Not at all. And that was the scary part, because for the last decade Lizzie had operated on a very clear trajectory. Every move she made as a Beauty Influencer was strategic. Every swipe of lip gloss, every collaboration she’d done with a popular brand, had been to further her brand and become more than the stereotype of “that makeup girl.” She lived makeup. She breathed makeup. And makeup a orded her everything that she owned. But you’re tired of it. Yes. Maybe. It wasn’t so clear-cut, but what was clear to her was this thing with Gage was outside of her norm. She

might always date “total tools,” as Danny so eloquently put it, but Gage was . . . di erent. She didn’t know how, not quite yet. Didn’t mean she wasn’t dying to peel back his layers and discover what lay beneath. She met her brother’s gaze. “I was told I needed to run everything by you before I o cially enlisted him. Anything else you want to add?” “Yeah.” He dipped his head, and lowered his voice. “Don’t get hurt.” The warning bounced right o her. Lizzie had no plans to fall in love with Gage Harvey. Thirty days of make-believe. One night of hot sex. That’s all there was to it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

amn. That was the first thought to pop into Gage’s head when he spotted Lizzie strutting toward his old Chevy truck in the Winn Dixie parking lot. Well, damn, and also, how does she make sweatpants look so good? Her hair shone caramel under the sun, and it was with a small dose of satisfaction that he watched her slow, stumble, and then stutter to a halt at the sight of him leaning against his truck. “You all good?” he asked, not bothering to hide the onceover he gave her. V-neck T-shirt; tight leggings that hugged her body in all the right places; PJ’s co ee cup clutched tight in one hand; a pair of pristine, white tennis shoes. He met her gaze. “Not used to walking without the weapons?” “Weapons?” Her husky voice slid through him like a shot of bourbon. “I’m in the market of advertising eye shadows and false lashes, Gage, not shotguns.” “Your shoes, princess.” He swallowed a grin when a flush worked up her neck. “I was talking about those fuck-me heels you’ve worn each time I’ve seen you.” As he was beginning to expect from her, her chin went up in defiance. “The shoes weren’t for you.”

“I figured.” “And I can walk perfectly fine in tennis shoes. I just . . . there was a rock.” “Yeah?” He made a show of looking around her to where her near-fall had gone down. “What’s your classification between a rock and a pebble?” Blue eyes narrowed. “I’d o er you a sip of my co ee to fix that grumpy attitude of yours, but since you’re inhuman and all . . .” Gage pushed away from the truck. One step toward her. Two steps. Her chest inflated with a sharp inhale when he wrapped one hand around the Styrofoam cup. With a quick tug, he pulled it from her grasp and brought the rim to his mouth, drawing out the moment. “You wouldn’t.” At her deadpan tone, he replied, “I would,” and then took a purposeful swallow of death itself. Jesus. Co ee. And it was black, too. Not a single touch of cream or sugar to mitigate the bitterness. It took everything in him not to cough and thump his chest, and he made do with returning the cup to her still waiting hand. As though enjoying his misery, Lizzie took a long sip of the co ee, never taking her eyes o his face. Then, “Feel a lot manlier after that display of cavemanitis?” It was seven-thirty in the morning, and the fire was already in her step. He should have downed the rest of her drink. She definitely didn’t need any more of a perk-me-up. “I think I liked you better in the heels,” he muttered, turning back to the truck. “Because they make my legs look longer?” He grasped the passenger’s side door handle and drew it open for her. When she went to climb in, Gage put his hand to her back. “No, princess, because you’re a hell of a lot less

snarky when you’re an extra five inches taller. Might be the di erence in oxygen levels.” Her mouth parted in a surprised O just before he slammed the door shut and went around the hood of the truck. Gage figured she’d be feisty today, especially after learning last night that he’d already spoken with her brother. Danvers was a solid guy, if not a little quirky with all of his fruity drinks and weird-ass humor. To each their own. He’d met Mrs. Danvers once, too, the day after they’d signed up to forever in the form of marriage. They’d both come in to Inked on Bourbon for a tattoo—a wedding band on Danvers’ ring finger. “Never know what’s going to happen out in the field, man,” Danvers had said with a quick, adoring look to his wife. “But I want her to know that she’s with me every moment I’m not with her, and that’s never going to change.” Gage wasn’t interested in long-term commitment, but he’d known right then that Danvers and Jade were meant to be. He only hoped that it lasted. Not every marriage does. Slamming the breaks on those thoughts, Gage opened the driver’s side door and took his seat. Key in the ignition, he started the old boy up and waited for the ki-kic-kick of the engine to ease into a quiet hum. “Your truck sounds like death.” Gage hit the gas and directed the truck out of the grocery store’s parking lot. Lizzie hadn’t wanted to meet at either of their houses, which he understood. As a cop, Gage tended to think the worst of people. He supposed Lizzie, thanks to having a cop as a brother, did the same. Even though Gage was bringing her out of the city today; if he wanted to take

her out permanently, he’d have no problem doing so at their final destination. “Haven’t had time to get it looked at,” he finally said, flicking open the AC vents so cool air could seep through. “I’m a busy guy.” “And yet you’re not busy enough to tell me to get lost?” Though he kept one hand on the steering wheel, he took his eyes o the road to flash her a grin and a wink. “Not busy enough for a pretty, pretty princess like you, Miz Danvers.” She snorted into her co ee cup. “Please don’t make me throw up this morning.” “You feelin’ sick?” His truck was old and sure didn’t shine the way it used to, but Gage kept the interior pristine. Vomit was not allowed. “I’m feelin’ a little nauseous after that one-liner you just gave me. Please boost my faith in women everywhere by telling me that’s never worked for you before.” “Is this another one of those moments where it’s in my best interest to lie about liking cheese?” “All I’m saying is, you’re on thin ice, O cer Harvey, very thin ice.” Dammit, he wanted to look at her. Really look at her. Were her blue eyes blazing with contagious humor? Her tone was dry and just a little high-pitched, as though she held back laughter. If this morning was any indicator for the next thirty days, then he figured he was in for a real treat. And then you’ll let her go. Gage’s shoulders sti ened at the thought. He didn’t keep anyone, save for Owen, and that was a given. Gage had learned the hard way that relationships weren’t for him, and they certainly weren’t for the men in his family. Singlehood was good; it was easy and

uncomplicated, and exactly what he needed, considering the high intensity of his job. So, really, this thing with Lizzie worked out perfectly. She needed a pretend-boyfriend. He needed a reprieve from his chaotic life, and there was no better antidote to the chaos than a beautiful woman with a tart mouth and a tattoo on her ass that he wouldn’t mind grabbing as he sank into her body. Uncomplicated. Just the way relationships between men and women were meant to be. “Did you bring your camera?” If she noticed his abrupt change in conversation, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she reached into the backpack between her feet and ri ed through it. “Absolutely. Want to tell me where we’re going? Will there be a mud pit involved?” Don’t think about Lizzie Danvers in a mud pit. Too late. Gage shifted in his seat, for once thankful that there was tra c to distract him as he pulled onto the I-10’s on-ramp, heading for the West Bank. “Should I be surprised that I told you to prepare for dirt, and your ﬁrst thought was mud pit?” “I wouldn’t be upset about it.” She straightened and settled a massive, expensive-looking camera on the center console. “Mud is great as a facial mask.” “I don’t even want to know.” “It rejuvenates the skin cells.” Without warning, she reached out and traced the side of his face, making his cock twitch in his pants. “Did you ever have a beard like your twin?” “Like Owen?” How was she talking about his brother when he was still picturing her in the mud pit, buck-ass naked? Get your mind out of the gutter. “No—” He cleared his

throat after hearing the guttural tinge to his voice. “I mean, last time I had the opportunity to grow a beard, I was twenty years old and about to join the police academy.” “So you had one then?” Her voice piqued with curiosity, and she slipped o her tennis shoes to draw her socked feet onto the seat. “I wish. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t grow one. Guess Owen got all the beard genes in the family.” “You’ve got stubble.” Gage let out a low chuckle. “You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t treat it as one. She simply linked her arms around her shins, and dropped her cheek to her knees. Staring at him. He wondered what she saw. At the same time, he didn’t want to know. When she spoke, the husky timbre of her voice reminded him of warm, lazy summer days. “You don’t strike me as the type of guy who likes false ﬂattery.” She’d certainly gotten the read on him. Not that he’d tell her that. “Every guy likes a little sweet talkin’ now and again.” “You’re not from here.” Gage tapped the steering wheel with his palm, internally debating with how much he wanted to reveal. From the way Lizzie stared at him openly, she expected some sort of answer. He reached for his LSU ball cap that sat on the dashboard and settled it over his head. “It’s complicated.” “Depending on where we’re going, we have time.” He was taking her to the Barataria Preserve, south of the city, a section of sanctioned land that remained nearly untouched by man. It was a place he often went to think, to get away from the grit and glitz of New Orleans. He’d ﬁgured that it was nothing at all like what Lizzie was used to; she

didn’t seem the sort to leave New Orleans, unless it was to go somewhere fancy, like Vegas or L.A. He wanted to strip her down. Pull back the layers and discover who she really was, beyond the white-toothed grins she gave her viewers. After delivering the warrant over in Central City, and talking to her brother, Gage had gone home and pulled up her YouTube channel. Six million followers. Gage didn’t even know six hundred people. The videos were all kitschy—Chit Chat Get Ready with Me, or Hit or Miss Products from the Drugstore! or his least favorite, Fall Glam Date Night Tutorial. The day she’d come in to Inked had been the same day the latter video had been uploaded, and he hated thinking those plum-painted lips of hers were intended for someone else. What had stuck out to him the most, however, was the fact that in every single video, Lizzie Danvers looked . . . unhappy. The glitter may have coated her eyelids, but her blue eyes didn’t gleam one bit. Which brought him to . . . this, the Preserve, his choice of escape. Hell if he knew if it’d help her at all. There was a pretty damn good chance she’d step out of the truck, note the bugs buzzing in the air, and demand her immediate return to New Orleans like the princess he accused her of being. “Gage?” Her soft voice snapped him back into reality. “Grew up in Hackberry, Louisiana.” “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.” He cracked a grin as he pulled o Laﬁtte Larose Highway and onto a narrow, winding road framed by large pine trees. “Most people haven’t. It’s past Lake Charles. Maybe an hour or so from the Louisiana-Texas border.”

“No wonder you don’t sound N’Orleans in the slightest. More Texas twang than anything else.” He wasn’t sure if he should feel o ended by that or not. “I haven’t lived in Hackberry in fourteen years, and even before that . . . Hackberry was a Monday through Friday deal, that’s it. The rest of the time I was here in the city.” She laughed, and the sweet sound squeezed his lungs. “You’re a first-class mutt, Gage,” she teased, then grabbed the camera o the console. “Just like me.” “Yeah?” He quirked a brow. “Don’t think I ever saw you in Hackberry. I’d remember.” “Funny.” The camera made a quiet whirring sound, as though she’d turned it on. “No, but really. Grew up in Bayou St. John, right in the heart of N’Orleans. In my teens, we moved to the West Bank, which, I’ll have you know, is the best Bank.” “You live on the Best Bank now?” Not that he was fishing for information or anything like that. “Well, no.” Gage pulled into a small cut-o that led to an empty parking lot. It was a Tuesday morning, and most people were at work, except for the two of them; Lizzie clearly made her own schedule and Gage wasn’t due in to the station until six that night. He had a few hours to wander in the wilderness, especially since he’d told Owen he wasn’t coming in today. He parked the truck and turned to Lizzie. “The first time I met someone from the West Bank, he called it the Wank.” Her pretty features cringed, and she bit her lower lip. “A Wanker,” she said with a slow nod. “I imagine the name spread a bit like the plague. One person started using it, and the next thing everyone knew, Wankers were taking over the streets, the jobs, the school systems.” “Like the apocalypse?” “Exactly like the apocalypse.”

Gage leaned in to mock-whisper, “I hear The Walking Dead ratings are dipping. Maybe we should let the show’s producers know to come down to N’Orleans for a reboot?” For a moment, she only stared at him, her mouth pursed in a clear ﬁght against a grin. And then she lost it, and Jesus, her laughter was the sexiest sound he’d ever heard. He turned to her, resting his forearm on the top of the steering wheel. “If you play nice, I’ll make sure you’re cast in the lead Wanker role.” That ﬁnished her o . She clutched her belly, camera cradled against her chest, her forehead kissing her bent knees. “I can’t,” she choked out, “I can’t.” “You’d be great,” Gage told her smoothly. “We’d get you your own star on that star street over in Hollywood. What do they call it again?” “The Walk of Fame?” “Yeah, that.” She broke o into another peel of laughter, and Gage felt the absurd need to pu out his chest. He’d done that, making her laugh, wiping away the unhappiness in her eyes with pure, Wanker joy. It’s going to be the best thirty days of my life. Especially once he got Lizzie Danvers in his bed, preferably for more than a single night. When her laughter faded into silence, she glanced over at him. “Does S.O.D. know how weird you are?” “Trust me, princess, you gotta be a little weird to do what I do.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

age was charming. Some might say too charming, but Lizzie rather thought he was just right. The ancient wooden plank-boards creaked under their weight as they entered one of the few trails within the Preserve. The walkway was hardly wider than Lizzie’s arm span, raised above the murky, green water by no more than two feet, and the bayou surrounded them fully. Cypress trees rose up like skyscrapers, shielding the sky and the sun from view; the swampy water bubbled with frogs playing hideand-seek with the lily pads. It was beautiful and earthy and Lizzie was determined to find them an alligator today. Just one. Although she stuck to humans with Naked You, she often took photos of nature just for herself. Her apartment was cluttered with prints, and her walls were a mosaic of architecture, naked bodies, and flat pastureland. “So, how are we going to do this?” Her four-figure Canon clicked, snapping a photo of a Cypress tree split down the middle, and Lizzie lowered the camera. “What do you mean?” Gage’s strides were twice the length of hers, and he slowed his pace so she could close the distance between

them. “Our first date,” he said, drawing her gaze down to his hands when he slipped his fingers into the pockets of his military-style cargo shorts. “Are you going to film us having fun? Should I throw you over my shoulder and pretend to toss you into the swamp?” The dating challenge. Right. How could she forget? Except that she had, for just a little bit. Gage Harvey made it easy to forget everything that wasn’t him. He commanded attention, both because of his looks and also because he had an air of authority about him. No doubt they’d taught him that back at S.O.D. school, along with how to drive fast. Her stomach still felt a little queasy thanks to his maniac driving skills. “I think we can leave out the part about tossing me into the water, thanks.” The bayou was pretty, but Lizzie didn’t particularly want to be doused in it. “I guess we could head back to the benches we spotted a few minutes ago. Maybe take a photo, do a quick livestream. You can turn on your charming behavior.” “You look . . .” He stepped close, something she’d noticed he tended to do frequently. At first, she’d thought he wanted to intimidate her with his size. And maybe that had a little bit of truth to it because each time he approached and entered her space, Lizzie couldn’t stifle the sound of her breathing quickening, nor the way her face instantly tipped up to meet his. Always, his full lips lifted in a sexy grin, like he knew exactly what e ect he had on her. Now was no di erent. Her heart picked up pace when his chest came within inches of hers. His baseball cap was tugged down low, and all she could see were shadows and the hard cut of his jawline and the sharp ridge of his nose. “I look like what?” Breathless. She sounded so very breathless.

“Like you need to be charmed.” She wasn’t prepared for his sneak attack. Thick arms wrapped around her backside, hauling her o the walkway and up into the air over his right shoulder. With quick hands, she made a grab for her camera and clutched the strap with tight fingers. Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go. Her squeak mingled with the chirping birds and the soft swaying of the tree branches, though her demanding, “Put me down!” went ignored by the tattooed god who carried her. Instead, the jerk only strolled down the raised planks as though he had all the time in the world. His voice reverberated through her chest and stomach when he asked, “How’s the world look down there?” She stared at his ass. “Full.” Chuckling, he reached up to pat her butt. “Same here, princess, same here. Tell me, you think this would make for an excellent selfie? What do you think the caption would be?” “New Orleans Police O cer Mistaken for Louisiana Tarzan.” “Hmm, a possibility.” Her stomach bounced against his shoulder as he readjusted her weight. “I was thinking something more romantic, something along the lines of . . . When a Man Sweeps a Woman O Her Feet.” “Too literal.” Would it be odd if she palmed his butt, just to see if it was as firm as it looked? “Maybe, Man Tempts Woman with a Dip in the Bayou?” “Now who’s being literal? I’m exposing you to a di erent world out here, princess. Expanding your experiences. What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to try?” “Doggy-style.” He stumbled.

She almost wouldn’t have believed it had she not been tossed like a sheep over his shoulder, but, thanks to her position, she had a prime vantage point to watch it all go down. Literally. The toe of his right tennis shoe hitting an uneven bend in the wooden plank; his attempt to save his balance, but her weight was too heavy, too lopsided on his body, and . . . There was nothing she could do. Nothing but shout, “Save the camera!” And then down they tumbled, a tangle of limbs and fourletter words. Gage landed ﬁrst, a grunt bursting from his lips, somehow managing to twist their bodies so he took the brunt of the fall. Lizzie met the water stomach-ﬁrst with a cliché splash! Splash! His toned stomach acted like a buoy, stopping her fall. Not that it helped much. Her face kissed the green water, her nose, eyes, and mouth submerging beneath, just as her legs struck something hard. A Cypress root—she hoped. Rich, masculine laughter greeted her when she jolted upward. The bayou was a foot deep, maybe two, but the fall had succeeded in dampening all of Gage’s clothes. His gray shirt was plastered to his chest, molding over his powerful frame and tantalizing her with shadows of all the inked artwork beneath the fabric. Droplets of water clung to his arms, his neck, to the rugged stubble on his face. He looked like something out of a commercial for body soap. Meanwhile, she had a sneaking suspicion that she could currently pass for the Swamp Monster. “I think I may have swallowed some of the water,” Lizzie muttered, planting her hands on his hard stomach to leverage herself up onto her knees.

He laughed only harder, chin tipping back, eyes squeezed shut under the brim of his LSU hat. “You can stop laughing now.” Wrong thing to say. He gripped her arms, drawing her over his lap with a tug and a pull. Lizzie was average in height, average in weight, but he managed to make her feel as light as a feather. Stop liking it so much. Impossible. “You’ve got something . . .” He lifted a hand and brushed her wet hair back from her face. “It looks like a caterpillar.” Oh, God, would the humiliation never end? “Please take it—” He pulled back, and there, pinched between his index ﬁnger and his thumb, was her false eyelash. It was o cial. Her humiliation was complete. Lizzie dropped her head to his wet shoulder. His clean scent had been masked with the smell of swamp, but considering that she smelled just as funky, well, it seemed a little ridiculous to issue a complaint. Instead, she asked, “Did my camera make it?” With an arm around her waist like a band, he leaned them backward and his chin shifted across her head. “You’re lucky as all hell. It’s on the walkway, along with your backpack and everything we had in it.” “It’s called karma. I let you have some of my co ee, and therefore my belongings were saved. Co ee unites the fallen.” His chest expanded with a quiet chuckle, and Lizzie felt the brush of his chest against hers. No bra. She was small enough upstairs to go without one most days, and no matter the fact that they were sitting in dirty swamp water, her

nipples were hard. Hard enough that if he glanced down, he’d see twin peaks poking at her shirt. And that, o cially, would be the end of her. This is what happens when you ditched your padded bras. A few years back, those add-two-cup sizes types of bras had been her best friend. Seriously, greatest investment ever —until an ex had mentioned that her chest was false advertisement. 34C in the streets and a 34A in the sheets. “You good?” Lizzie’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice. “Yup! Yup, so good. All set. I’m going to get up now. Maybe pretend that none of this happened and—” She screeched. Loudly. Shrilly. And clung to Gage’s body like a stripper on her first day on the job. His arms locked around her back, drawing her so close to his chest she felt the tempo of his heart against her breastbone. “What? What is it?” Her eyes slammed shut. “Something . . . slithered against my leg. It felt scaly.” A small pause. Then, “Like a gator?” “I don’t know.” Her throat worked with a hard, nervous swallow. “Maybe.” With one arm still wrapped around her, Gage dove his other valiantly into the water. Like a hero. Her hero. Thank God for the nation’s first responders. “Princess?” Another hard swallow. Her fingers dug into the muscular balls of his shoulders. “Yes?” “I found your gator.”

Her gaze tracked from his chest to his arm to his hand, and in it . . . a stick. A wet stick, but a stick nonetheless. Anxious laughter climbed her throat. “I think we’re done for the day.” That big hand of his spread, ﬁngers clutching her soaked shirt. “Pretty sure we’ve yet to take a photo documenting today’s date. Don’t let me down.” “Now?” she said. “You want to take that photo now when we look like something out of a Brother’s Grimm fairytale?” Without warning, he boosted her onto the raised pathway, setting her on her rear as he straightened and stretched. “Livestream,” he announced, “we’re totally doing this as a livestream.” Absolutely, one-hundred percent no. She told him just that, emphatically. “You need to live a little, Lizzie.” Shaking his hands dry, Gage dropped to his haunches and unzipped her backpack. His purple LSU hat was the only part of him that wasn’t soaked and tinged green like Apple Jack’s cereal. A hat, which he twisted to the back. And then he ﬂashed her a brilliant smile. Dammit, he was too good-looking to reject. Lizzie dragged her feet onto the planks. Squish. Squish. Squish. “I’m pretty sure you told me to expand my experiences twenty minutes ago, before I went head over heels into the bayou . . . that you promised not to toss me into.” He lifted her cell phone from the backpack with a little wave and an exuberant hooah, reminding her immediately of her friend Anna’s husband, Luke, who’d been a lifer in the army before a career-ending injury. “Let’s do this.” Lizzie snagged the phone from him. “I hate you. Just so you know.”

He only grinned, a sexy smirk that warmed her in all the wrong places—or the right ones, depending on how she looked at the situation. Then he opened his arms, inviting her against his damp chest and even damper shorts. She wanted to say no. She wanted to turn away before she did something crazy, like actually jump into his arms and wrap her legs around his waist. She wanted to do all of those things. But she didn’t. Like a true professional, she closed the gap between them and gave a pursed, tight-lipped smile. Do not show him how o -balance you are right now. And then she swiped open the ﬁrst social media app she saw, and hovered her thumb over the GO LIVE button. What did it matter if the world saw her at her lowest? She wasn’t alone. Gage was with her, and though the world didn’t know his full name—she’d wanted to protect his privacy as much as possible—her subscribers were already in love with the tatted-up man who looked like a rugged movie star come to life. A single, innocent kiss had proven that Lizzie’s followers wanted a bad boy they could see on the regular. A bad boy she’d promised them would never be redeemed, because it was wholly impossible. But Gage Harvey wasn’t all that bad, and he didn’t seem like a sleaze-ball. He’d demanded a night in her bed, and had yet to bring it up since that day at Inked on Bourbon. This was all for show, nothing more than an illusion of redemption for them both—him as the reformed bad boy and she as the woman who had risen above feeling scorned. You can do this.

You can do this. You can do— And then it all went to hell, because the moment she gathered courage and tapped GO LIVE on her phone, Gage rasped, “Princess, is it just me or are your nipples hard?” Yeah. Today o cially needed an END button.

CHAPTER NINE

“A

nother butterﬂy tattoo up front.” It was déjà vu all over again. Gage pushed away his lunch and stared up at his twin. Twenty years ago, they’d been each other’s mirror image: same dark hair cropped close to their skulls; same jeans and T-shirt combo that might as well have had “hand me down” scrawled on the tags. Their faces were clean-shaven, and even their father’d had a problem distinguishing them. Then Ben Harvey had died on the job, and Owen went on a bender. He’d racked up two arrests within three months, thanks to a bad habit of brawling at a local motorcycle club. No one had bailed Owen out. Own your shit, was the lifelong motto their father had instilled in his two sons. Owen had fucked up, and that was on him. For years, Gage and Owen had stayed on the straight and narrow. For years, they’d focused on the future—the two of them working side by side for the NOPD, just like their dad, and the two generations before Ben. Protecting the city was in their blood. Nowadays, it was just in Gage’s. At least Owen had ditched the bad attitude a few years ago. Now the bastard was just moody as hell and constantly

on Gage’s case about working for Inked on a full-time basis. “I’m not taking this one,” he muttered. “Last time I was in, I reached my butterﬂy quota.” “From what I’ve seen online, that one worked out in your favor.” Owen was talking about Lizzie. Lizzie, who Gage couldn’t shove from his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. Their trip to the Barataria Preserve four days ago had been a shitshow. At the same time, it’d been the sort of day Gage couldn’t remember having with anyone else. Ridiculous. Funny. Erotic. He hadn’t meant to land them in the bayou, but he’d felt no guilt whatsoever once she fell into his lap, squirming and wet and straddling the line of ticked-o and amused. “Are you dating her?” Gage thrust a hand through his hair, hating that age-old question. “Nah, it’s not like that.” Owen folded his arms across his chest, looking like a New Orleanian lumberjack: ripped jeans; ﬂannelled shirt, despite the fact that it was balls-swelteringly hot outside; a beard that could rival one of those Hemsworth brothers’. “What’s it like then?” “Jesus. Do you see me digging around and asking you about what’s-her-name?” Black eyes cooled. “We’re not talking about Savannah, dude. She’s not up for discussion.” Gage clasped his hands behind his neck. “Exactly. You don’t want to talk about Savannah. I don’t want to talk about Lizzie, especially when there’s nothing to discuss. I’m helping her out with something.” The moody vibe left Owen’s expression and was replaced with something worse: concern. “When she came in the

other day, I couldn’t help but think she reminded me of—” “Don’t.” The word was ripped from Gage’s heart—or whatever was left of it. He wasn’t going to . . . He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories. No matter that fourteen years had passed, the wound still burned whenever he thought of it. Her. The lowest moment in his life when the person who’d pledged to have his back for the rest of their lives but had walked away instead. Just like that. Gage stared down at his hands, curling and unfurling his fists so that he could do something more than just wonder for how many more years he’d think of her and feel gutted. Love had fled the scene early on, because a person didn’t get fucked over like Gage had and still cling to ridiculous hopes. But the cut of the blade? The realization that you couldn’t count on anyone but yourself, not even your own flesh and blood? Yeah, he’d learned that lesson real quick. He was fortunate that the guys in his unit were all good men who came to work ready to put their lives on the line. That sort of behavior limited the chance for betrayal. Everyone wanted to go home. Everyone wanted to return to their families. Even if all Gage had nowadays was Owen, and he and Owen hadn’t been tight—not like they used to be—since the time of their father’s passing. One pregnancy. Two sons. Two separate life courses. Gage was pretty sure that there was a shitty country song out there with that exact verse. Hell, it was telling that he’d rather tat up a twentysomething with a butterfly than remain a prisoner to his own thoughts.

Casting one glance at his half-eaten lunch, Gage drew in a deep breath and stood. He was doing this, working himself to exhaustion, for his brother. His best friend, whatever that meant nowadays. Owen clapped a hand to Gage’s shoulder, halting his trajectory to the door. “C’mon, man, don’t close up on me like that.” Pot meet kettle. Gage shrugged o his brother’s hand. “I’m not holding anything back. Lizzie and I aren’t anything. Like I said, I’m helping her out with something. That’s it.” Black clashed with black as their gazes met. “Don’t bring up Michelle again. That shit belongs exactly where I left it—in the past.” His twin gave a small shake of his head. “I’m worried about you, Gage. If you’re not out in the field, you’re here. And if you’re not here, then you’re—” Yeah, he didn’t need for Owen to finish that sentence. He knew exactly where he spent his extra time, and Owen was wrong. They’d been over this before, more times than he could count. “I’m doing good,” he said in a low voice, “I’m doing what I can to make a di erence.” “I know. I get that, but . . .” Owen scrubbed a hand over his bearded jaw. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’re going to keep on going, aren’t you? Working here, working for the NOPD, running the—” A knock at the door cut o Owen as Jordan, the parlor’s other tattoo artist, poked his head in. “Y’all good? I can grab the lady waiting at the front, if you want.” Owen’s shoulders rose and then fell. “Yeah, just take her. Gage has got to be somewhere.” With a two-fingered salute, Jordan disappeared, and the sound of his heavy boots echoing against the tiled floor faded into silence. Leaving Gage and his twin alone.

Hell, it wasn’t supposed to be this awkward. It hadn’t always been this awkward. “You should have just let me take the patron,” Gage muttered, shoving his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. “I give you shit over the butterflies because I know it gets under your skin, but I would never leave you hanging. You know that.” “Yeah, I know.” There was a long pause before Owen added, “Let’s be real, man, your butterflies are getting sloppy. Kindergarten-level shit.” And just like that, they were good again. On the surface, at least. For right now, it was enough.

CHAPTER TEN

“H

old on, do my tits look okay?” Too late. Lizzie’s camera clicked-clicked as the shutter went o , capturing the woman posed in lingerie on the antique sofa. Well, the faux antique sofa. The internet was a gem for discovering good but cheap finds, and since Lizzie’s compact studio was on the first floor of the building, it made deliveries even easier. Today’s session was another boudoir photography shoot. Carli Simpson had booked through the Naked You website, and while Lizzie preferred photography that wasn’t quite so staged and deliberate, it was a hit here in New Orleans. Turns out women of all shapes and sizes really dug stripping down to next to nothing for the camera. On the couch, Carli shoved a hand deep into her corset to arrange her watermelon-sized breasts. A smirk curling her mouth, she muttered, “My husband loves these things but I’m telling you, they hurt like a bitch most days.” Lizzie hummed a noncommittal response, turning away from her client to face the large windows of her studio. The property sat in the unlikeliest of places: a converted, late nineteenth-century townhouse in the city’s Warehouse District. Her view was the towering St. Patrick’s Church, a

neo-Gothic structure where Latin mass was still held weekly. She had more photos of the exterior and interior of that church on her apartment walls than she did tubes of mascara in her collection. When she’d taken over the studio space from the previous tenant, her first order of business had been to install blinds that allowed her clients to see activity on the street, although pedestrians didn’t have the same luxury. No one could peek inside, and that was exactly how she liked it. “I’m ready, Miz Vittoria,” said Carli Simpson. “Got ’em just like my husband likes ’em.” Lizzie turned to face the music—and found her sensible shoes glued to the floor at the sight. The woman’s nipples were hoisted above the cups of the bustier, and she’d lackadaisically thrown herself over the arm of the sofa like a Kate Winslet wannabe from Titanic. Only, Carli Simpson was missing the one element to complete the image, aside from Kate’s trim form and red hair—the blue pendant. Lucky for Mrs. Simpson, Lizzie had something similar— albeit cheaper—tucked away in her o ce. You are such a softie. Yeah, she just couldn’t help herself from going above and beyond the call of duty for her clients. Lizzie wanted to make women feel better about themselves, no matter who they were. She held up one finger, left her camera on her equipment table, and made the quick walk to her makeshift o ce where she kept the goods. In other words, the jewelry and whatever other more expensive pieces Lizzie wasn’t willing to lay out in the main studio. She tipped open a mahogany jewelry box on her desk, running her fingers through the silver and gold chains and

ornamental pieces. Some were made of plastic, others were historical artifacts she’d picked up at estate sales. All held value to the people who had owned them, one way or another, and in Lizzie’s photography she could continue to give them life. Where is . . . There. She slipped her nail under the silver, filigreed chain. With sunlight streaming in from the window, the vintage sapphire shone beautifully, like the ocean had quite literally been trapped within the gemstone. Perfect. Exactly what she needed. Carli Simpson wanted to knock her husband’s socks o for their upcoming anniversary, and Lizzie was determined to do her part. One sexy boudoir photoshoot coming right up. With a pep to her step, she sang softly to herself. After the swamp debacle, and the subsequent media storm, thanks to her livestream with Gage, this appointment was the only slice of quiet Lizzie had found in days. This was what she needed to right her teetering equilibrium. Her camera. Her studio. And a pair of tits the size of her head. “I’ve got just the thing for you, Mrs. Simpson,” she said, stepping back into the studio. “How do you feel about a little role play—” The pendant fell from her fingers, clattering against the floor. Her stomach dropped right along with the vintage piece. What the . . . Why the heck was Gage Harvey standing in her studio?

His broad shoulders and tapered waist greeted her, as did the back of his dark head. With his hands burrowed deep in his black BDU’s, he stared out the window as though he desperately wished to be anywhere else but here. She didn’t know whether to be o ended or grateful. Carli Simpson cleared her throat, and Lizzie switched her attention to the half-naked woman on her sofa. Her breasts were still out, nipples still pointing in opposite directions like they were dying of su ocation from the corset and seeking freedom from the motherland. Seated next to her, Lizzie noticed, was another man in a set of BDU’s. Older. Hair threaded with gray. A gut that spoke of years of donuts and co ee, just like every normal human and not the crazy health nut by the window. “My husband was doing surveillance nearby,” Mrs. Simpson carried on, touching her ﬁngers to the older man’s face reverently, “and I thought it would be fun to surprise him with this.” That’s the point of the photobook, ma’am. Lizzie swallowed the hot retort and nodded swiftly, all yeah, yeah, no worries. Even though it was anything but. Although she often had couples attend shoots together, they never brought an extra . . . guest. She looked to Gage again, who hadn’t moved. “It’s not a problem, Mrs. Simpson. We can just . . . did you want to ﬁnish up today?” Carli Simpson had the grace to blush. “Oh, I don’t know if my honey-bunny has time for that, Miz Vittoria. He and Harvey just came for a quick look-see.” That did it. Gage’s shoulders jerked and he whipped around, avoiding the sight of Carli Simpson altogether, and zeroing his dark eyes on Lizzie. Only on Lizzie.

She had absolutely nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, and yet her heart fluttered with nerves and she swallowed audibly. If she’d thought him sexy in his o -duty attire, it was nothing compared to the appeal of him in his city-issued BDU’s. Black military pants paired with a matching long-sleeved, button-down shirt; the cu s were rolled up his forearms, exposing the ink on his arms. In place of his customary LSU hat was a black ball cap with “NOPD” stamped in white across the front. He stood with an air of authority, his black gaze cool and bereft of its usual humor. No doubt about it, Gage Harvey was a panty-melter. And Lizzie’s would be the first to go. Her smile strained, Lizzie held up her hands in a welcome-to-my-home gesture. “It’s, uh, great to have y’all here. O cer Simpson, O cer Harvey, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m . . . Lizabeth Vittoria.” If she listened closely enough, she could feel the pits of Hell cracking open under her feet for lying. She’d never felt guilty for doing so before—Naked You was a brand, just as ThatMakeupGirl was a brand, and the two were separate entities. She needed them to be separate entities. She met Gage’s eyes unflinchingly, silently asking for him to keep quiet. A tick in his jaw caught her eye, and then he was striding toward her. Purposefully. With so much intent that Lizzie’s heart squeezed and her lungs squeezed even tighter. “Nice to meet you, Miz Vittoria.” His voice was low, like a dark caress down the pearls of her spine. When he clasped her hand, it wasn’t for a quick, e cient shake. No, that wasn’t the Gage Harvey way. His index finger brushed the center of her palm, eliciting a

shiver across her shoulders and a hitch in her breath. Damn him. This wasn’t the time for him to turn on the charm. In this space, in Naked You, she wasn’t Lizzie Danvers, international makeup queen. Hell, she never even wore makeup when she stepped into her studio. Lizabeth Vittoria wasn’t that girl; her hair was up in a bun, her face free from everything but moisturizer; she wore comfy jeans, and a simple V-neck shirt. Black, because this version of herself went for classy and sophisticated as opposed to ﬂamboyant and glam. “Harvey,” Mrs. Simpson said from the sofa, prompting Gage to drop her hand, “if you’ve got a girlfriend, you have to bring her here. Us women love to get dolled up, although”—she giggled—“perhaps it’s best to say dolled down, given the circumstances?” Gage’s throat worked with a swallow as he stared down at Lizzie with narrowed eyes. “I might do that, Carli. I’ve got a feeling this is exactly what my girlfriend would be into, much to my surprise.” “You have a girl, Harvey?” asked O cer Simpson, who had yet to leave his wife’s side. “How come I didn’t know about that?” “Didn’t come up.” Mrs. Simpson clapped her hands, which admittedly did wonders for her breasts. “Oh, oh!” More jiggling from the twins down below. “This is so exciting, Harvey! You know you’re like a son to us. We’d love to have you and your girlfriend for dinner one night. Oh, my God. I’ve thought of the best plan! Miz Vittoria, what if we invited you over to take photos of all of us together!” An anxious giggle tore from Lizzie’s throat. It was one of those moments where the more you tried to tell yourself not to laugh, the more unnatural it sounded and

the more impossible it was to stop. And that was her, right here, right now. The awful giggling? There was no end to it. It was on a loop, high-pitched and constant, and tears sprung to her eyes, and there was nothing she could do to stop the madness. Gage did it for her. He dropped to his haunches, picking up the dropped necklace o the floor. Then, still squatting, he peered up at Lizzie, brim of his ball cap shielding the top half of his face. “This yours?” Heat rose to her cheeks as a naughty visual ended her stifled laughter with a strangled cough. He was at the perfect height to . . . Don’t you dare think about him going down on you in the middle of your place of work, while there are CUSTOMERS ten feet away. But Gage Harvey tempted her like no other, and it was with every ounce of professionalism that she calmly took the necklace from him, squeezing the pendant in a tight fist. “Yes, thank you, O cer.” “My pleasure.” Princess. She could see that he wanted to say it, could see the way his black eyes snapped with annoyance and his full mouth tugged down with displeasure. Lizzie stepped back, away from temptation, away from the visual of him throwing her leg over his burly shoulder and pressing his lips to the apex of her thighs. “Are you interested in finishing up today, Mrs. Simpson?” The woman hmmed and hawed, then boldly stu ed her breasts back into her corset as though she had no company at all aside from her husband. “I suppose we can call it a day. You got some good photos, Lizabeth?” “Absolutely.” Lizzie stepped around Gage, fighting the urge to look back at him. “I’ll have everything edited within forty-eight hours. If, for any reason at all, some of the

photos aren’t to your liking, you can come back in.” She ﬂashed a bright smile, her YouTube smile. “All on me. How’s that sound?” Carli Simpson’s mouth stretched wide with joy. “You’re one of a kind, Lizabeth, one of a kind. I can’t imagine anyone who can compare.” Oh, the irony. “Harvey, shift’s almost over,” O cer Simpson said, taking his wife’s purse and slinging it over one arm. “Wanna take the cruiser back to S.O.D.? I’ll take the wife home now, since I’m here anyway. Clock me out?” A long pause, in which Gage lifted his NOPD hat o his head and swiped it against his pant leg. “Go right ahead, Kevin.” He looked to Lizzie. “I can handle it from here.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

he door to the studio clicked shut with a tinkering of an old-fashioned bell, leaving Gage alone with Lizzie. Gage moved to the display of windows, noting the blinds as well as the deadbolt. “Mind if I lock this?” he said casually, engaging the bolt and sliding the lock home before she could answer. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts, to get the image of his coworker’s wife’s breasts out of his head. The fact that he often met up with Kevin Simpson for pickup basketball games, and that Carli stopped by S.O.D. unannounced at least once per week, meant that this whole showdown was beyond abnormal. It was damn near scarring. The last thing he needed was to sit down at their dinner table, the two Simpson kids flanked to his right and to his left, and be thinking of their mother’s nipples. Fuck. He scraped his hands through his hair, then dropped his NOPD hat on the closest set of counters. Distracted himself with soaking in Lizabeth Vittoria’s studio, as though she hadn’t completely lied to him. Lied to the world. Did her brother even know that she took photos of naked people? Gage shook his head, fingers curling into fists at his side.

From what he could see, Naked You was all white walls and white floors. There was so much white, there was a good chance he’d stepped into the North Pole. His gaze snagged on a white flu y area rug in one corner of the room. She didn’t seem the sort to buy actual polar bear fur, but damned if that wasn’t where his mind went to first. He flicked his gaze to her, absently noting the very still way she held herself, as though nervous to make a move. Her rapid blinking gave it away—either that, or she had one of those damn false lashes poking her. “How long you been pretendin’ to be Lizabeth Vittoria?” His deep baritone startled her, he saw that. Her caramelaccented bun twitched on the top of her head, and she clutched that blue necklace in her palm like a lifeline. “Naked You started a few years ago.” Gage recognized that he was taking her omission too personally, especially as he’d only known her for a week. Under that. Maybe six days. Seven. Hell, it didn’t matter, not really. What did matter was that she’d put him in a position where he’d been forced to lie to a coworker. And, no, their fake relationship hadn’t made the circuit around S.O.D. yet, but it was only a matter of time before someone saw their trending photos and videos on social media, and put it all together. Then, what would he say? That his girl had seen half of the city naked? Not much of an issue, except that there was a good chance that if Carli Simpson was here, then Lizzie had photographed a good number of the other wives and girlfriends in the NOPD. Cops were worse than TMZ and People put together—there was no such thing as a secret within the police department. Hell, everyone was still talking about how Heather Hull had nailed her husband with a taser—while he’d been buckass naked—in some sort of ridiculous form of foreplay in

their house. And that didn’t even take into account the time Jarvis Reed had stood up in roll call and called out his Lieutenant for being a liar when the L-T had claimed he’d never let a dude suck him o . . . and yet he’d let Jarvis Reed do just that the night before. So, this whole Naked You thing? It would only end terribly. Gage had spent way too many years working his ass o in the department to be brought down by this—by becoming gossip fodder for his coworkers. You hypocrite. You didn’t have an issue with faking a relationship for the cameras but this you’ve got a problem with? Yeah, he did. Because this one involved people he knew ﬁrsthand. Lizzie could lie to whoever she wanted to, but Gage wouldn’t do it. Not for the sake of keeping her identity a secret, which was clearly what this whole Lizabeth Vittoria thing was about. He stopped by the sofa Carli Simpson had perched herself on and gripped the padded back. “How are you able to keep this a secret within the department? Your brother knows everyone.” She wrung her hands before her, then straightened her back as though determined to stand him down. “I never show my face on social media with Naked You, not ever.” She paused, almost deliberately, then added, “Generally speaking, I also do some research on my clients before they come in. Finding Mrs. Simpson’s husband here was not part of the plan.” “How often does it go o script?” Her chin lifted at his dry tone. “In three years, it’s happened twice, today being the second time. It might not have occurred to you, but I’m a businesswoman, Gage, which means that I do my homework. I don’t allow for slipups.”

He lifted a brow. “Today you did.” “Today,” she bit out, her crystalline blue eyes narrowing, “was an exception. One I’d prefer you kept to yourself.” “Trust me, princess, this shit goes no further than me. Plus”—his hands settled on the back of the sofa again—“if you recall, I’m not dating Lizabeth Vittoria. But it seems that Lizzie Danvers and I have a date with the Simpsons.” Her hands ﬂung into the air and she let loose a frustrated half-scream. “God, you are so frustrating!” Screw this. Gage cut around the sofa and closed the distance between them. “I’m frustrating?” he demanded, jabbing his thumb into his chest. “Do you hear yourself? Let me get this straight. You browbeat me into agreeing to this fake relationship. Thirty days, you said. Fine, got that part. But you never once stopped to ask how I’d feel about the deceit, about telling all my buddies I’m with a girl, when we both know that it’s not real.” Her mouth pursed. “You could have told me no.” Gage’s teeth clacked together. “I did.” “You didn’t.” She neared him, hands already outreached as though she planned to shove him back to relieve her anger. He sti ened his core in preparation. “You didn’t,” she repeated. “Instead you asked for one night in my bed.” Silence. Only the sound of their heavy breathing saturated the studio. It was foreboding. It was also hot as hell. “What the hell are we doing here, Lizzie?” His ﬁngers itched to sink into her heavy hair, to loosen the bun and watch the strands frame her face. Gage dragged in a heavy breath. “I’m not looking for complications, and I’m sure as hell not looking for a real relationship. You want me to play

the boyfriend card? We can do that, but this”—he gestured at her studio—“I’m not joining this aspect of your life. I’m not getting any deeper than what we agreed to. That’s not what our deal was about.” Dark lashes swept down, shielding her blue eyes from his stare. “From the way you’re acting, I’d say you’ve never seen a naked body before.” What? Everything he’d said and that’s what she harped in on? Crazy. He told himself that at Inked every day—stay away from crazy. Clearly, he couldn’t even take his own advice. “I’m not a virgin.” Damn. But he’d wished the words hadn’t come out sounding so stu y. Lizzie took notice. Her unpainted lips pulled into a victorious smile. “Sounds like you might be,” she said, patting his arm as though to say there-there, like he was some hopeless teenage boy without a shot in hell of getting laid. “What a shocker. The big, bad Gage Harvey can’t take a little skin? Too much . . . nipple for you?” At the word “nipple,” his cock twitched, hardening with the possibility that maybe nipple-action with her might be a thing that happened today. Gage didn’t know whether to walk out of Naked You immediately, or throw Lizzie Danvers on the damn sofa and strip her naked. Both are solid options. “It’s not the—” Okay. Breathe in. Done. Breathe out. Done. Gage pulled his thick, polyester uniform away from his heated neck. “I value honesty, princess. I’ve spent years in the biggest hellholes this city has to o er. I’ve seen shit you’d never even believe could be true.” “My brother is in the NOPD,” she said, brows lifting to taunt him with the unspoken word: remember? “I’m pretty sure I can harbor a guess as to what you’ve seen.”

He didn’t think so. And not because Nathan Danvers hadn’t been in the trenches, but rather because it was common practice not to tell your signiﬁcant others or family members everything. Some stu was just too much. Some sights were not meant for civilians. He’d learned that the hard way watching his father and mother. Learned it even faster with Michelle. So, no, he didn’t think Lizzie would ever understand. Not unless she lived it herself, and he’d never wish that upon her. Ever. Softening the harshness in his tone, Gage said, “My point is, I’ve spent years being lied to every day by society.” “Clients?” He frowned at the familiar term, then made the quick connection to her brother. “Yes, by clients. Doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not looking to hold any more secrets outside of the job. I’ve got enough of them already on my plate, and I’m not looking for an extra serving.” “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying right now.” Hell, he wasn’t sure he did either. But it felt necessary to lay it all out there for her now, before she realized she wanted something more. That she wanted him to stick by her while she led two very di erent lives and lied to each party about who she was. Because this Lizzie looked nothing at all like the Lizzie he’d met at Inked, the Lizzie he’d watched on her channel, the Lizzie that thousands around the world ﬂocked to for inspiration in the form of eye shadow and lipstick. This Lizzie sounded a little too jaded, a little too rough, a little too raw.

A little too much like him. She was safer to him as the bubbly girl who talked frivolously about contouring shades. He already wanted that girl in bed, under him. Sex and only sex. He didn’t want to be tempted with more. Gage refused to be tempted with more—he’d been burned once, and he had no interest in going back for a second round. “You can count me in for lending you a hand for ThatMakeupGirl,” he said in a low voice. “We agreed to sex, once. I didn’t sign up for multiple identities and a heavy dose of soap opera drama.” She sco ed, loudly. “You’re the only one bringing drama into this, Gage. You, not me. I asked you to just not say anything and you flew o the handle.” Glancing up at him, she threw out, “Makes me wonder if you’re the one hiding something and you’re lashing out.” Gage flinched and she let out one of her ball-clenching, husky laughs. “Seems like I hit a nerve, hmm? Unsurprising. Men like you are all the same. Strike too close and things get ugly.” Wait. Hold on. Men like him? He stepped forward, intending to set her straight, but she cut him o with a raised hand, and a silky, “I’ll let you know when I need you next. I’ll be too busy photographing naked people for the next few days, though. I hope you understand.” What the hell? He’d been summarily dismissed. As if she hadn’t figuratively kneed him in the balls, Lizzie breezed past him to the front of the studio, unlatched the deadbolt, and swung open the door. Turning her face to him,

she ﬁnished him o : “I’ve got a sneaking suspicion we’ll be breaking up mighty soon. But don’t worry, I’ll let you have your last moment of fame before I send you packing.” Gage snatched up his NOPD hat o the counter, shoved it on his head, and bent to whisper in her ear before leaving. “Enjoy your spree of nipples, princess. Let me know if you’re interested in something that only a man has to o er.” Her smile was all snark. “An orgasm? There’s a reason God made ﬁngers and vibrators, Gage. I doubt I’ll be needing that one night with you after all.” And then she slammed the door in his face. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but the woman was infuriating.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ing! Ping! Ping! Ping-ping-ping-ping! “Oh, c’mon already!” Lizzie stabbed the OFF button on her camcorder, cursing under her breath as she snatched up her phone. She knew what she’d find—exactly what she’d found all morning since Scott had announced his engagement on social media. Pity DM’s. Other than nasty dick pics, pity direct messages straight to her private inbox on Instagram were the worst. Especially when there was no reason for the pity because she didn’t care. She swiped open the first message from sExiiBeAsT109: Gurl, u R waaaaayyyy uglier then Scott’s new boo. Just sayin. Lizzie’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Well, I’m just saying that you need to learn how to spell.” She opened the next and cringed. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” A quick tap and she deleted the photo of two hairy ball sacs, along with the caption, how do u like dem apples? It went without saying that those types of apples did not keep the doctor away.

The next DM was from Momz1989: Hey, Lizzie, just wanted to reach out and say I heard about Scott. You’re so lucky to have dumped that dirt bag. I know you want to show all of us that we shouldn’t ever trust a player, but…it looks like you’re having fun with that Gage fellow? He’s hot, girl! Keep him. Easier said than done. She and Gage hadn’t spoken since the Simpson Incident or, as Jade had taken to calling it, Nipple Gate. Four days. Lizzie hadn’t reached out to him, and he hadn’t reached out to her. And her followers were letting her know just how much they wanted news. What Lizzie needed was a drink. Now. Ping! Ping! “Oh, shut up,” she ground out, more irritable than she’d been in a good, long while. Scott’s impending engagement couldn’t have come at a worse time. Because just last night, Lizzie had recorded an entire segment about how #badboyirredemption was coming to a premature end. It had nothing to do with her blowup with Gage and everything to do with Lizzie’s growing need to step away from her channel. To focus on Naked You. To focus on anything, really, where her face wasn’t instantly recognizable. Yes, she still had obligations. There was the launch of a new eye shadow pallete next month in collaboration with a major beauty brand. She couldn’t completely fall o the face of YouTube without causing detriment to all those who had placed their trust in her. But she needed a break. She needed time to breathe. And then her plan to upload the video this morning had been sidelined by Scott’s announcement—he was engaged to a fellow YouTuber, an acquaintance of Lizzie’s in the beauty

world. A month, or thereabouts. That’s how long it had taken him to ﬁnd a new sucker and reel her in with his baby blues. Well, Lizzie couldn’t exactly put up her video now, not when it would look as though she was the tossed aside exgirlfriend. Wine. She needed wine. Five seconds later, she was throwing on a pair of heels, her cell phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” “Hello?” came Jade’s Spanish-accented voice. Lizzie could have cried with joy. Play it cool. Don’t be desperate. “Hey, girl. What are you up to?” “Uhh . . .” There was the sound of rustling, and then quiet murmuring as though Jade had placed her hand over the phone. Sisterly disgust swirled around in her belly. “Please tell me that I didn’t interrupt you having sex with my brother.” “Well, I mean—” “Oh, man, I did.” Lizzie stared down at her feet strapped into a pair of thin, pretty stilettos. “I’m sorry. I mean, are you allowed to have sex at this stage of your pregnancy? Actually, don’t answer that. Go do all the . . . things. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Jade laughed, and Lizzie nearly threw up in her mouth. No matter how much she loved her friend/sister-in-law, it was still weird to think of her and Danny doing bedtime activities. “Okay”—more giggling from the other end of the line —“love YOU!” Lizzie was pretty sure her friend hadn’t meant to hit a crescendo on the last bit. Not without a little prompting from her husband, at any rate.

Pulling the phone away from her ear, Lizzie closed her eyes. This was the problem with having friends who were all hitched. She could call Anna or Anna’s cousin, Shaelyn, two women who Lizzie was also friends with, but both were married. Shaelyn had a newborn girl, and Anna had a teenage son. Neither could toss aside their families for a night out on the town. It was times like these when she saw quite clearly that living her life online did not benefit her in the “real” world. And while she could certainly kick o her heels and help herself to the boxed wine in her kitchen, that just didn’t hold the same appeal as cutting loose. Ping! Spine sti ening, she swiped open the direct message. I think I missed your well wishes, but Stephanie and I just want to give our thanks. We met because of you and now we’re gonna get hitched! You understand why you won’t be getting an invite though? #MansoniteGaming Her nostrils flared at Scott’s message, and his idiotic sign-o hashtag. Oh, she so wanted to reply with something cutting. Something angry. Something with middle fingers and fourletter words and angry emojis. “Don’t,” she whispered to herself, “don’t sink to his level.” Ping! Dammit. Her thumb hovered only a moment before opening the message: By the way, not surprised at all that you’ve stooped to slumming it with the locals. No one could compare to me. I hope your new bf knows he’s only going to disappoint you. #MansoniteGaming

Fury snapped her teeth together, and before she knew what she was about, she’d sent him a message. The fact that he lasts longer than two minutes is enough to satisfy me forever. #ScrewYou Well. Now she had even more of a reason to go out—and she knew the exact man to accompany her.

SHOULDN ’ T HAVE SAID

yes. As Gage stood outside the club, a red-neon sign blinking above his head, that was the only thought he had on repeat. He shouldn’t have agreed to meet Lizzie tonight. For one, they hadn’t even spoken since the other day at her studio. Second, she hadn’t brought up her channel once when she’d issued the invitation over the phone. Tonight wasn’t about ThatMakeupGirl or about saving face. And that terrified Gage more than he wanted to admit. Why had she asked him of all people? He didn’t believe that the popular Lizzie Danvers could be friendless. It didn’t compute with the knowledge he had of her. Which meant that she’d sought him out specifically . . . even after claiming she could do without him and his dick. Unlikely. But there was one question he couldn’t shake—why had he said yes? “Hey, man,” the bouncer barked from his stool. “You comin’ in or what? Get your ass in gear or get out of the line.” Gage’s lip curled, but he stepped forward and withdrew his wallet. “What’s the cover?” “Twenty-five.” His hand stilled. “What the hell? Twenty-five?”

The bouncer raised a bottle to his lips and spat out a wad of dip. “Yup.” “You’ve got to be shitting me.” “Nope.” Gage’s eyes narrowed. “Last time I came here, the cover was five bucks. Tops.” Another lazy spit into the bottle and an even slower once over. “When was that? Ten years ago?” Damn. Had it been that long? He did the math in his head, and came out feeling older than he had thirty seconds earlier. A quick glance to the line behind him was further proof that Gage might as well be grandpa status. Young twenty-somethings bopped this way and that to the music, and even the neon lighting couldn’t hide what he knew was there. Potential underagers. Definite acne. Jesus. Digging in his wallet, he pulled out thirty and slapped it on the bouncer’s outstretched hand. “Keep the change.” The club was dark as he entered, and Gage’s senses went on high alert. He couldn’t help it, not when his job focused primarily on seeing the worst in everyone. Here, in the club, there were a lot of “everyone’s.” Bodies clustered together on the dance floor. Beams of light swung this way and that, illuminating couples making out, dancing, fist-pumping the air as the grind of the beat throbbed beneath his shoes. He was way too old for this. Too old and too jaded. Pulling out his cell phone from his back pocket, he created a new text to Lizzie. Where are you? Just walked in. Then he looked up. And it was though the fates had worked in his favor because there she was.

She stood at the bar, her caramel hair tied on the top of her head in a ponytail. A short, tight red dress sheathed her body and hugged her curves. Matching red, fuck-me heels completed the look, and Gage felt done for. It didn’t make sense, and it sure as hell felt too permanent for his liking, but in that very moment, it was all he had. She looked good, too good. Good enough, apparently, that the guy next to her grabbed her hand and dragged her out onto the dance floor. Screw that. Before he realized that he’d moved at all, he was at her side, clamping an arm around her waist, settling his hand on the curve of her ass. The ass that he’d tattooed. Mine. Almost lethargically, she arched her neck to glance back at him, as though she’d known it was him all along. Maybe she recognized your touch. He shouldn’t like the thought as much as he did. “Princess,” he greeted curtly. Under the dancing lights, Lizzie’s blue eyes glittered with the reflection of his mean mug. A flirty smile played at her lips. “Pumpkin pie!” she exclaimed, throwing an arm around his middle. “Oh, I’m so glad you made it.” Pumpkin pie? Gage shifted his attention to the guy who’d tried to dance with her, and dropped a possessive kiss to the top of her head. “Just for you.” Literally. Lizzie’s red-painted lips widened. “You’re too sweet! Jake here was just telling me how much he loves to dance.” Her smile dropped and she touched a hand to the guy’s arm. “But his boyfriend couldn’t make it tonight, so I o ered to act as a stand-in!”

Boyfriend? Gage met the other man’s gaze, not at all surprised to find that he looked every degree of guilty. Oldest trick in the book. With a shake of his head, Gage tugged Lizzie closer, nestling her up against his side. He dropped his mouth to her ear to murmur, “That man is as gay as I am. And considering you invited me tonight, I’m not interested in sharing.” “Oh.” White teeth clamped down on her plump lower lip. “Pumpkin pie?” His fingers tightened over her rear. “Yeah, princess?” “You didn’t kiss me hello.” Gage felt his mouth hitch upward. Damn, she was good. Smooth. Unfortunately for her, he’d kiss her when she was begging for it and not a single moment before. “If I’m going to be here, I need a drink in my hand. You ready for another?” Her smile was all he needed to move her away from Jake the Dick and to an empty spot along the bar. The lights were dimmer here but the music remained just as loud. Keeping Lizzie next to him, Gage dropped his elbow to the bar and then flagged down a bartender. He went for a beer, and he didn’t even blink an eye when the sexy woman at his side requested a Cosmopolitan. It was just like her. Fruity. Feminine. Sweet. Although . . . he glanced down at her, appreciating her dress all over again. It cut o at mid-thigh, and if he’d been his twenty-two-year-old self, he would have already planned a way to get it up around her hips before the night was over. Now Gage only shifted ever-so-slightly, pressing his front to her back so that the short ride of the dress’s hem was for him and him only. The bartender delivered their drinks, and after paying and leaving a tip, Gage asked, “Should we address the elephant

in the room and get it out of the way?” His question caught her mid-sip, and she came up spluttering. “You really have no interest in sugar-coating anything, do you?” “It’s not in my DNA,” he drawled, taking a pull of his beer. “We’ll do it the way my sergeant enforces when anyone in the platoon gets out of hand.” Glancing over her shoulder at him, her blue eyes burned with suspicion. “I’m not letting you handcu me.” A husky chuckle escaped him. “How many cop pornos have you watched, princess?” “What?” Flushing, she flicked her ponytail back, nearly clipping him in the jaw with the strands. “I’ll have you know that I absolutely, positively do not watch—” “I’m guessing you’re in the five to ten range.” Her shoulders slumped. “It was like . . . two, maybe. I like a guy in uniform—sue me.” Gage opened his mouth, only for her to clamp her free hand over it. “Don’t,” she said, loudly enough to be heard over the rip of a guitar playing, “don’t do that super cliché guy thing where you give a recycled one-liner. Be original or don’t bother.” Damn, but the claws were out tonight. Call him crazy, but it turned him on. When her hand fell away, he lifted the beer bottle to his mouth, pausing long enough to say, “There’s a reason why guys go for the cliché, Lizzie. Because it works.” Brows furrowing, she twisted her body around, pressing her back to the bar, giving him the full opportunity to admire the front of her red dress. Deep V. Side cut-outs. She looked like the cherry he wouldn’t mind plucking. Another ponytail flick, and then, “Don’t be such a—”

“Bad boy?” Gage grinned, lifting his gaze back up to her face. “Pretty sure that’s why you hired me.” “The word ‘hire’ makes it sound like I’m paying you.” She’d walked right into that one. Wiggling his brows, he dropped his palms to the bar on either side of her, beer bottle still clutched in his right hand. “Now, princess, technically we did agree upon a . . .” “Finish that sentence and I swear I will knee you where it hurts, Harvey.” Gage dropped his head and laughed. He laughed so hard that his abdomen clenched, and the people on either side of them started murmuring behind the shields of their hands. He didn’t care. Not at all. Because Lizzie Danvers did that for him—stripped away everyone who wasn’t her. This woman. She was just . . . With his arms still caging her in, he lifted his head and met her eyes. “You’re gorgeous when you’re spittin’ ﬁre, you know that?” “Well, I mean, I don’t . . .” She downed what remained of her cocktail, and then set it on the bar beside his hand. “Thank you.” A little nod, and then she smoothed down the front of her dress. “Also, in reference to your elephant question, you ticked me o when you shoved that rod up your butt.” The couple to their right gaped and then sidled a little farther away. Lizzie wasn’t done. “I understand you don’t want complications, but it’s my life. Naked You, ThatMakeupGirl —all of that is me, Gage. You don’t get to pick and choose which side of me you accept, and you certainly don’t get the luxury of telling me what to do.” Then why did he get the feeling that she wanted to pick and choose what side of herself she showed the world?

“You’re right,” he said after a lengthy pause, “I overreacted.” She tapped him on the chest. “Understatement of the year.” Gage swallowed a laugh. “You want me to apologize or not?” “Well, not with that attitude.” “Careful, princess. I’m willing to apologize, even more willing to realize that I stepped out of line. But don’t take advantage of the olive branch.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

age’s proximity made it hard for Lizzie to breathe. Or maybe it was that her dress, at least five years old, was snug around . . . well, all over. Whether it was the Cosmo or the glass of wine she’d had before he’d arrived, her tongue felt loose and her thoughts a little sluggish, and so it came as a bit of a surprise when she saw her fingers hook around the belt loops of his pants. His bracketing arms tensed, and Lizzie allowed her gaze to slowly climb the smart, gray vest he wore. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous. On Gage, it was downright sinful. Charlie Hunnam, sinful; Tom Hardy, sinful. Beneath the vest, he wore a black button-down, the sleeves rolled casually up to his elbows. His five o’ clock shadow was in full force tonight, maybe more like a six, but even his nearly black attire couldn’t match the darkness of his eyes. Smoothed over, polished onyx. If she had to pick a gemstone to represent the hue of his gaze, that would be it. And if she had to select an eye shadow color . . . Midnight Passion. No other shadow held as much pigment; no other shadow possessed such a pure absence of any other hue.

She licked her bottom lip, tasting the sweet flavor of her lipstick, and watched with a small shiver and a lot of delight as those black-as-night eyes surrendered to lust. Midnight Passion, indeed. “Is this our first fight?” she asked, infusing just enough dryness into her tone so he knew she was only teasing him, trying to poke light back into the conversation. “Which one of us is going to storm o and get wasted?” His cheeks hollowed with a gru chuckle. “We’re not fighting. We’re just . . .” “Having a disagreement?” “Yeah.” “A horse with no name is still a horse.” Shifting his weight, he pulled one hand away from the bar and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. Debonair. It was the perfect word for him. Debonair and . . . enticing. What would he do if she used her finger in his belt loop to tug him closer? Lizzie didn’t have any personal experience on the topic, but she’d heard from friends that makeup sex was the best type of sex. “You know that makes no sense, right?” He shook his head, a smile lightening his naturally broody features. “Where did you even come up with that?” A small shrug of her shoulders. “Half-song, half-natural creativity. If you thought about it, you’d realize it does make sense. Disagreements and fighting are practically synonyms in this context, so, really—” “What am I going to do with you, princess?” Kiss me. Not that she said that. She’d already reached her daily quota for kiss-begging. Lizzie studied his rugged face. “You could buy me another drink.” “I could.”

Heat swept over her as he moved in, his big body eating up the space between them. Lizzie wasn’t short by any means, but compared to Gage? She felt tiny, delicate, especially when he withdrew his hand from his pocket and settled it on the curve of her waist. She wanted to blame the unevenness of her breathing on the dress, on the too-tight straps and the even tighter bodice. All lies. It was him, Gage, who had her panting like she’d run a half-marathon or like she’d had an hour-long sex marathon. Gage who backed her up flush against the bar, and dropped his face to the place where her neck and shoulder met. Gage who made her question everything—life, sex, nothing at all—as her thoughts emptied like a sieve and left her with only one last thing. Desire. A deep inhale through her nose did nothing to abate the pulse between her legs or the heavier tempo of her heart. Could he hear it? Her heart beating? The music changed, switched over to the next track, and the song that emerged could only be labeled as one thing: a sex song. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because as the couples on the dance floor set the club on fire, Lizzie was burning up—and except for that one hand on her waist, Gage wasn’t even touching her. Then he did. With the blunt tip of his finger, he moved the strap of her dress to the side. The polyester skimmed her skin, calling goose bumps to her flesh, and then his mouth pressed down. Teeth grazing her skin in a soft, taunting nip. Tongue swiping out to soothe the sting. Lips brushing the tender spot with barely-there pressure.

Lizzie’s head fell back, and Gage took advantage, delivering the same attention to her neck. Slower, though. It was sensual and seductive and it was nothing at all like the frantic sex sessions—the frantic two-minute sessions—she’d had in the past with her exes. “Gage,” she whispered, desperate fingers grasping his corded forearms. Pushing him away, pulling him closer; in that moment, it was all the same. He pressed his cheek to hers, and whispered in her ear, “Dance with me, princess.” “Now?” “You know of a better time?” “Valid point.” Unwilling to give him the upper hand, Lizzie sauntered past him, stopping only to link her hand with his, and then pulled him to the dance floor. The strobe lights were blinding, a little nauseating, and Lizzie centered her attention on the sexy-as-hell man in front of her instead. As did every other female in their general area. Gage commanded attention; it was simply the best way to put it. There were no awkward dance moves for him. Instead, he flashed her a wink and a grin, and proceeded to show her that if she wanted to keep up, she’d have to work hard. Working hard had never been Lizzie’s downfall. She approached him with a sassy sway to her hips, sending a small thank-you up to the music gods when the song changed again, this time to something with a heavy Latin beat. Brilliant. Thanks to outings with Jade, who was half-Cuban, Lizzie knew exactly how to move her body. Eat your heart out, Gage Harvey. Hand on his shoulder, she circled him once, then stepped back into his line of sight. Not that he looked at all tempted

to cast his gaze elsewhere. Lizzie shimmied. Rolled her hips. Lifted her hands to the ceiling, and kicked up her chin with a naughty smile in his direction. The rhythm of the music dictated each movement, each sharp thrust of her hips side-to-side in pure Shakira fashion. Gage fell. And he fell hard. His hands found her hips, and he smoothly spun her around. Her back to his chest, his breath warm against her ear. Strong, masculine thighs clenched behind hers. It was a heavenly blend of bliss and torture, and Lizzie had no shame in tugging his left hand away from her hip and folding it across her middle, just below her breasts, as her head fell back against his shoulder. “You’re killing me,” came his guttural voice in her ear. “You’re fucking killing me, Lizzie.” Lizzie, not princess. She smiled, and didn’t stop. But she did twist her head just so, to stare up at him. “Are you complaining?” His ﬁngers tightened against her. “Hell no.” Black met blue, their gazes clashing in the middle of the crowded club. And Lizzie . . . she breathed it all in, soaked up the excitement, as well as the nerves of having him so close. It was the most thrilling moment she’d had in years with a man, if ever, and she never wanted it to end. Forever isn’t an option. Her hips paused, slowed, and then regained momentum as she pushed those thoughts of more away. This wasn’t about more, and it wasn’t about forever. It was about now, about the music threading through her soul, and the lust heating her core.

It was about being with this man and thinking of no one else. She slipped her hand up into his hair, swirling her hips, enjoying the way his dark lashes ﬂuttered shut to fully enjoy the sensation. “I’m sorry I made you feel less than.” The words against her temple were a shock to her system. “What?” He opened his eyes. Smooth onyx, she thought, the color of his eyes were the exact hue of onyx. “At Naked You the other day,” he explained, never missing a beat as they danced, “I never intended to make you feel less than brilliant. There are things . . .” His breath whooshed out. “I’ve spent too many years on the wrong side of the coin, the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. And I spent the same number of years working my ass o to be judged on my work ethic, nothing else. So I’m sorry, that’s all. O ending you wasn’t my intention.” Her belly quivered with the rough admission, and she suspected that admitting anything didn’t come naturally to a man like Gage Harvey. Even in heels, she had to lift on her toes to even put their lips in the same stratosphere. His black eyes burned bright, a silent dare for her to take what she wanted, and Lizzie planned to do just that. “Gage, I—” Her belly quivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the man wrapped around her, and everything to do with that telltale sloshing sensation taking up habitat in her stomach. Oh, no. No, no, no. “Princess?” His hand slipped from her belly to her back, and that encouraging touch was almost worse than anything

else he could have done. Her gaze darted to the right, to the left. And even as she made a break for the black trash bin posted against the wall, she knew exactly what was coming. She didn’t make it. Three feet from the garbage can, she keeled over, hands on her knees, and threw up in front of every club-goer, bartender, and worst of all, in front of Gage Harvey.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

he sound of rock music playing woke Lizzie early the next morning. If the music hadn’t done it for her, then the wafting scent of bacon would have succeeded in popping her eyes open. She burrowed deeper in the soft covers, drawing them up to her chin and slamming her eyes shut against the bright light streaming in from the half-drawn blinds. Mmmm, bacon. Wait. Hold on. Who was cooking the bacon? Lizzie lurched upward, tugging the covers with her. Her eyes skirted the room, taking note of the dark wood everywhere—which was a sharp contrast to her own country-blue French-styled furniture—and the large-screen TV posted on the wall opposite the bed. She didn’t have a TV in her bedroom. She also didn’t listen to . . . Her ears twitched at the sound of a masculine voice singing along with the heavy rock. There. That. She also didn’t have a man in her apartment. Oh, God.

Fearing the worst, she pulled the covers away from her body and peeked down. Clothes, she was wearing clothes. Thank you, thank you, thank you. A T-shirt had replaced last night’s dress, and, yes, those were basketball shorts. Not hers, but it was still something. I’m not naked. Good, that was good. As was the fact that she’d taken a cab the night before to the club, so at least she hadn’t driven drunk. She pushed the covers away, sucking in a deep breath as the cool air hit her skin, and then very quietly slid o the bed. She was obviously at Gage’s house, that she knew. Who else would she have gone home with? Had they had sex? As much as she wanted the answer to be yes in any other circumstance, she prayed that it was a no right now. Not like this, not with her drunk and covered in vomit. Gage Harvey may not be the bad boy—in the classical sense—that she’d initially thought him to be, but she had to hope that he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation . . . would he? After a fast dart into the adjoining bathroom, Lizzie stole toothpaste and swiped it on her ﬁnger to brush her teeth, scrubbed her face clean of makeup, and ﬂicked o the light switch. She could do this. Just walk in there and pretend she hadn’t slept o her drunkenness in his bed. She wasn’t prepared for the sight of Gage at the stove. Bare-chested. Low-slung cargo shorts. Purple LSU ball cap turned backward.

He was . . . Lizzie swallowed, giving his muscled back another unsubtle ogle. He was a dream. A tatted-up, walking wet dream. The song broke into a guitar rift, and while Gage didn’t do anything so cliché as to fake-play a guitar, he sang right along with the singer, and . . . Lizzie burst out laughing when his throaty voice cracked on a high note. His inked shoulders tightened, and he reached for his phone on the counter and lowered the volume. “I see the lightweight has risen,” he said over his shoulder. Grimacing, Lizzie sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. His soft T-shirt pooled in her lap as she crossed her legs. “Can we pretend last night didn’t happen?” “No can do, princess.” He stepped away from the stove and pulled two plates from the cabinets, along with two glasses. “You caught at least two people, you know.” Caught two people . . .? Lizzie clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.” The words were mu ed against her palm, but that didn’t stop her from saying them another two times. “Oh my God, oh my God.” “Yeah, that was their reaction, too.” He set the plates and glasses on the island, and Lizzie didn’t know what was more alarming: the fact that she’d vomited on other people or that his upper body was pure artistry. The muscles, the tattoos . . . She shoved her hands under her butt to keep from running her ﬁngers over his ridged abdomen. Eight-pack. What normal human had an eight-pack? Well, he doesn’t drink co ee or eat donuts. Good point. Next time he even tried to reach for her co ee, she’d slap his hand. Cheese, too. The crazy health regimen he preached clearly worked.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered. “Did I . . . I-I don’t even want to ask any more questions about last night. I don’t want to know.” Two perfectly rounded pancakes landed on a plate before he slid it toward her. “OJ?” Gage asked, turning toward the fridge. “Milk?” “I’m assuming you don’t have co ee?” Gage’s soft laugh, accompanied by the early morning light, was the perfect antidote to her hangover. “Would I make your day if I told you that I picked you up a cup when I went to the store for breakfast stu ?” “I would love you forever.” He coughed awkwardly, and Lizzie had the sudden desire to bang her head on the kitchen island. Really? she scolded herself. Did you really just say that? “I mean, I—yes, my day would be made. Absolutely.” Snagging a Styrofoam cup from next to the microwave, he placed it by her elbow. “Might be a little cool. I bought it maybe forty minutes or so ago, but co ee is co ee, right?” I’ll love you forever. This time, Lizzie kept the words to herself even as she guzzled half the deliciousness. “Thank you.” “It’s the least I can do.” She lowered her arm, balancing the cup on her knee. “What do you mean, the least you can do?” A playful grin hitched the right side of his mouth as he took the stool opposite hers. With his backward hat and naked chest, he looked like every Southern boy Lizzie had ever fantasized about while growing up. Put him next to his pickup truck and light a bonﬁre, and you’d have girls ﬂocking left and right for a slice of his attention. Her exes couldn’t even compare. “Gage.”

More of that sexy smirking. “I wanted to make you feel better.” Lizzie pressed the co ee cup to her chest. “And it’s much appreciated.” “You didn’t throw up on two people.” Relief sank her shoulders, her chin dropping to her chest. “Oh, thank God.” “You threw up on three people.” Her head jerked up to gape at him. “Three?” “Yes, ma’am.” He plucked a crisp piece of bacon from their communal plate and popped it into his mouth. “You were a hot mess last night.” He could say that again. She’d always been a lightweight, but this was . . . this was awful. She could never show her face again at that club, no way, no how. It didn’t matter that she’d never been there before anyway. Someone could o er her a hundred-k, and she’d turn her back without a second thought. “I think I’ve lost my appetite,” she said weakly, ﬁddling with her knife as she set the co ee on the granite counter. “I’m so sorry. All that and then you took care of me? You deserve a medal of honor, a plaque, some sort of reward.” “Oh, trust me,” he said, that wicked smile curving his mouth again, “I got my reward.” “You did?” With his fork, he pointed at her face. “This right here? That’s my reward. You didn’t throw up on a single person, Lizzie. Not at the club, anyway. I became a casualty on the ride home, though. Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.” She wasn’t sure which was worse: believing that strangers had been the victims of her alcohol-induced night or that Gage had been. For that matter, she couldn’t believe that he’d pranked her.

When he reached for his next strip of bacon, Lizzie batted his hand away and stole it for herself. “You’re a jerk.” “A sexy jerk.” Her heart thudded. “I didn’t say that.” “Your eyes did it for you.” He was driving her insane and her head still pounded like the devil and she needed co ee. After depleting the cup, she countered, “My eyes aren’t on speaking terms with you right now.” Dropping one forearm to the counter, Gage oh-socasually drank his orange juice and then murmured, “Your nipples are.” Her nipples . . .? She glanced down, and sure enough, the girls were on point. Literally. Crossing one arm over her chest, she stabbed her fork in his direction. “I probably shouldn’t be surprised that you’re a boob guy.” “No, ma’am,” he drawled in that almost Texas-twang of his, “full disclosure, I’m all about the butt. But, see, I’ve already had my hands all over yours. The same can’t be said for your breasts, so I can’t help but . . . notice them more frequently.” She couldn’t help but narrow her eyes and suspiciously ask, “You didn’t cop a feel when you undressed me last night, did you?” “Nah, undressing was all your own handiwork.” Standing, he retreated to the fridge again and poured more OJ into his glass. This time, he brought the jug back to the table to ﬁll her empty glass, as well. She didn’t want to be charmed by the way he moved about, taking care of her, but it was impossible. Retaking his seat, he added, “If you don’t believe me, check out the tags on the clothes. T-shirt, backwards. Shorts, backwards. I tried to convince you to let me lend a hand, but you were stubborn to the end. Showered

on your own, changed on your own, passed out on my bed on your own.” “And you slept . . . where?” He indicated the living room behind her with a tilt of his chin. “Couch. Trust me when I say shoving my six-two frame onto my sofa was not my ﬁnest moment.” Guilt gripped her. He’d done so much for her: meeting her at the nightclub, despite the fact that he hadn’t looked at all like he’d wanted to be there; bringing her home after the alcohol (and her sloshed body) had decided to ruin everything. “I don’t even know how to make it up to you.” Her hands came up, palms to the ceiling. “Do you do this all the time? Permanently indebt people to you?” “It’s a special talent of mine.” He gave her a two-ﬁnger salute, and then doused his pancakes with syrup. “But there is something I do want to know.” “You can have the last bacon strip.” Heart squeezing at the sound of his husky chuckle, she watched as Gage pushed the bacon plate to her side of the island. “Have it, princess, there’s more where that came from. But no, what I want to know is why you let yourself fall o the deep end yesterday. Not that we’ve known each other for that long, but you don’t strike me as the type of person who willingly gets tanked.” Fact. Lizzie had never been the girl who danced on table tops or dealt out lap dances like cotton candy. That wasn’t her. Sure, there’d been a few instances over the years when she’d drunk an extra glass of wine she could have done without. But getting sloppy? No. She was the girl who went out of her way to make other people feel comfortable, whether that was by hanging out with them near the food table so they weren’t

alone or even by dancing exclusively with her girlfriends after a friend’s bad breakup. Seeking comfort, she grabbed the last bacon piece and snapped it in two, handing the larger half to Gage. “It was a long day,” she muttered in a low voice. “Actually, it’s been a long month.” “Because of your ex?” He didn’t sound jealous, merely curious. And that curiosity encouraged her to want to open up to him; her friends might be biased but Gage Harvey was not. Maybe she needed a purely objective look at her mangled life. “In part.” Taking a sip of her juice, she set it back on the counter and swept a fingertip around the rim, thinking. “You were right in the co ee shop, about my job being everything to me. It is, one-hundred percent. My love for makeup, as silly as it might seem, gave me a lot of opportunities. I’ve traveled around the world, and I’ve collaborated with a lot of brands because they want ThatMakeupGirl’s face on the packaging. It seems ridiculous and utterly ungrateful to feel like—” “You’re tired of being ThatMakeupGirl?” “Yes. No.” Lizzie shook her head, and then scrubbed her palms over her eyes. “Jeez, I sound so all over the place, which is sort of the problem.” Her heart leapt when Gage’s fingers encircled her wrist and pulled her hand away from her face. “Walk me through it, then.” “Why do you even care?” His expression twisted, mouth flat-lining. “Pretend that I do, princess.” She pulled her hand from his grasp. “So, you don’t?” “Lizzie.”

Fine. He wanted to keep with the status quo. Casual. Make-believe. She got it, loud and clear. “I don’t feel as though my life belongs to me anymore. I’m whoever social media wants me to be that day. The angry ex-girlfriend. The dumb bimbo playing with makeup. I don’t think I noticed it as much when I started out—the glitz and glam lifestyle awed me, you know?” “I’m sure it was a bit like a drug,” he said in a low voice, “the more you experienced it the more you craved it.” “Yes!” Lizzie sat on her hand to keep from o ering up a high-ﬁve. “Yes, that’s exactly it. My friends were in college or working jobs they hated, and I was traveling all over the world. It was amazing . . . it’s still amazing, but at some point, it grew old. My friends married and had kids, and had something meaningful.” “Marriage isn’t everything.” The way he said it . . . Lizzie cocked her head, watching as he averted his dark gaze and gathered their empty plates. Tentatively, because she didn’t want to run him o , she rose from the stool and came around the island, purposely putting herself in front of him. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched, but she suspected his reaction had less to do with her and more to do with whatever memories were replaying in his head. She took the plates from him and set them in the sink. “You’d mentioned before about spending your weekdays in Hackberry and your weekends here in N’Orleans. Were your parents divorced?” In the time that it took for her to rinse their two plates, there was only silence. Then he stepped forward, the heat of his body pressing up against her side as he grabbed a towel o the counter and rubbed the dishes dry. “They separated,” he ﬁnally said, catching her by surprise, “when Owen and I were nine. We’d grown up in

N’Orleans until then, but Mom was from Hackberry and after they decided to go their own ways, she figured small-town living was the best way to go.” Lizzie knew all about separated parents. The arguments. The fights. She swallowed hard, remembering the way her father had drank to excess and worked out his rage on her mom and brother. She distracted herself from the memories by retrieving their glasses and rinsing them out. “But you saw your dad on weekends?” she asked. “That must have been nice, at least.” Better than what she and Danny had survived. Even though she’d been young at the time, it was impossible to forget the matching bruises on her brother and mother’s faces. Lizzie’s father had never touched her, not once. Not that she’d ever fooled herself into thinking that the Danvers patriarch had just loved her more. No, she had Danny to thank for every instance that she’d been sent to her room, forced to hear the sickening sounds of flesh pounding flesh with her ear pressed to her bedroom door. Danny had saved her time and time again, although he’d been only two years older. Beth, their mother . . . Well, the best day of Lizzie’s life had been the moment Beth and Josh Cartwell had met. A Lieutenant for the NOPD, Josh was the perfect companion for her mom—and, yes, the best stepdad Lizzie could have ever hoped for. Until they’d wed, Lizzie had fully believed marriage was a first-class ticket to hell. Maybe it still was, but nowadays she was keen on finding a companion to sit next to her on that trip. At the sound of the cabinets closing, Lizzie sighed. It was too bad Gage wasn’t a forever kind of guy. He ticked all her boxes and then some—and somehow managed to look like

your mama’s worst nightmare while still being a complete gentleman. A sexy juxtaposition to the very end. “Yeah, we saw my dad.” Gage tossed the towel back on the counter again and then pressed his hip up against it. Arms folded over his chest, he watched her intently. “You open for a little advice?” “Go ahead,” she said, matching his pose. His T-shirt draped shapelessly around her like a sack, and his basketball shorts were so long on her that it looked like she wore a skirt. Black eyes dropped, lingered a moment longer than was socially appropriate, and then lifted again. “Go with your gut. If you’re feelin’ the need to cut down your time in front of the public, then why are you still worrying about it?” “Because I’ve . . .” The words caught in her throat. Because why? She thought of every excuse she’d given in the last few months, and all of them sounded rehearsed. Condensed. Shadowed and silenced to everyone but herself because she worried about being labeled as ungrateful. “No answer?” he prompted, his brows lifting as though he’d expected her exact response. Lizzie let out a self-conscious laugh. “You weren’t lying when you said you’re a straight shooter.” “Own your shit.” She blinked. “What?” Gage nodded, then drew o his LSU hat and tossed it on the counter behind him. Both hands raked through the dark strands, tugging on the ends in that increasingly familiar way of his. “That’s what my dad said to me and Owen growing up. Own your shit. We heard it at least once a week, usually after we got into a lot of crap whenever we came into the city.”

Own your shit. Lizzie liked it, a lot. “Your dad sounds like a smart guy.” “He was.” Was? Her heart dropped at the implication, and she stepped forward. “Gage, I’m so sorry—” He shook his head curtly and moved back, away from her touch. “All I’m saying is if you want to make a change, Lizzie, no one’s gonna do it but you. Life’s too short to be worn down by regrets.” With her hands at her side, Lizzie attempted a small smile. “For a bad boy, you’re pretty damn good, Gage Harvey.” His muscled chest moved, turned away, but not before she caught a telltale ﬂush warming his cheeks. “Keep that to yourself, princess.” “Please don’t pull the cliché card and say you’ve got a reputation to uphold.” “Well, if it’s true . . .” “I’ll fake-dump you.” He rested his hands on the kitchen island and assessed her. “You already fake-dumped me, remember? When you said that you didn’t need me or my dick?” Now it was her turn to blush furiously. “Well, I don’t think that—” “Maybe one day we can have makeup sex, but for right now”—he leaned forward, tempting her to do the same —“I’ve got to go protect the citizens of our beloved city. And you’ve got a job to do, too.” Quitting YouTube? Lizzie shuddered with dread. “I can do this.” He gave a short nod. “You can do it.” “You should really stop being nice to me.” Or else I’ll fall for you for real. She expected him to laugh her o , to crack a joke.

She didn’t expect for him to invade her space—again—or to lift his palm to her face. Hard callouses abraded her cheek, and she felt the distinct press of his thumb to the corner of her mouth. “No can do, Lizzie,” he rasped, staring down at where he touched her. “Being nice to you works for me.” “Because you want in my pants?” “Because I like the way you look at me, even though I sure as hell know I should stay far, far away from you.” And then he pulled away, leaving her bereft of his touch, his warmth, and Lizzie knew only one thing: she may have approached him because of his tattoos and his rugged looks, but it was the innate goodness in him that made her want more. That goodness and the startling heat in his gaze whenever he glanced her way.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

unday dinners were a tradition in the DanversCartwell family. Lizzie couldn’t remember when they’d started—maybe when Danny had returned from overseas during his marine years. That had been over a decade ago, and the dinners were still going strong. Nowadays, they had two new additions: Jade and Rocky, the serial leg-humper. In all honesty, Lizzie wasn’t sure whom Beth Cartwell loved more—her daughter-in-law or her ﬁrst “grandchild,” no matter that the latter was a four-legged police dog. Case in point: the way her mom crooked a ﬁnger at Rocky, patted her curvy thighs, and whispered, “Who wants a treat? Does Rocky want a treat? C’mon, baby boy, let’s get you something good.” Lizzie traded a glance with Jade, who sat at the kitchen table. “Beth,” Jade said, “he really shouldn’t be having any treats, especially not when you’re going to sneak him table food later.” Like any bad liar, Beth gave an a ronted hu . But Lizzie’s mother was too kind, too sweet, and so she only cracked open the pantry door and said, “But look how adorable he is!

Let him live up to his only-child existence, Jade. A few more months and he’ll be taking second seat to Amelia.” “Elizabeth,” Lizzie threw in, eyeing the K-9 when he, in turn, cast a glance at her leg. She shifted and tucked her legs under the table, just so he wouldn’t get any ideas. “We all know the baby’s name is going to be Elizabeth, after her favorite aunt.” Jade laughed, touching a palm to the side of her belly. “Don’t let Nathan hear either one of you. He’s convinced that we’re going to name her Sophia.” “Of course we are,” said Lizzie’s brother as he strolled into the kitchen, their stepfather, Josh, hot on his heels. “Sophia is a beautiful name.” Angling her body so that Rocky couldn’t be seen by the men, Beth tossed up a dog treat and gave a silent clap of her hands when he caught it. Then, loudly, “Oh, Rocky, you know your father doesn’t like it when we overload you on treats. One per visit, Rockster, one per visit.” Her mother was nesting, hard. “Ma, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.” Danny dropped a hand over her shoulder, stealing the treat bag out of her hand and holding it up high. Rocky’s dark eyes rose with his father’s arm, latching onto the goodies without even a blink. “How many times have I told you? Rock’s K-9; he isn’t like other dogs. He’s—” “You were saying, honey?” Jade pointed at the police dog, who’d rolled over onto his back, four paws stuck in the air, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He squirmed back and forth, a clear sign as any that he was playing up the cute factor, even if he had the ability to make grown-ups pee themselves in fear whenever he was out in the ﬁeld. “The boy knows what he wants.” “Dammit.” With an exaggerated sigh, Danny opened the treat bag and stuck his hand inside. “All right, Rockster, let’s

show ’em all what you’re made of.” With a command from his master, Rocky rose onto his back legs and gave a little hop-hop, front paws landing on Danny’s thighs. He yipped once, parked his butt on the ﬂoor, and then lifted one paw. Gimme. “Oh,” her mom exclaimed when Danny tossed the treat to Rocky, “you are such a good boy. Who’s a good boy? Rocky’s a good boy.” Lizzie tossed a wry look at her sister-in-law. “You think she’s going to be just like that when Elizabeth is born?” She rose her voice an octave, mimicking her mother’s perfectly. “Oh, you are such a good girl! Yes, just pee in your diaper and you’ll get all the treats, Elizabeth.” Jade and Danny burst out laughing, even as Josh settled an arm around his wife’s shoulders with a goofy grin on his usually somber face—the e ects of working for the NOPD for thirty-plus years. “You’ll be the best grandmother there ever was, sweetheart.” “Oh, that’s so nice of you to say!” Over Beth’s head, Josh winked at Lizzie. “But I hope you understand why we limit your treat rights when Amelia’s born. I have a feeling each time you throw a treat to Rocky, you’ll be sneaking something to Amelia, too.” Beth’s nose shot up in the air, her lips quivering with a smile. “I would never play favorites with my grandchildren, just as I don’t with my children. On that note, Lizzie, I heard the most interesting news about you yesterday.” Well, didn’t that sound utterly promising? As they all took their places at the dining table, Rocky perched in the spot to Beth’s right (he knew where the food came from), Lizzie scrambled to ﬁnd something to say. She and her mother were close, but they’d never been spill-all-

your-secrets close. And because of that . . . well, she wasn’t entirely sure where to start. Maybe with the beginning? She halfway doubted her mom would be interested in hearing the entire, sordid tale of her breakup. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. For nearly a decade, her dating habits had become a ritual of finding douchebags, falling for said douchebag, and being unceremoniously dumped, not long after, by the douchebag. Scott was no di erent. Lizzie stu ed a forkful of red beans and rice into her mouth. “What sort of exciting news?” “I got a little notification on my phone that you’re quitting YouTube?” Her fingers twitched around the fork. “Where’d you see that?” “The notification?” Beth cast a glance at her son. “Danny, you know what I mean, don’t you? The notifications that pop up?” Didn’t matter where her mother had heard it; point was, how had anyone known? Other than Gage this morning, Lizzie hadn’t told a soul that she was very close to stepping back from ThatMakeupGirl. On the other hand, there was a pretty good chance that Beth’s “notification” was nothing but the rumor mill swarming. The internet was a scary, stalkerish place. Before Danny had the chance to speak up, Lizzie threw in a blasé, “I’ve been thinking about it.” Jade’s head jerked toward Lizzie. “Really? Just a few weeks ago you were talking about how it was your everything.” It was—always had been. But like she’d told Gage, Lizzie just wanted . . . more.

Twirling her fork idly, she averted eye contact with her family. “I’ve been thinking about investing more time in Naked You. The market is largely untapped, especially here in N’Orleans. There’s a lot that I could pursue, especially now that I’m receiving more attention on social media for my photographs. The money is steadily coming in.” Beth cleared her throat, then sipped her wine. “But they’re naked, Lizzie.” “Only sometimes, Ma.” Just the other day, she’d photographed a woman with Stage-4 breast cancer. The woman had opted to wear a body-sized bandana beneath her breasts, covering the curve of her belly but leaving her chest exposed. She’d chosen to celebrate her survival by proudly showing o her double-mastectomy with ﬂowers arranged over her naked skin. Her body and the red rose petals shared the space, becoming a beautiful canvas that had garnered hundreds of similar-minded experiences in the post’s comments, all cheering the woman on for her courage and openness. Not everyone who showed up at Naked You pranced around topless without a second thought. Some did; most didn’t. At her mother’s arched brows, Lizzie tried again. “You felt this way about the makeup thing, too, remember? How could I make a living o talking about mascara or contouring? And look at me now.” “You’re about to quit.” “What does it matter, Ma?” Danny muttered, kicking Lizzie under the table in a show of sibling camaraderie. “If she wants to quit, then that’s her right. If she wants to dress up as a clown every day for the rest of her life, she can do that too.” Jade visibly winced. “No talk of clowns, please. I still haven’t gotten over your clown makeup tutorial from last

year, Liz.” And it’d been amazing—Pennywise all the way. “Don’t pretend that you didn’t beg me for that look, so you could scare the crap out of everyone at work,” Lizzie said, pointing her fork at her best friend. “You even made your boss drop to his knees with a whimper.” Looking altogether too pleased with herself, Jade flicked her dark hair behind one shoulder. “What can I say? I make a terrifying clown. Even managed to scare your big, bad brother.” Everyone looked to Danny, who made a show of piling more food onto his plate. “I have no idea what y’all are talking about.” “None?” Jade pursed her lips, stared at her husband, and then announced, “Danny has a phobia of clowns.” “Jade.” Her name was a pained grunt as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Clowns didn’t bother me until someone I know decided she wanted to tempt the whole city of N’Orleans into painting red on their noses and jagged, TheJoker-type lines across their mouths. You know what it’s like to go to work as a cop on Halloween and see clowns jumping out all over the place?” With a sly grin, Jade folded her arms across her chest. “Considering I work for the same department as you do, mi amor, I’d say that I do.” There was a small pause, and then, “All right, fine. Point for you, Jade Danvers, point for you.” Gray eyes swung in Lizzie’s direction. “As for you, dear sis, no more clowns this year.” “Well, if she has her way,” Beth grumbled, “she won’t be doing makeup at all.” Back to that again. Lizzie massaged her temple with her fingers. “I really don’t get why you’re put out about this, Ma. For years, you’ve been hoping I’d quit YouTube and do

something else. Well, I’m doing something else, and now you’re giving me grief instead of throwing a party.” Rocky gave a sharp bark and, as if by reflex, Beth dropped a sliver of steak down to the pup. Danny groaned, then rose to snag his dog by the collar. “C’mon, big boy, no table scraps. You’ll get something good later.” The pair exited the dining room just as Beth dropped her utensils to her plate with a clink! and met Lizzie’s gaze. “You’re thirty, honey. Thirty. And I’m not saying that’s old, but I figured that by this age, you’d be doing something more.” More. There was that word again, always dropping in when Lizzie least desired it. She looked to Josh, the man who had been more of a father to her than hers ever was, and said, “Do you feel the same way?” Under her breath, Jade excused herself and fled the room. Traitor. Lizzie slammed her eyes shut. All right, fine. If she’d been caught in the crossfire at Jade’s house in Miami, she’d have done the same. Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from pressing, “Josh? What about you?” Her stepfather cleared his throat, then ran a hand through his graying hair. With his shoulders ramrod straight and his face clean-shaven, he looked like the cop he’d been for over thirty years. “Your mother”—at Beth’s growl of disapproval, he cleared his throat again—“I apologize. We were simply hoping that you’d leave the social media world altogether at some point. Maybe find an o ce job in the area, stay close to home.” Stay close to home? Lizzie shook her head. “In case y’all missed it, I work out of N’Orleans.”

Josh sent a beseeching glance to his wife, but at her chinlift, added, “Beth—I mean, we…just want you to dive into life in other ways. A buddy of mine, he works for this marketing firm, and you’d be a perfect fit, sweetheart.” Usually, the endearment reminded Lizzie that this man, with his broad shoulders and thinning hair and the fine lines bracketing his mouth, had done everything in his power to show her that not all men were sleaze-bags. There were good men out there who loved their wives and never beat their family, and never drank to excess. Right now, his carefully drawn out “sweetheart” felt like a dig, however right or wrong, as though only he knew what was best for her. In a sti voice she barely recognized as hers, Lizzie said, “I’d never make at a nine-to-five what I do now.” “But if you’re leaving YouTube,” Beth said pointedly, clasping her hands together on the table, “then you’ll need something else.” Lizzie would continue to earn commissions o her videos for as long as they existed on the platform. And that didn’t even account for the fact that she had another business to fall back on, if needed. She opened her mouth, prepared to say just that, when Beth beat her to it. “Maybe it’s time to get married.” Was it rude of her to bark out a laugh? Probably. But that didn’t stop Lizzie from tipping back her head and letting the disbelief cut through her. “In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t any takers for the position, Ma.” “That Scott boy?” She highly doubted her mother hadn’t seen that fallout online, considering that the woman tracked Lizzie’s social life like a hawk. “Dumped me.” She tapped her finger against the porcelain plate. “And he just so happens to be engaged to someone else now.”

To a semi-friend of yours. She and Scott hadn’t been serious, and so she only hoped Stephanie knew what she was doing, hooking up with a total tool like Scott Manson. More likely than not, Scott had promised yet another girl that he had magical hands. When Stephanie discovered that to be a lie, she’d be just as disappointed as Lizzie and the rest of the girls who’d stood in her place beforehand. “What about . . .” Beth sipped her wine, then swirled her glass around. “What about . . . that boy? The one you’ve been taking photos with all around town?” Gage? This time, Lizzie managed to choke back a laugh at the ludicrous thought. “Ma, Gage isn’t likely to marry anyone soon, least of all me.” “He’d be lucky to marry you.” Lizzie sent a silent thank-you smile to her stepfather. She wondered if he knew Gage, since they both worked for the NOPD. But the New Orleans Police Department was huge, and her stepdad and Gage worked for two di erent sections. If they crossed paths, it probably wasn’t often. “Whether he’d be lucky or not, marriage isn’t in the works for us.” Dating wasn’t in the works, either—although maybe there was still the chance to spend the night in his bed. Her bed. Did it really matter which ﬂat surface they did it on, so long as it all felt good? Lizzie drew herself up, and added, “If you’re holding out hope I’ll settle down soon, Ma, trust me when I say that wouldn’t stop me from working hard at my businesses. A ring doesn’t change anything.” Beth’s expression softened as she reached for her husband’s hand across the table. “Sometimes, Lizzie, one ring does change everything. And sometimes, sweetheart,

one look is all you need to know that you’ve found the man to tempt you into forever with.” Tempt you into forever? The only temptation Lizzie had ever faced were holiday makeup collection sets—no one could turn down metallic eye shadows or bold red lipsticks on a steep discount. She thought of her dance with Gage, of his hard, muscled body dancing behind hers, of the way she’d felt dressed in his T-shirt and shorts. Heat curled in her belly, and she dug her toes into the soft area rug beneath her feet. All right. So maybe she knew what temptation felt like all the way around, but anything more than sex with Gage was o -limits. He didn’t do relationships. And Lizzie wasn’t willing to even contemplate forever with a man who might as well have “temporary” tattooed across his forehead.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“O

’Connor, dude, your dog weighs a shit-ton.” The Great Dane cranked back on the couch at Luke’s house, landing in Gage’s lap with the most pitiful doe eyes he’d ever seen. Puppy eyes, more like. Utterly, completely pitiful puppy eyes. Sassy’s palm-sized ears flopped onto Gage’s thighs, his massive mouth parting like the Red Sea as his sandpaper-like tongue scraped across Gage’s arm. “No, man,” he muttered, trying to catapult the dog onto the floor with a nudge and a shove, “you can’t have my beer. You’re not twenty-one.” “Like that’s ever stopped anyone before,” said Julian O’Connor, Luke’s teenage stepson. The kid’s hair was as white-blond as his mother’s and he had eyes just as blue. Julian’s mother was a stunner, something every single man in S.O.D. knew firsthand. All it’d taken was one dropped-o lunch to her husband, Luke, and tongues started hitting the floor. Gage’s included. He stared down at the family dog, then back to Jules. “Sneaking some booze, kid?” At seventeen, Julian only cocked a brow and played the I’m-too-cool-for-you card. “What do you think?”

“I’m gonna go for ‘hell yes’.” Julian faked hitting a buzzer with the palm of his hand. “Bzzzt! Guess again, O cer Harvey, guess again.” Gage dropped a forearm on the dinosaur-sized dog in his lap. “You really going to try and pretend you don’t escape out of your second-floor bedroom and hit up some of the high school parties I see raging on the weekends?” “Nah, he doesn’t.” Luke entered the den with two beer bottles clasped in one hand, as well as a glass of milk in the other. “We’ve got a firm no-sneaking down the fire escape policy around here.” Accepting the milk, Julian o ered a slow grin that reminded Gage way too much of O’Connor. “That we do. My old man right here made me sign a contract on my sixteenth birthday.” “A contract?” “Yup.” Downing half the milk, Julian dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “I solemnly swore on the day of the signing to never lie about my whereabouts, and in return . . .” Luke snapped his fingers and Sassy leapt to attention: he hopped o the couch (while digging a paw into Gage’s stomach), and slapped his butt on the ground in wait for a treat. A bone-shaped cookie arced through the air, and landed smack in the Dane’s waiting mouth. Impressive. Unfortunately, the only thing Gage had to o er the dog were single dollar bills, thanks to the tips he’d received today at Inked. Taking the seat Sassy had just vacated, beside Gage, Luke handed over a beer and then took a long pull of his. “In return, I promised Jules a trip to every NFL stadium along the east coast by the time he went o to college.”

Gage brought the beer bottle to his lips, tipped it back, and welcomed the hoppy flavor. “How many do you have left?” “Just one—the Patriots at Gillette.” Julian gave a hu ed chortle. “Luke here wanted to save it for last since he views celebrating Tom Brady as a true betrayal to his beloved Saints.” Thanks to growing up in Hackberry for most of his impressionable years, Gage’s first football love wasn’t the New Orleans Saints but rather the Louisiana State University Tigers. It came with the territory; in west Louisiana, college ball took higher priority to the pros. With a downward tug on his purple LSU ball cap, Gage said, “O’Connor’s going to be in the stands screaming ‘Who Dat?’ like a true N’Orleanian, while he gets pummeled with snow by Pats fans everywhere.” Julian curled his hands around the milk glass and shifted forward on the sofa, elbows dropping to his knees as his eyes brightened with anticipation. “I’m hoping for massive snowballs. Never seen snow before, though if I get my way, I’ll be heading up to the Northeast for college.” Luke tipped his Abita bottle in the kid’s direction. “If your mother gets her way, you’ll be going to school at Tulane and living at home. She’s going to say room and board costs too much, but really—” “She just doesn’t want me to leave home,” Jules finished with a laugh. “It’s bad when I know exactly what you’re gonna say.” “No, son, it’s bad when your mother asks me to drop the word ‘Tulane’ into every conversation I have with you.” One blond brow hiked up. “You know you’re failing, right?” “I don’t fail at anything, kid. We both know I’m pulling for you to go wherever your innocent heart desires.”

Stepfather and son broke out into laughter, clinking their drinks together, as Gage took in the scene before him. Over the last year, he’d spent a lot of evenings at the O’Connor house, more time than he’d even spent with Owen. It’d started out with an invitation to watch the Saints or the Tigers play, then had morphed into playing pool at their local pub when Anna was out with her friends. Watching Luke and Julian was a bit like staring into a magic crystal ball and hoping to see a reality that didn’t exist. If Gage tried hard enough, he could imagine conversations just like theirs taking place between him and his dad, conversations that had never crossed their lips or emptied into the space around them. Questions about his separation from Gage’s mom. Questions about his mother’s death. Questions, really, that had plagued Gage for years but which had no answers—no answers that the living could answer, at any rate. Feminine laughter disrupted his morbid thoughts, and Gage’s head jerked toward the kitchen. Anna’s laughter, he recognized, and the other female’s . . . He sucked down his beer, feeling the thread of anticipation hum in his veins. Husky, sexy laughter. Lizzie Danvers’ laughter. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, his spine snapped straight and before he knew it, his empty bottle was on the co ee table and Gage was on his feet. He ﬂattened down his work T-shirt, which he’d worn under the Kevlar vest and black uniform top at work earlier today. Both had been stripped o and tossed in the back of his unmarked Crown Vic, which sat in front of Luke’s house. Gage re-angled his LSU hat, then twisted it around to sit backward on his head. Took two deep breaths because the

last time he’d seen her, she’d stripped naked in front of him and o ered a drunken striptease before yanking on his clothes and passing out on his bed. There’d been no stopping him that night from climbing into his shower and turning the temperature to ballsshriveling freezing. It was either that or stroke one o in the shower, and considering that she’d also thrown up in his shower . . . Well, he hadn’t wanted to spend any amount of time in there, despite hosing the place down and spraying all sorts of bleach onto the tiled walls. “You heading out?” “No, I, uh . . .” Gage swallowed, meeting his buddy’s gaze before glancing swiftly away again. Jesus, when was the last time he’d gotten tongue-tied over a woman before? Then again, getting tongue-tied wasn’t Gage’s M.O. Taking charge. Acting alpha. He did all that, and he did it well. Which didn’t at all explain why he was shifting his weight from foot to foot, ready to spring toward the kitchen—and Lizzie—at the first opportunity. An opportunity he’d clearly have to create, because not once in twelve months had Gage proactively tried to hang out with Luke’s wife or her friends. It wasn’t his thing. Felt way too much like shacking up for his comfort, and even now his brain shouted, What are you doing? Stop your nervous twitching! Make your dick stand down. No, we said DOWN not UP, you idiot. A fact that Gage proved tenfold when he opened his mouth and muttered, “You have water?” Julian, the snarkmaster of the O’Connor family, held up a finger and announced, “No-can-do, O cer. We’re taking a stand against water. All water. Don’t even have it in the toilet bowl for when you want to flush. In fact, we’re petitioning

for the entire city of N’Orleans to free the water and to cease using it frivolously in their homes.” Gage’s brows arched up to his hairline, under his hat. “O’Connor, man, where’d you ﬁnd this one?” “His mother.” Luke clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulders and chuckled. “Though, depending on the day of the week, sometimes that answer changes.” Julian cracked a wry grin. “Back when I was a little shit, I told him that he’d found me in Uranus. He wasn’t pleased.” “Overplayed, kid, overplayed. You don’t think I haven’t heard that one before?” “Then how come you spit out your Coke when I said it? Don’t play up your game in front of one of your buddies, Luke.” The kid shoved back his white-blond hair and gave a pitying pat-pat to his stepfather’s shoulder. “We all know that—” “Gage?” Every muscle in his body strung tight, acutely aware of the mingled curiosity and confusion in her voice. Slowly, because he needed time to wipe the ridiculous smile o his face, he turned around and took the time to prepare himself for the sight of her. Both his heart and his cock gave a kick of approval when his gaze settled on her, though it took him a moment to readjust the image of her he had from Sunday morning pancakes to this exact moment. Gone were the caramel highlights from her hair; instead, the strands had been dyed a velvety chocolate brown. There wasn’t a single trace of makeup on her face, that he could see, and she was dressed in a light blue sweater, nondescript jeans, and a pair of tennis shoes. No plum-painted lips. No shadow on her eyelids. No ﬂashy jewelry or clothing.

He had a gut feeling that she’d stripped ThatMakeupGirl from her appearance, and had gone straight for Lizabeth Vittoria—and, yes, he was fully aware of how ridiculous it sounded to be talking about her like she were two di erent people. “Hey,” he said, hands going to his ball cap to drag down the bill further. Over the years, he’d noticed the habit picking up whenever he felt o -balance or nervous. Lizzie Danvers, for what it was worth, made him feel both. Her brows arched high as she rocked back on her heels, hands going behind her back. “Hey.” Gage swallowed. Tucked his hands into the front pockets of his work pants. “Your hair looks di erent.” Jesus, Harvey, that’s all you have to say? Just di erent? He cleared his throat, stared up to the ceiling. “Nice, I mean. It looks nice.” “Thank you.” Her lips pursed, drawing his eyes down to their natural shade. He’d had his answer on the morning he’d served her pancakes—peach, that was the color of her lips. Now, he couldn’t look away, especially not when her teeth sank down into her bottom lip in a way he doubted she meant to be sexy, but undeniably was. “I felt like I needed a change.” “She did more than just change her hair color,” said Luke’s wife, Anna, as she waltzed into the living room. Throwing an arm around Lizzie’s shoulders, Anna added, “She also . . . what’s the equivalent of putting in your notice for a social media page?” “Ma,” Julian said from the couch, “you’re so old.” “Hey, what’d we say about making fun of your mom’s age?” Luke tipped his head back against the couch, accepting a kiss from his wife when she stopped behind him. “She’s always what age?”

Chuckling darkly, the kid finished o his milk. “Thirtytwo, Sir He-Who-Knows-All, which is the age that she met you.” “Exactly.” “You’re too good to me.” Anna playfully swatted O’Connor on the shoulder, and then hiked her hip up onto the couch to lean against it. “Anyway, Lizzie came over to celebrate her break from YouTube.” Everyone clapped and whistled, and Lizzie gave a curtsy, lifting up her invisible skirts. It was . . . adorable. Gage scrubbed a hand over his jawline, wishing he had another beer. “Thank you, thank you,” she murmured, turning a quick circle and eating up the attention. “Anna promised me a dinner when I finally worked up the courage to do it, so I’m planning on feasting tonight.” She grinned, then tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. The position thrust her small breasts up and out, and Gage forced himself to keep his eyes above her shoulders. “Pizza, of course, because I know it’s her favorite and I’m a giver like that. Does anyone want to join?” In the giving? Gage lost the battle, and he trailed his eyes down the length of her body. Perky breasts, narrow waist, curvy backside. Not for the first time did he wonder if anyone else had had the chance to scope out her tattoo. “Does the invitation include underagers?” Julian asked, already setting his glass on the co ee table. “Or just senior citizens?” Lizzie laughed, her chocolate-brown hair falling over her shoulders in full curls. “Other than you, Jules, I’m the youngest here. How about we pull an ‘age before beauty’ game?” Blue eyes landed on Gage. “Can we allow Julian to come with us, O cer Harvey?”

Gage cast a quick glance about the room. “Why do you assume I’m the oldest?” “It’s the gray hair.” Mouth falling open, Gage stared at Anna’s kid. “I don’t have any.” “Oh, right, I’m sorry.” Julian slapped a palm to his forehead in a classic duh gesture. “I was talking about my mom. Hey, Ma, can I come with?” Anna’s brows furrowed, even as her mouth quirked with a clear ﬁght against a laugh. “Sometimes, I wonder where I went wrong with you, honey.” Julian blew her an exaggerated kiss. “Birth, Ma, you went wrong at birth.” Clapping his hands together, he tossed an arm around Lizzie’s shoulder. “On to your celebration! I’m voting for pineapple on the pizza.” Luke and Anna both groaned. Lizzie chuckled. And Gage wondered how the hell he could arrange her to drive with him to the pizza joint—alone. Don’t get attached. But as he watched her jean-clad hips sway side to side, he wondered if that was already a moot case. Gage never let himself get attached to anyone, but if his response to her entrance into the living room was any indicator, his “never” was about to turn into a “just this once.” And if a “just this once” was on the horizon, then he needed to get proactive about setting up some boundaries with Miz Lizzie Danvers. Casual. He desperately needed to keep his lust in check and remember that their relationship, if you could even call it that, was nothing more than a random friendship that would hopefully include sex sometime in their near future. He was good with that, totally good.

Just as he lifted a hand to his ball cap, Lizzie glanced over her shoulder at him, looking happier than she had in the weeks that he’d known her, and winked at him. This whole keep-it-casual thing would be a lot easier if he got her in his bed and out of his system. Maybe then he could stop thinking about all the ways he’d like to be the reason for her happy glow.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

he pizza place down in New Orleans’s Bywater neighborhood was packed. Like sardines stuck in a can, Lizzie and the others shu ed through the front door. Over Anna’s blonde head, she saw Julian tap Luke on the shoulder and point to a section of the restaurant near the back. Luke, in turn, motioned for the rest of them to follow with a ﬂick of his wrist, army-style. And, just like the good soldiers they all weren’t, they followed single-ﬁle until they’d reached home base and dropped onto the wooden benches, claiming the territory as theirs. Lizzie sucked in a breath when Gage took the seat beside her, his legs straddling the bench and his left palm on her lower back. It felt natural, too natural, for him to be so close. Did that stop her from leaning into his touch, twisting just so, so that her butt was nearly cradled against the V of his thighs? Nope, totally didn’t. Maybe their conversation from the other day at his house had opened him up? Made him reconsider his unvoiced ban on relationships? Or maybe he just wants to get in your pants. Well, there was that, too.

But as of today, as of this moment, Gage Harvey had absolutely no ties to her. She’d announced her break from ThatMakeupGirl and, in doing so, had o cially ended #badboyirredemption, for better or for worse. Which meant that if he showed any interest at all in her . . . it had to be real, right? She felt his warm breath on her ear just before she heard the deep rumble of his voice. “Congratulations, princess. You did what you said you’d do.” Lizzie fought the urge to lean back against him, to soak up all his masculinity and curl against his chest. Turning her head slightly, her lips brushed the prickly stubble of his cheek. “In other words,” she murmured, “I owned my shit.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave a short laugh. “That you did. How’s it feel?” “Good.” She set her elbow on the table, inches from where his forearm rested. “Freeing. I mean, it will be freeing once the DM’s all stop.” “The DM’s?” “Yeah, the direct messages? I always upload condensed versions of my videos on YouTube onto Instagram, which maybe I should reconsider for the future. Instagram folks are a bit more out of hand when they slide into your inbox.” There was a small pause, in which Gage told Luke he’d be down for whatever type of pizza, and Lizzie did the same, before he said, “Let me see them.” “The messages?” “Yeah.” He was a brave man to even suggest it. She unzipped her purse on the table and pulled out her phone. “Are you sure about this?” she asked, unlocking the screen and tapping open the pink Instagram app. “If your sensibilities got all riled up because of Naked You, you’re likely to want to confess after this.”

“I think my sensibilities will be just fine, Miz Danvers.” Giggling at his defensive tone, Lizzie only shook her head and tap-tapped her inbox. Half the time, she never even looked through her messages. Sure, there were a select few people who were diehard fans and who loved her, but the majority of those who DM’ed her were straight internet trolls. They wanted to make her cringe, cry, or shift uncomfortably. Sometimes, they managed to succeed in doing all three. Sometimes, Lizzie managed to find humor in the situation. Mostly, she just wished that they’d leave her alone. She flicked open the first one. “All right, you wanted to read them. Here they are.” Lizzie slid the phone to her right. “Prepare to wonder what’s wrong with humanity.” His dark brows drew together. “You think I don’t wonder that every day with my job?” He gave a mock-shiver, his left hand still pressed to her back, but then he moved. Inward. Against her. And, oh jeez, but it brought back the sensations of him dancing behind her at the nightclub. In a way, this was almost more seductive. More intriguing. Here they sat in a public restaurant, the overhead lights glaring and yellow; Anna, Luke, and Julian sat just to her left, laughing at some story Julian told, his hands emphasizing his words with physical punctuation in the air. “Let’s see what we have here . . .” A turned-on Lizzie Danvers, that’s what they had here. She almost whipped around and told Gage just that, but she bit her tongue and relaxed her shoulders and reminded herself that she was changing her ways. New hair. New career. New lifestyle. Casual.

She’d ended her last YouTube video with a new life motto: live everyday like it was her last. Enjoy life, and worry less about what people thought of her. It started here, right now. Lizzie dropped her hand to Gage’s thigh, delighting in the way the muscle beneath her palm twitched. She moved her hand up an inch, closer to the goods, and squeezed. Just once. Once was all she needed—his hand latched around her wrist and skimmed it down to his knee, a safe place. Then, in a voice pitched from gravel, “If you keep doing that, I’ll take you right here on the table, princess.” Her toes curled in her tennis shoes. “Before or after the pizza arrives?” Rumbling laughter reverberated in his chest, and she felt the scrape of his stubble against her cheek. “I’m not even going to answer that.” “Scared?” she taunted softly, her eyes locked on their intertwined fingers on his knee. “Never.” He squeezed her fingers, just once, like she’d done to his thigh, and then released her. “All right, I’m ready to read some of these DM’s you speak of so highly.” Lizzie snorted. “Prepare yourself.” “Oh, I’m prepared, don’t you worry.” His arrogance was endearing, mainly because he wiggled his dark brows before tapping her phone back to life. “Okay, let’s do this. Our first message up is from a . . . a . . . BigTeetz9090—” Smirking over the way he stumbled over the username, Lizzie murmured, “I believe you meant to say big tits?” He cocked his head. “It’s spelled with two E’s and a Z. Big teetz is right.” “What’s the profile icon photo?”

Leaning in, his broad chest met her back and Lizzie stifled a whimper. “Looks like I’m staring at some big titties. Yellow bra. Definite nipplege.” Nipplege? Lizzie drummed her fingers on the table, feigning nonchalance when all she wanted to do was laugh. “Okay, continue.” “Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t shift away this time, and her back sank into his chest. It was the perfect fit. Utterly perfect. Not that it meant anything. She was living in the moment, enjoying this backand-forth with a hot cop who just so happened to have stormed into her life and showed no signs of leaving anytime soon. “This is interesting.” He cleared his throat like he was about to put on a performance. “So, BigTeetz9090 has said, and I quote, Lizzie Danvers, you are one shallow bitch—bitch is spelled with a Y, by the way—who has absolutely no tits. Watching you for the last ten years has been like stabbing myself in the eye with an icepick on repeat for half my life. It feels good, and I’ve certainly jerked one o to you a few times, but not gonna lie . . . I’m ready for you and your fake hair and your fake smile and your fake tits to get o the air. Deuces.” Gage seemed to sit stunned next to her, his lips parted, his black eyes on her phone. Yeah, she’d felt that way, too, way back in the beginning. Now, she only said, “In case you’re wondering, they’re real. Small, maybe, but real nonetheless.” His chest moved against hers with a deep inhale. “They’re perfect.” Lizzie’s thighs squeezed together. “You’ve never seen them.” “I’m makin’ a hypothetical guess that they’re fucking gorgeous based on the rest of you.”

Forcing a self-deprecating tone to her voice, she chucked him under the chin with her knuckle. “Romantic as always, O cer. Oh, look, the pizza’s here.” Lizzie was all too aware of the fact that her breasts, unlike her butt, were smaller than average—hence, the padded bras she once wore religiously. But with age came acceptance, and if a man had a problem that she didn’t have the best rack on the block, that was on him and not on her. Slices were stolen from the tin tray, though only Lizzie and Julian partook in any of the pineapple ones. “What are y’all reading over there?” Julian asked, just before Anna playfully swatted her son on the shoulder. “What did we say about asking people personal questions, Jules?” “What?” His hands came up, one of which held the pizza in a triangular fold, the cheese dripping to his plate. “They’re canoodling, Ma. You noticed, I noticed, Luke noticed. I’m just wondering what’s so funny.” Canoodling? To her right, Gage echoed her after taking a drink of his soda. Louder, he said, “We’re reading some of the mean messages Lizzie’s received from people subscribed to her channel.” Julian’s blond brows ﬂew up, and he scooted down his side of the bench so he sat directly across from Lizzie and Gage. “This sounds amazing. I’m in.” Oh no, absolutely not. Lizzie could handle Gage reading them—mostly—but a teenager? No way. Plus . . . “They’re not exactly kid appropriate.” Luke didn’t help matters. He snagged another slice of pizza o the platter and pointed the tip at them. It drooped, and the former army sergeant turned to Anna with a wicked grin. “Wanna bite the tip?”

“I’ve heard through the grapevine that biting is no good.” At the table’s silence, Julian threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. “Y’all, I’m seventeen not seven. You don’t think kids in my grade don’t talk about blow jobs? With that said”—he wagged a ﬁnger at his mother and stepfather —“no talk like that at the table. Utterly disgraceful, you two.” Anna let out a strangled laugh. “I wish you were seven.” “I’m more fun now, Ma.” He turned to Gage with a c’mon gesture. “Pick one that won’t o end my mother. She’s sensitive.” Lizzie truly hoped that one day she’d be around to see Julian Bryce O’Connor fall in love. Preferably when he was older. She couldn’t even imagine the type of woman he’d need to throw him o -kilter—teenager or not, he was always three steps faster. Beside her, Gage shifted on the bench, drawing his left leg over the wood, so that he sat straight-on. Whether she wanted it to or not, her heart squeezed when he tossed Julian a conspiratorial wink and scrolled through her inbox for the perfect message to read aloud. In that moment, Lizzie let her imagination take her to where it so desperately wanted to go. Namely, to her and Gage dating. If they had been, she would drape her hand on his back now, palming the muscles beneath his shirt that gave only her pleasure and no one else. If they had been, she would slip her hand to his inner thigh, squeezing but not letting go afterward. If they had been, she would press her lips to that spot on his arm where his T-shirt ended and his inked skin began. But they weren’t dating—they weren’t anything—and so Lizzie only ate her pizza and listened as her bad boy (who wasn’t so bad after all) made an e ort to include his

coworker’s stepson into the conversation. It was endearingly sweet of him. “Okay,” Gage announced in that rough, west Louisiana lilt of his, “I’ve got one.” He flicked his gaze up to Jules. “You ready for this?” Julian tore a chunk o his crust and popped it into his mouth. “I was born ready, Harvey. Read it to me.” Theatrically clearing his throat, Gage held up the phone like it was some sort of fancy scroll from ancient times. “This is from Time2Rock440. The number two is written in numerals, for anyone who was wondering.” He drew out the silence for e ect, and then continued, “Dear ThatMakeupGirl, I have nothing to say to you except I’m glad you’re quitting. You’re the reason I got into makeup, and now I’m choosing to buy liquid lipstick over food. I can’t eat liquid lipstick, girl. Trust me, I’ve tried. So while this parting is super bittersweet, we’re all better o . And by ‘we,’ I’m totally talking about my wallet. I’ll be crying over in the corner until you come back, thanks.” “Lizzie,” Julian said, “you should be ashamed of yourself.” Getting into character, she bowed her head. “I know. How do I manage to wake up each day?” Anna reached out and patted Lizzie on the shoulder. “It’s a tough life you live, Liz, a really tough life.” Julian grabbed the last slice of pizza. “Can we do one more?” Catching her nod, Gage shrugged and slid his thumb over the phone’s screen. “Sure, one more. Let me find a good one.” While he searched, Lizzie finished o her pizza and tried to decipher her emotions, knowing that people were either angry or upset with her for leaving one of the most subscribed-to beauty channels on YouTube. She’d already

read through some of the messages in her inbox, just after her video had gone live. Gage was doing a fine job of picking ones that weren’t too aggressive, as though knowing the really mean ones weren’t what she wanted to hear right now. She wanted to ride on her high for as long as possible. Push forward with Naked You, and actually come out to her friends that she ran a completely separate business. She suspected that Anna and her other friend, Shaelyn, knew something was up. Lizzie wasn’t the best at keeping a low profile. But for as long as she’d known them both, along with Jade, Lizzie had led a distinctly separate life. She was tired of the ruse. Tired of pretending that Naked You’s social media account wasn’t hers. There was mass speculation among magazines and the public that the account actually belonged to a woman out of Boston, someone by the name of Holly Carter, a professional hockey player’s wife. Despite denying the rumors, the suspicion never died down. Holly Carter, wife of one Jackson Carter and owner to Boston’s top sports photography business, had uno cially become the creator of Naked You. And that burned most of all. Maybe it would have made a di erence if she’d attached a photo to Lizabeth Vittoria’s bio on the Naked You website, instead of just a monogrammed logo. It didn’t help that, from what Lizzie had uncovered, Mrs. Carter was separated from her husband and bouncing back and forth between New Orleans and Boston. It wasn’t quite a mess, and it would be squashed in an instant if Lizzie just came forward and revealed her identity —or if any of her clients spoke up for her. “Found one,” Gage said, flashing her a slow grin, “and it’s good.” He commenced with his preparation, gathering their table’s attention like the total charmer he was. “From

SkaterBoiBlades: My first ThatMakeupGirl tutorial was the one where you did up your face to portray di erent singers for each month of the year. Carrie Underwood was July, and let me tell you, July has become my favorite month ever since you posted that video a few years ago. Fun fact, I have a girl crush on her. Her legs are fantastic. Which reminds me, have you seen the Australian firefighter calendar? Super hot. X-rated. This has nothing to do with you; I just thought you might be having a shit day after everything, and maybe watching some hot Aussies get ready for a photoshoot would make you feel better. Link is below. I’ll miss you, Lizzie.” “How is it possible that these messages can be both really creepy and oddly sweet, all at once?” Luke pushed his plate away. “And why do women lose their head over hot dude calendars? Between guys holding animals to—” “It’s because of the tight butts.” Luke’s brows drew together. “What?” Lizzie blushed, realizing too late that she’d spoken out loud. Too late to turn back now. Pushing her shoulders back, she said, “Most of the guys in those calendars . . . they’re really good looking. Women also don’t mind a guy in uniform.” “And how do you feel about a guy in uniform?” At Gage’s husky question, Lizzie met his gaze boldly. Refused to look away and appear shy. Lowered her voice to a purr. “It’s my favorite sight. Unless we’re talking about seeing a guy in nothing but his birthday suit.” “Ugh,” Julian muttered with a bite of annoyance, “I don’t get why everyone’s always using ‘birthday suit’ as a euphemism for being naked. Let’s be real, if you had thousands of dollars to throw away, you wouldn’t be naked. You’d be dolled up, looking all pretty in a fancy suit, being awesome.”

Gage paid the teenager no mind. Instead, he didn’t look away from Lizzie, his black eyes centered on her face. “Would you ever host a calendar shoot like those Australian firefighters?” Subtly, she checked out Anna and Luke to see if they’d caught wind of what Gage had asked. Didn’t he realize that they knew nothing about Naked You? “I don’t know,” she said from behind clenched teeth. “Maybe. Yes.” She shook her head. “We’re not talking about this right now.” “It’s just a hypothetical question, princess, no need to get your knickers in a twist.” Her knickers? Lizzie drained the rest of her soda. “Then, yes, if it’s an actual hypothetical question, I’d host a photography shoot and capture all the hotness of Australia’s first responders.” Gage’s mouth hitched up in a smile she didn’t quite trust. “Good to know.” Yeah, she thought as her gaze tracked his slight smile into a full-on, shit-eating grin, she didn’t trust him one bit. But something told her that whatever he had up his sleeve wouldn’t harm her. He was too considerate for that, too considerate in general, to try and pull one over on her. It was just another thing to like about him. At this rate, there wasn’t much she didn’t like about Gage, and that was the problem.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

hat old saying that things always get worse before they get better? If Lizzie’s life during the last week was any indication, then she fully believed the adage to be absolutely, unequivocally true. Sitting at her desk in her studio, Lizzie stared at the computer screen. More speciﬁcally, at the article which TMZ had posted only twenty-two minutes earlier: Inspiring Instagram Account, Naked You, Reaches Two Million Followers—But Who Owns It? Holly Carter Spills All in Interview With Vanity Fair . . . Lizzie’s elbow collided with her co ee cup, and the liquid sloshed over the rim and soaked her September expenses report. “Dammit.” This is what she got for keeping everything on the down low. The public didn’t care that there were real people out there who had come into contact with “Lizabeth Vittoria” over the last three years. No, they only wanted to see what the media laid out for them.

And, according to every media source in the good ol’ US of A, Holly Carter was their anonymous photographer, who’d chosen to work under a di erent name so as to not steal the limelight from her celebrity athlete of a husband. Lizzie grabbed a stray napkin o her desk and dabbed at the report. Stupid, so stupid. Would anyone have really cared that she did photography along with makeup? No, of course not. Her photos were tasteful, beautiful, and more often than not, they depicted aspects of humanity that usually were sheathed behind fabrics and material. Only in her head had she made it all out to be a bigger deal than it actually was. And now Mrs. Holly Carter was the one doing an interview with Vanity Fair . . . Unable to resist, Lizzie clicked on the link TMZ had provided, and there she was, Holly Carter. A Louisiana-born, Texas-raised socialite who’d married her high school sweetheart. A sweetheart who’d ended up playing for the NHL, and who was now the captain for the Boston Blades—if Lizzie’s internet-stalking proved accurate. In the headline photo, Holly’s blonde hair was stylized perfectly, curls bouncy around her shoulders. Sleek. Sophisticated. Lizzie grumbled to herself as she scrolled past the title and the plucked-out quotes, and down to where the article began: Holly Carter has always been a photographer. From the day she moved to Faithful, a small Texas town not so far from Austin, she wanted to capture everything in sight. The houses, the people. But growing up in the South meant football, and with four older brothers, it’s not so much of a surprise that Holly would soon ﬁnd herself snapping pictures of athletes. Little did she know then, at ten years old, that sports photography would be a career-long passion. Crap.

Holly Carter sounded like the perfect woman. If she could land a Vanity Fair spread, she really didn’t need Naked You’s burgeoning fame on top of that. Lizzie continued down the page, her eyes eagerly searching for any commentary on her business. No, nothing there. No, she didn’t particularly care about the woman’s separation from the hockey player. Wait. Yes, right there— The sound of the front door buzzing jerked Lizzie’s gaze from the computer screen to her open planner. She didn’t have an appointment today, just some photos to edit. In an attempt to “live in the moment,” she’d taken the streetcar down to the French Quarter yesterday and snapped photos of the street performers. The guy with the “fake” dead dog, the latter of which sat in a baby carriage, paws thrust up in the air, and only broke character when someone strolled past with food. The woman in the gray, gossamer gown, with her face painted like a glitter-skull and her hair teased to Marie Antoinette-heights. Lizzie had to pay the woman ten bucks to take her picture, but it’d been worth it. More knocking at the door: heavy, demanding. She sent one more look to her computer, absorbing the words she’d been desperate to see: I’m a huge fan of Naked You, but no, I’m not Lizabeth Vittoria. Whoever she is, she has some major talent. I’d love to do a collaboration with her in the future, though. Her photos are stunning, raw, and while I’d like to pretend that I’m the person behind that lens . . . it’d be wrong of me to uphold a lie. Sorry! “Holly Carter,” Lizzie muttered beneath her breath, “you’re my new best friend.” With a quick sashay toward the main studio, Lizzie drew to a sudden stop when she spotted the group of men beyond

the front windows of Naked You. There were ten, no, eleven, and was that . . . ? She squinted, hastening her pace. Why in the world was Luke O’Connor on her doorstep? Flipping the latch on the deadbolt, Lizzie drew open the door and immediately felt the oxygen leave her body. Gage Harvey stood before her, casually leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, his NOPD hat pulled low. Although they’d exchanged texts since their night out for pizza, there hadn’t been time to see him. He’d apologized, citing a crazy work schedule as the cause. She’d accepted the apology, and spent her days and nights wandering her hometown for angles and people and neighborhoods that she’d never photographed before. It hadn’t escaped her notice that they were acting like a quasi-couple. But Gage hadn’t mentioned it and Lizzie kept her mouth shut, worried to ruin whatever they had going on. She mimicked his pose, pressing her shoulder against the same side of the door frame as him. “This is unexpected.” Lizzie wasn’t prepared for the panty-melting grin he gave her. “That was the plan.” “I’m intrigued.” Leaning forward, she sent a quick glance at the men behind Gage, all of whom were decked out in black BDU’s. “Although slightly confused. Am I under arrest, O cer?” Thick, muscular arms bunched as he lifted his hand to rub his jawline. “Not today, Miz Danvers. Unless you’ve done something worth arresting you for?” “Nope.” She let the sound of the P pop, intentionally doing so, knowing that he’d be unable to resist looking at her mouth. She wanted to shove o his hat to get a clear read on him—not that he was easy to read. The man was

charming, funny, erotic, and yet she knew so little about him. Another reason to hold your cards close to your heart. “I’m just your average, law-abiding citizen,” she added after a moment’s pause, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now, what can I do for y’all?” “We’re here for the calendar.” Her spine straightened. “Excuse me?” With a gentle hand to her shoulder, Gage pushed her back into the studio, so that he and the rest of the guys could enter. “The calendar,” he repeated with a slow grin. “I couldn’t order any Aussies firefighters on short notice, but I figured some N’Orleans cops could be our compromise?” “You think this is going to get us laid?” said a youngerlooking dude with shaggy blond hair, his hands on his hips as he took in the studio space. “Not that I need the help or anything like that . . .” Another guy barked out a laugh. “Timms, man, my brother sees more action than you, and he’s fifteen and still a virgin.” Timms’ face bloomed a cherry red. “Screw you, Cardeaux. I get pussy just like everyone else.” “Pity fucks don’t count.” Lizzie turned to Gage, eyes narrowed. “You want me to do a calendar spread so that your buddies can get sex?” She couldn’t wipe the disgusted note from her tone, and Gage’s wide eyes told her that he’d noticed. “What?” He swiped his ball cap o his head, thwapping it against his cargo-pant leg. “Hell no. I needed volunteers, and unfortunately, this is our motley crew.” Luke O’Connor entered her periphery, and Lizzie didn’t know whether to o er him a hug in hello or run in the opposite direction. He didn’t know about Naked You, and

Lizzie felt the nerves creep up, closing her throat and warming her cheeks. “Nice setup you have here,” Luke told her with a warm smile. “I’ve been past this place hundreds of times and I never realized it was yours.” Was breathing a necessity? Honest question, because at this exact moment, Lizzie could only hope that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. “I-I, um.” She fiddled with the bracelets on her wrist, seeking the words that just wouldn’t come. “It’s just that—” Gage stepped forward, his arm brushing against hers. “Because of some legal factors with ThatMakeupGirl, Lizzie couldn’t reveal her association with Naked You.” He looked down at her, black eyes gleaming with encouragement. “Isn’t that right, princess?” Her mind went blank. Irrefutably, positively blank. Just a few weeks ago, Gage had sworn that he wanted nothing to do with this side of Lizzie’s life, the side of her life which, he’d said, could directly influence his job. But here he was, staging a calendar with his coworkers, pushing her to be open about her identity as the owner of Naked You. She had so many questions for him. But it wasn’t the time nor the place, and so Lizzie only nodded her head robotically and plastered a bright smile to her face. “He’s right.” Luke’s green eyes stayed on her face, and no doubt saw straight through her bullshit. “All I know is that Anna is going to want me as October. We met in October, married in October. Seems fitting.” Timms, the guy who couldn’t get laid apparently, popped a hand into the air. “I call December.” Another cop snickered. “That’s because you can get Timms on a holiday discount.” “Harry, at least I’d get picked up o the shelf.”

“Yeah, to be put in the clearance section.” With a hu , Timms rolled his eyes and stalked over to Lizzie’s vintage sofa. “Y’all are a bunch of assholes.” Lizzie had to agree; Gage’s coworkers were pricks. As though sensing the direction of her thoughts, Gage murmured, “He’s the new kid on the block. You don’t even want to know the sort of shit they pulled back when I was the new guy in S.O.D. It was brutal.” “It can’t be that brutal if y’all are here, planning to do a full calendar spread. I’m finding it hard to believe that anyone in the NOPD would agree to this.” “Trust me, I had to do some canoodling.” A low chuckle escaped him. “Man, I love that word. Anyway, the request had to go through rank, but 1200”—at her raised brow, he backtracked—“lieutenant, sorry. Lieutenant asked the commander, and he agreed to let us do this after I suggested that all proceeds go to a local charity for first responders.” Oh. That was awfully . . . Well, it was awfully nice of him. That was part of the problem. It was easier to push him out of her thoughts when he was nothing but the cocky tattoo artist—even then, it’d been di cult. In the last few weeks, though, Gage had shown that he wasn’t like the douchebags she’d dated in the past. If anything, he was so much more. Funny. Kind. Compassionate. The handsome face and sexy tattoos didn’t even begin to cover how good of a person he was. His hand landed on her back, between her shoulders blades, as he dipped his head close to hers. “I wasn’t trying to blow your secret,” he said, voice low, “but I figured there’s no better way to crack open the lid, so to speak, then with a group of guys who won’t give a shit who you are. Half of them are married and want to show o to their wives; the

other half just want to reap the rewards of doing a calendar. Namely, getting their dicks wet.” Lizzie bit her lip to keep from laughing at his crudity. “And what about you?” she asked, taking a leap of faith. “You aren’t married.” His throat worked with a hard swallow, and for the first time, Lizzie wondered if his secrets were insurmountable. The kind that destroyed; unlike hers, which had proved to be merely speed bumps. “Nah,” he finally said, “marriage isn’t for me.” It sounded so final. She knew he felt that way, but still, there was a small sting in her chest, a pinching of her heart. Remember that, girl. Enjoy the now and don’t even contemplate the future. In a rough voice, she added, “And are you looking to get your dick wet?” His onyx eyes dropped to her lips, lingering a moment too long. “I wouldn’t put it that crudely when it comes to her, but yeah, I’ve got a woman in mind.” Lizzie didn’t even have the chance to respond before Timms hollered, “Are we doing this anytime soon?” Yeah, they were doing it. Lizzie had never been a prude, and if the proceeds were going to charity . . . Well, she’d have to be pretty heartless to say no. Heartless and also a good deal stupid—she had eleven sexy (Timms included) cops waiting to be photographed for an annual calendar. This was every woman’s dream. And Lizzie planned to take one for the team. She clapped her hands together and gave a short whistle. “All right, y’all, I’m going to need you to get in order of the month you’d like to represent.” There was some juggling around when two of the guys both wanted June—they shared it as a birthday month—but

a spitﬁre game of Rock, Paper, Scissors broke it up, and the russet-haired fellow retreated to February instead. “On the bright side,” Lizzie said as she arranged furniture with the help of Luke and Gage, “you’re now going to look sentimental.” The redhead stared at her blankly. “Valentine’s Day is in February. You’re now Mr. February . . .” More blinking. Great. Lizzie pitied whoever ended up fantasizing about Mr. February whenever the impromptu calendar released. Much like Scott with his super-magical hands, this guy was a dose of false advertisement. Good body, handsome face, not much working upstairs. Unfortunate, really. “Are we doing this shirtless?” asked Cardeaux, ﬁngering the hem of his T-shirt. He drew it up to his pecs, then whipped it o completely. “My vote is for yes.” “No one wants to see your hairy chest,” Timms muttered. Cardeaux narrowed his dark eyes on the new recruit. “Boy, if you don’t want to be stuck doing paperwork for the rest of your short-lived career, I highly advise you to take o your shirt, pose, and don’t speak another word.” Timms sent Lizzie a wry grin. “No wonder the poor bastard’s single. Who’d want to listen to him bark all day?” He dropped his voice to a growl. “No, woman, don’t sit there. I told you, you’re only allowed to stand against the wall and wait for me to command you to breathe.” Laughing, Lizzie turned around only to run smack into a hard chest. Gage’s bare chest. Oh. Oh. His hands circled her biceps. “Mr. September at your service.”

Her heart leapt into a frenzy at the sight of all his tattoos. Intricate lines decorated his chest. Elegant cursive script spanned across his collarbone. Although she’d sat next to him in his kitchen two weekends ago, they’d never stood so close before. She couldn’t help drawing in a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his masculine perfection. “Did you just sni me?” Yes. “I plead the fifth.” “Not exactly the words to say around a bunch of cops, princess. We’ll sni you right out—figuratively, I mean.” “Good point.” She tipped back her head to meet his gaze. “Why September?” Fingers tightening around her arms, he stepped back and then released her. “A few reasons.” Turning his head to scope out his coworkers, he added, “We ready to get this show on the road?” She wanted to push for answers. Once again, not the right time. “Yes,” she said, “time to get the show on the road.” The next two hours flew by in a whir of overt testosterone, ridiculous innuendos, and more than a few dramatic arm curls. Thankfully, the guys were good sports. When Lizzie told Cardeaux to stop giving her the duck lips, he was quick to part his mouth, roll his shoulders, and leave the duck pout for some other sucker. “Sorry,” he muttered, relaxing into his slouched position against a white wall, “my little cousin told me it was the It thing to do.” As the lens snapped photo after photo of New Orleans’s finest, Lizzie felt herself easing up and owning her role as the founder of Naked You. “Yep,” she told Timms as she sat him down by the front window and instructed him to rest his elbows on his bent knees. Inexperienced or not, he was ripped like the rest of

the guys—although not nearly as toned as Gage—and the ridges of his abdomen were prominently displayed with each exhalation. “I’ve seen more breasts than all of you combined.” The young cop gave a hard laugh. “More than Harvey? Miz Danvers, I just don’t think that’s possible.” Lizzie’s ﬁngers squeezed her camera a little too tightly, and she shot o a photo before she’d meant to. “Maybe not more than O cer Harvey,” she said evenly, readjusting her hold on the expensive Canon. “He might be the exception to the rule.” Gage Harvey seemed to be the exception to every rule. “You talkin’ about me, Timms?” called out the man of the hour, and Lizzie couldn’t stop herself from glancing over. Like his coworkers, he was bare-chested. Unlike his coworkers, his shirt was slung over his right shoulder. His black cargo pants hung low around lean hips. Between the combat boots and his backward NOPD hat, Gage was a walking, talking billboard for Hot Male. He sat at her counter, his ass half-lifted onto a stool. She wanted to know what that powerful body would feel like rocking into her, using her for his pleasure and letting her do the same to him. Bottomless black eyes landed on her face. Lizzie swallowed her lust. “It appears the two of us are in a contest for who’s been privy to more breasts-sightings.” Brows arching under the band of his ball cap, Gage gave her his full attention, twisting on the stool so that his long legs stretched out in front of him. He leaned back against the counter, forearms bent and resting on the marble behind him. Do not look at his abs, do not look at his abs. She was powerless against it.

Hungrily, she followed the path of his tattoos down to his eight-pack. Hell, he even had those ridged side-abs— obliques? Lizzie didn’t work out, not voluntarily, but even she knew that Gage’s body was a work of art. “Funny,” Gage said now, his thumb brushing his bottom lip in a move that clenched Lizzie’s thighs together, “I’m more than willing to let you take the win on this one.” “You sayin’ you haven’t seen as many tits as Miz Danvers?” “All I’m sayin’ is I haven’t seen the ones that matter most.” He was a charmer, all right. A charmer who thought he could get out of admitting his playboy past by appealing to a woman’s desire to feel wanted. Lizzie rose from the ﬂoor, one sneakered foot planting on the tile with a palm to her knee for leverage. Dark eyes lazily followed her, that thumb of his still sexily stroking back and forth across his lip. “Timms,” Lizzie said, a touch too loudly, “I think we’re all good for December.” “You sure?” He clambered to his feet, swiping at his legs, running a hand down his ﬂat stomach. “I mean, I can totally do another few rounds, if you want? I’m down. Hey, do you think sitting like that gave me a bulge?” Cardeaux’s voice rang out loud and clear. “Your cock’s too small for a bulge, recruit.” Expression darkening, the young cop jerked up his pants at the waistband. “I was talkin’ about my abs, you dick. My cock’s big enough, thanks.” “Ah.” Slowly, methodically, Cardeaux drawled, “Then I’d have to say yes, you might have had a few stomach rolls. Might want to lay o the free Popeye’s chicken.” Who said police o cers had to be adults? Clearly Gage hadn’t exaggerated when he’d called them a “motley crew.”

Sure, they all had the ripped, dark, and badass look down, but otherwise? Idiots, all of them. Save for Luke O’Connor. The former soldier sat on a chair by the front windows, an ankle resting on his opposite knee, his cell phone in his hand as he looked at god-knows-what. Minding his own business, ignoring the idiocy around him. And then there was Gage . . . “You’re up,” she said, resting her camera against her shoulder. She watched him push away from the stool and amble toward her with his loose-legged gait. He stopped a foot away, chin dipped so he could meet her gaze. “Where do you want me?” Beneath me. Lizzie slammed her eyes shut. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t say something so ridiculous as that out loud. Especially not in front of every member of the city’s Special Operations Division. Be professional, be professional, be professional. “On the bench,” she heard herself say, wishing the words didn’t sound just like a sexual invitation. She stared at his chest, at the multiple names inscribed into his skin. “Straddle it for me, please.” Oh God, because that was any better. With a low, satisﬁed chuckle, Gage stepped past her, but not before he murmured, “Only for you.” What had she said about him being a nice guy? All lies. He knew how much she wanted him, and he was playing it to his advantage. While the other cops talked shop, Gage straddled the bench, hitched his cargo pants at the thighs, and sat down. Bulges everywhere. His biceps hardened as he dropped his elbows to his knees. His corded stomach tightened. And then he shifted, drawing up a foot onto the bench, loosely balancing his wrist

on his bent knee. That silky smile of his grew when he asked, “How’s this?” “Good!” Had that squeak come from her? She seriously hoped not. Totally unprofessional. Completely inappropriate. She was a businesswoman. Her images were shared and loved around the world. She’d photographed people without a single stitch on, and hadn’t blushed at all. Hell, she’d just taken photos for a full calendar spread of some of the city’s hottest ﬁrst responders. Sure, most of them were small-minded horn-dogs. Sure, not a single one of them had made her tingle in all the right places. She could do this. “Princess?” At his low rasp, Lizzie sucked in air. “Yeah?” “You’re not wearing a bra, are you.” This was the moment the ground opened up and did her a solid; she just knew it. She waited. Waited some more. When nothing happened, Lizzie glanced down at the space between her tennis shoes and tap-tapped the ﬂoor with her right foot, just to rea rm that the universe had indeed turned its back on her. Nada. Zilch. Nothing. Dammit. “I’m not answering that question.” “It wasn’t a question.” Cheeks warming, Lizzie resisted the urge to cover her braless chest. It was on the tip of her tongue to snap that she hadn’t prepared herself for clients today. Her schedule had been empty, blessedly empty before he’d waltzed up to her front door like he owned the place. If her nipples were hard, it was all his fault. All of it.

Lizzie snapped the strap of her tank top with just enough sass that he got the message loud and clear: kiss my butt, Harvey. His black eyes glittered, full lips parting to mouth, “Anytime.” Lizzie’s shoulders drew up to her ears. He was . . . he was just so frustrating.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

his was a bad idea. Or rather, a bad idea that would be good in so

many ways. Gage stared at Naked You’s front door, still dressed in his black BDU’s from the impromptu photoshoot earlier in the day. Behind him, the city buzzed with energy—sirens, laughter, jazz, honking vehicles. The chaos of New Orleans’s nightlife just about summed up the tempo of his heart rate. He wasn’t the guy whose palms slicked with nerves, and he sure as hell wasn’t the guy who stood on a woman’s doorstep, debating the chances on whether he’d be turned away. Timms had the right of it earlier. Although the last few months had been a dry spell for him, Gage had spent what felt like a lifetime before that in close contact with breasts. Large ones, small ones, fake ones, real ones. To say nothing of that sweet spot between a woman’s legs. Gage had never lived like a monk, and he didn’t have a lick of shame in admitting that. But the way he felt right now? Taut and stretched too thin, desperate for a reprieve only one woman could give him?

Foreign. That sort of need was completely foreign. And it was that need that had propelled him here tonight. He had to know if the built-up lust was all in his head, if he’d popped Lizzie Danvers up on a pedestal of his own making. He lifted his hand, ﬁngers curling into his calloused palm, and then pressed the buzzer. Shifted his weight from foot to foot as he waited. Tried to remind himself that it was just sex, and that Lizzie was no di erent than any other woman he’d ever slept with. A temporary infatuation that would dampen the minute he rolled away from her, sated, spent. Gage didn’t have any room in his life for permanency when it came to relationships. He didn’t believe in it. The door creaked open, light from inside the studio illuminating her head with a glowing halo. Her face remained cast in shadow, across the hollows of her cheeks and the full, luscious bow of her mouth. Like in a dream, she swept her brown hair over one shoulder, and murmured, “I had a feeling you’d be back.” Anticipation pooled in his stomach, hot and heavy. “I’ve clearly lost my touch for spontaneity.” “Or maybe I just hoped that if I thought about it hard enough, I’d wish it into reality.” Jesus, but those words shouldn’t excite him the way that they did. She shouldn’t excite him the way that she did, even standing there in loose-ﬁtting jeans and a light sweater that looked like it had seen better days. She looked comfortable, relaxed. Thoroughly kissable. “Did you make any other wishes?” He pressed his hands to the door frame, a silent request for her to let him enter the studio. “Maybe rub a wishing lamp?”

Her laugh was as sweet as it was sexy. “You mean a genie lamp, right? Like from Aladdin?” “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” More sexy laughter, this time accompanied by her ﬁngers blazing a slow trail up his chest. She tapped him twice, right atop his heart. “The kids, O cer, have been calling it a genie lamp for at least thirty years.” Yeah, he’d totally just aged himself. In his defense, it’d just been him and Owen growing up. No female cousins or sisters to break up the full saturation of Legos and video games. Gage was pretty sure he’d believed in the whole cooties rule until at least the eighth grade, in which he’d hit a homerun on his ﬁrst go with the opposite sex. He might have been slow on the uptake, but he always came through in the end. “All right,” he murmured, dropping his hands from the frame and settling them over her shoulders, “a genie lamp, then. Have you made your wishes today?” She stepped back, hands clutched to his forearms so he had no choice but to follow. He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. Paused only to slip the deadbolt into place. Turned back around and resumed his position, his hands on her shoulders, his hips temptingly close to hers. “Lizzie? Your wishes?” Voice as soft as the breeze on a hot, summer day, she dipped her chin. “I wished I could see you without anyone else around.” His girl didn’t pull any punches. Not that she was his girl or anything like that. This was just one night—an agreement they’d come to early on for a challenge that no longer existed. But maybe that was the point—it was easier, less intimidating, to chalk up their

connection to lust, need, all based upon a stipulation that mutually benefited them both. Uncomplicated sex. “Turns out your wish came true,” he said, slipping his thumbs beneath the neck of her sweater so he could touch her skin. Warm. Soft. God, he couldn’t wait to get his mouth there. Was she one of those silent-in-bed types? Or the kind of bed partner who woke up all the neighbors with her moaning? “Tell me your next wish.” Blue eyes blinked up at him. No liner. No mascara. All Lizzie Danvers. She was utterly gorgeous. “I want to see that ink of yours,” she said. “Maybe run my hands all over it.” Her breathing hitched, her shoulders pulling up beneath his palms. “Maybe do the same with my tongue.” His cock went from half-mast to full-blown how-yadoin? in a matter of seconds. “Your wish is my command, princess.” Hands grasping the back of his T, he drew o the fabric and tossed it to the floor beside them. Then met her gaze, trying to get a read on whether or not she approved of his mass. Most women did. Most women weren’t Lizzie Danvers, though—flirty, sweet, ambitious as all get out. Not for the first time did he realize how similar they were. Non-college graduates. Paving their own way in the world. Unwilling to stop and catch their breath with worry that it’d all come crashing down around their shoulders. Physically, his tattoos were the equivalent to her powders and whatever other pretty shit she swiped onto her face. But in this moment, she’d stripped her armor. The highlighted hair, the expensive makeup, the fancy clothes were all gone.

Gage still had his armor. The scars on his body from years on the job; the tattoos he’d ordered Owen to inscribe into his skin, so that he’d never forget the past; the plate in his right leg from when he’d been the unlucky recipient of a gunshot three years ago. Cool fingers landed on his sternum, and all thoughts fled. His gaze cut down to her upturned face, at her rapt expression as she traced his ink. “I want to know what they all mean,” she murmured, her breath whispering against his skin. “Knowing you, they’ve all got secret coding.” A rise of panic cut o his laughter. “You’re thinkin’ too highly of me, princess. Sometimes a tattoo is just a tattoo.” “Or,” she countered with furrowed brows, “a tattoo is never just a tattoo. My butterfly has meaning.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Metaphorical meaning. Tell me, are you itching to fly away from N’Orleans?” “When I was younger, yes.” Nail scraping across his nipple, she bit her lip when he released a groan. “Other cities always seemed more enticing. Prettier . . . cleaner.” She was driving him crazy with that swirling finger of hers, making it hard to think coherently when all the blood was rushing south. He caught her arm, gently rotating her inner forearm until it faced the ceiling. Faced his lips. One kiss to the pulse at her wrist succeeded in pulling a whimper from her lips. Fuck, it sounded erotic. Keep it slow, don’t rush. He was stepping out of his element here, allowing foreplay outside of the bedroom, taking just as much satisfaction when her eyes narrowed with the search for the perfect verbal comeback as he did when her lips parted and her pupils dilated with desire. “But now you’re here,” he continued, striving his damn best for a ability, “and you’ve got that tattoo on your butt

that no longer correlates to a need to leave the city. So maybe what I said is true—a tattoo is just artwork, nothing more.” “Hmmm . . .” Her free hand skated up his hard stomach. “If that’s the case, then are these just random names you’ve chosen out of a hat? From a baby name book?” Blue eyes flashed with mirth. “Are you listing your future sons and daughters here, Gage? Keeping track of all the possibilities?” His breath caught, and this time it had nothing to do with her wandering hands or the teasing note in her voice. Stop, he warned himself, don’t go there. She had no idea that she’d struck a nerve—and he had no plans to divulge that information. It wasn’t for her to know. Hell, he got enough shit from Owen about it all. “Stop tattooing their names on your body, Gage. There’s nothing you can do to help them. You’re not a goddamn martyr.” No, he wasn’t. He was so far from that it was almost laughable. But it was his way of keeping their memories alive: giving them recognition for each hardship they’d faced. It was his decision to— “Bethany.” Every muscle in his body went tight. “What?” “Bethany.” Lizzie flashed him her customary smile, all white teeth and plump lips and a wry upturn of the right corner. “Sorry, my mother’s name is Beth, short for Elizabeth. You can see that she and my father were incredibly creative when it came to naming me.” Gage forced his limbs to ease up with a sharp inhale through his nose. “Creativity must be genetic, considering you call your brother Danny.” “Oh, that?” With her finger still idly tracing Bethany, his mother’s name, she gave a little shrug. “I was obsessed with the movie Hocus Pocus when I was a kid—have you seen it? Halloween? Witches? Anyway, the little girl in the movie was

named Danny, spelled with an I and not a Y, but I loved that movie so much.” The sound of deep, masculine laughter was surprising— only to realize that it belonged to him. Only this woman, with her fear of needles and her knack for sarcastic humor, could make him laugh when his mood was on the downturn. No one else could do that. Just her. “So, what? You just nicknamed your brother after a girl from a movie?” “Yup.” The P popped, and Gage felt his own mouth move upward in a grin. “That’s exactly what I did. Danvers. Danny. I mean, to my six-year-old self, it was a grand idea. Totally brilliant.” “And it caught on?” Her smile deepened. “Oh yeah. Even the kids in his grade started up. He used to hate me for it, but the years have done him good. If he gets a little bit of a twitch whenever I say his name, he just closes his eyes, no doubt pretends I don’t exist, and continues on his way.” “You’re evil.” “I prefer to think of myself as unique.” “That, too.” “Gage?” “Yeah, princess?” Her palm pressed ﬂat against him, chin tipping back so she could meet his gaze. “You’re not going to tell me what all these names mean, are you? Even if I make it my wish?” Mouth opening, he cranked it shut and looked away to stare beyond the window at the car headlights streaming down Camp Street. Besides Owen, no one knew what they stood for, what they represented. In a low voice, he said, “I’m sorry. Make another wish.” Disappointment clung to her expression when he glanced back. “Worth a try, right?” She gave a humorless laugh that

burrowed into his chest like serrated blades. “I have a problem with wanting my friends to tell me everything. Sometimes I have to remember that boundaries are a thing.” “Lizzie, I—” “A kiss.” “What?” “My next wish.” Her gaze was defiant, the tilt of her chin even more so. “That’s what I want, a kiss. I don’t really know the laws of wish-making, but I figure two rejections on your part can’t amount to good karma. So, unless you want your life to take a turn for the worse, I highly suggest that you—” She didn’t finish her sentence. Gage didn’t let her. His mouth crashed down on hers, and she released a surprised yip. Adorable. Fucking adorable, and he couldn’t even believe that “adorable” was a word crossing his mind. Hot. Sexy. Delicious. Those were all the words he regularly thought of when kissing a woman, and Lizzie Danvers was certainly all of that. But she was also adorable. Her blue eyes were wide with shock as he moved his mouth over hers, her hands bent like chicken wings as though she had no idea where to put them. Gage pulled back just far enough to say, “You look terrified.” A quick shake of her head. “Of course I’m not.” “Don’t tell me that I just popped your kiss virginity, aside from the quick one I gave you a few weeks ago.” “What?” If it were possible, her eyes grew rounder, saucer-like. Any more of that, and they’d pop clear out of her head. “I’m not . . . I am not a virgin. I’ve had boyfriends!” “I looked up Scott Manson, Lizzie. The guy looks like he doesn’t know his dick from his elbow.”

Teeth biting on her lower lip, she muttered, “I should not find that funny.” “Because it’s true?” “Maybe.” A drawn-out pause. “Not that it means I haven’t been kissed before. I have, for the record.” “Obviously not by someone who knows what they’re doin’.” Incredulous laughter spilled from her lips. “If this is you trying to be romantic . . .” “This is me realizing I’m going to blow your mind, and I’m not about to waste the opportunity.” Gage cracked a grin at her dropped jaw. Yeah, he’d gone there. But he had a feeling she liked it, a lot. Mentally rubbing his hands together in anticipation, he dropped a hand to the curve of her ass and gave a soft thwap. “Gage!” God, she was beautiful when her cheeks burned red with a natural blush. Raising his hands, he wiggled his fingers. “Did I do that?” Her lips quivered as they fruitlessly tried to stay in a straight line. “I hate you.” They both knew that was a lie. “You can hate me even more in two minutes, I promise. I’ll give you every opportunity to hate me, but first . . . up against the wall.” “I’m not getting my mug shot taken, O cer. You’ve got the wrong girl.” He tossed his head back and laughed, the sort of laughter that hurt your cheeks and teared up your eyes and genuinely felt like gray clouds parting way for the sun. Fuck, this girl . . . she made even the darkest days feel brighter. “The mugshot and handcu s will come later,” he said, dragging his thumb beneath his eyes, “for now . . . up against the wall, Miz Danvers. You’re about to be properly kissed.”

One brow arched high as she considered him. “The wall’s a necessity?” “If we had rain, we could reenact the scene from Spiderman, but we’ll have to make do with the wall.” “Like in every romance novel ever.” “Only trying to meet the expectations you’d originally set out in your bad boy video.” Gage jerked his chin to their right. “The wall, princess. Hop to it.” Without even a hint of hesitation, she took one step in the right direction, then two, then drew to a sudden halt. Slowly, so slowly that the hackles rose on his back, and Gage suddenly understood what it meant to fear a woman, he watched as his soon-to-be one-night-stand planted a hand on her hip, turned around, and ﬂicked back her hair. “On one condition.” “Yeah?” Blue eyes darted down his chest, settling on his crotch. Mouth hitching up with humor, she announced, “I get the chance to return the favor and slap your butt, too. Bend over, Harvey, there’s a new o cer in town.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Y

ou want to what?” Oh God, his expression. Beyond priceless. It took everything in Lizzie’s power not to clutch her belly and laugh hysterically. Striving for a straight face, she oh-so-woodenly replied, “Slap your butt, Gage. You heard me.” She’d never seen him look quite so ﬂabbergasted before. His Adam’s apple dipped down twice, as though he couldn’t quite swallow his shock correctly. “I . . . Jesus, I—” Oh, this more than made up for the little spank he’d given her—a spank which had widened her eyes . . . but one that she’d liked anyway. Because it’d been playful, teasing, and because the hand behind the spanking belonged to Gage, and she— Well, Lizzie had a crush. It was small. Okay, it wasn’t that small. But she was a far step away from Valentine’s Day gifts and internet stalking, so she ﬁgured she was still in the black. So, harmless crush and all. Unfortunately, she’d pulled a complete high school move when his lips had landed on hers. Years of kissing knowledge had gone straight out the window, zipping into

nonexistence, until all she could do was stand there. Awkwardly. Sti y. Secretly panting inside for more, more, more. Yeah, she’d made a muck of it all, as was generally her way when it came to the opposite sex . . . until now. “Turnabout’s fair play, don’t you think?” Lizzie teased, sidling up next to him, placing a hand just above the waistband of his work pants. “One little love-tap, O cer. I promise you that you’ll like it.” Too preoccupied with feeling up his abs, it wasn’t until she was up and over his bare shoulder, hanging upside down as her hair tangled in her face, that she realized he’d caught her again—just like at the Barataria Preserve. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of squeaking or squealing or yipping or shouting his name. Instead, Lizzie proclaimed, “I like the way you think!” and then proceeded to play the drums on his ﬁrm ass. His rich laughter was mu ed by the curtain of her hair, but it was no more than twenty seconds later that she found herself ﬂat on her back, antique sofa beneath her, legs spread with his lean hips settled in between. Gage turned her emotions inside out. Then add in the glimmer in his black eyes? No wonder she’d taken one look at him at Inked on Bourbon and thought him. It’s what her heart said now, too, however reckless it was: him, him, him. “Decided that you didn’t feel like kissing me against the wall?” she teased, scooting down on the sofa so that he rested over her completely, and so that the telltale bulge in his pants pressed . . . right . . . there. They both groaned at the contact, and heat swept over Lizzie’s chest. Was it the wrong time to hope that he had better skills than Scott?

Gage’s warm breath over her neck sent a shiver skittering down her spine. “I figured I’d rather have you under me, in case you get out of hand.” Her eyes narrowed. “Kiss me and I’ll forgive you for pulling a stereotypical dick, upper handed mo—” Firm, masculine lips slipped over hers, swallowing the rest of her words, and possibly taking her heart right along with it. It was silly to think such a thing—it was just infatuation—but when he shifted his weight to brush back her hair with his fingers, treating her like finely spun gold silk . . . Lizzie trembled under the weight of lust and emotion and the almost desperate wish that they would last longer than one night. The kiss was everything a kiss should be: barely-there caresses, a hint of tongue, noses brushing as angles switched to find the perfect fit. If every kiss in her life up until this moment had simply been preparation, then she was dreadfully far behind in her kissing education. Because this was a kiss. Gage’s calloused hand cupping her jaw. The nip of his teeth as he demanded entrance into her mouth. The nudge of his cock against the apex of her thighs. A gentle rolling of his hips that dug her nails into his back, and had her chest pushing against his. Everything about him was tightly leashed, as though he thought she might need the time to adjust to everything that he was. Raw. Hard. Dominant. Lizzie didn’t need time, and she certainly didn’t need him thinking that he might break her.

She sank her hand beneath the waistband of his pants, cupping his butt, tugging him tighter against her. “Jesus.” His curse echoed in the studio, and not for the first time did Lizzie stop to admire his contrast to the space. Light walls, furniture, flooring, were a sharp juxtaposition to his black ink, inky hair, hair as dark as his onyx eyes. When he looked down at her, there was an almost unholy light to his gaze, matched only by his roughly uttered, “I’m running the show here, princess.” Propping up on her elbow, she nipped his left earlobe. “My studio,” she whispered, touching her tongue to the same spot to soothe the sting, “my rules. Pants o , O cer.” He o ered only a moment’s hesitation before lifting to his feet. Blunt-tipped fingers went to the button of his pants. Flicked it open. Drew the zipper down to half-mast. “Might be the time to tell you that I’m not wearing underwear.” Lizzie bent an arm behind her head and watched him steadily. Most guys probably wouldn’t appreciate being called beautiful, but Gage Harvey was just that. Darkly beautiful. Ruined beautiful. And for tonight, all hers. It’d have to be enough. With a little finger wave at his crotch, she said, “I suspected that when I had my hand down your pants. Don’t worry, I’m prepared.” “Trust me, you’re not.” And then down his pants went, circling his ankles before he toed o his shoes and kicked the cargo material away. Oh. This time she squeaked, and there was nothing she could do to keep the sound from emerging. His cock was thick and long, a dusty pink that thrust forward like a compass. Him, center point. Her, north.

A giggle slipped out, and the cocky grin on Gage’s face inched downward. “It’s bad form to laugh at a guy when he’s naked, Lizzie.” “I wasn’t . . .” Her free hand soared through the air, trying to find the words to explain that she was, certifiably, nervous. And when she was nervous, ridiculous things tended to pop out of her mouth. He dropped to his haunches in front of her. “Only one way to rea rm my masculinity.” Words fled as his nimble fingers hooked under the waistband of her leggings. With a tug at the knees, the fabric slipped down her thighs. A moment later, they were o completely—tossed into the pile along with his. “Pretty,” he said, dark eyes on her boring pink underwear. They were a few fabric squares away from being granny panties, which proved that maybe Gage was o his rocker too. In no world would the fabric around Lizzie’s waist ever be deemed “pretty.” His thumbs slipped under the elastic band as he drawled, “But they’ll be prettier o .” Then they too were gone, thrown over his shoulder like yesterday’s trash. He sat back on his heels, his palms pushing her knees apart, exposing her to his hungry gaze. Excited nerves spun in her belly, and Lizzie draped a palm between her legs like a shield. “Don’t.” A small shake of his handsome head, and then, “Unless those fingers are going to show me exactly what you like, put them away.” A breath shuddered out of her. “Where?” “In my hair.” And then he was fitting those broad, inked shoulders of his between her legs. His fingers traced the sensitive spot along her bikini line, sending her pulse fluttering wildly. His breath against her

core made her thighs clench and her fingers tighten against his scalp. His tongue brushing her clit for the very first time? Oh my God. “Oh my God.” Husky laughter wrapped around her as he flicked his tongue against the most sensitive part of her, slow and sensually, as though he had all the time in the world to worship her. Softly, so softly, in barely-there strokes that teased more than they satisfied. But from the blazing heat in his black eyes as he watched her, that was exactly what he wanted, the jerk. To drive her mindless with lust. To make her call out his name over and over again until she grew hoarse. To strip her defenses down and leave her very heart unguarded. “Faster,” she urged, gripping his hair, churning her hips up against his mouth, “more.” “Not yet.” Two words that promised he wouldn’t be done with her until he was good and ready. More, more, more. It was the single chant running on repeat in her head, and then he gave it to her—fully. The tip of one finger breached her entrance, then drove inside, curling to hit her just there. Her heels dug into the sofa, hips kicking up, fingers finding purchase on his shoulders as he quickened his pace and pushed her over the edge with nothing more than a lowseated groan in his chest and a second finger joining the first. “You’re the evil one,” she whispered weakly as her body trembled, staring down at him. He gave one final lap against her clit, as though to prove her point, and then smoothly planted his hands on either side of her hips and skimmed up her body for a deep kiss. Against her neck, he rasped, “Tell me how you taste.”

“Like unicorns,” she quipped, dragging his mouth back to hers, “unique and magical, and a flavor you’ll only find between my legs.” Black eyes met blue. “How is that you make me want to laugh just as much as you make me want to turn you over and take you from behind?” A kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Sex isn’t supposed to be funny.” “Lies,” she said, delighting in his next kiss to her brow bone, “sex is supposed to be fun. It can be sexy and fun all at once—the two aren’t mutually exclusive.” His cock pressed against her stomach, and Lizzie hissed, her fingers clenching his forearms. “You know, if you’d like to put my theory to the test, I’d happily oblige.” Dark brows drew together. “I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but are you sure you want that tonight? Christ, I sound like a—” “Good person?” she finished for him, stroking a hand down his chest and then around his hard-on. “A gentleman?” Muscles bunching, ink rippling, he thrust into her hand. “Fuck, Lizzie.” “Mhmm?” Maybe she shouldn’t find so much delight in the tables reversing, but screw it. She did. In fact, she loved it. “More,” he said. A single grunt. Another sharp thrust into the tight squeeze of her hand. “Please.” Her hand dropped to the thick base. “Not yet, Gage,” she murmured in a sugary tone, “not yet.” Black eyes blinked at his own words being thrown back at him, his nostrils flaring, and Lizzie did everything in her power not to gloat when she released him, pushed him away, and then dropped to her knees. “Just so you know, I love to hear a man beg.”

At the first touch of her lips to his cock, his hands fell to her shoulders. At the second touch, he wrapped one hand in her long brown hair and tugged, hard, encouraging her to take him deeper within her mouth. At the third, when she took him in nearly to the base, his knees visibly trembled and his fist in her hair shook with want, and the words that escaped him were ripped from deep within him. “Get on the sofa, princess. On your hands and knees, just like you’ve always wanted.” One last pass of her tongue along the underside of his shaft, and then she was moving back, doing as he said, positioning her hands on the armrest of the couch, and her knees spread for him. There was the telltale sound of foil crinkling, and then he stepped up behind her, his left knee sinking into the couch cushions, his right foot planted on the ground. “Your sweater,” he muttered. “Take it o .” He didn’t need to say so twice. O it went, mussing her hair up further, landing somewhere on the floor out of her periphery. His big hand came around, cupping her small breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers as he aligned himself with her entrance. She sucked in a deep breath. He thrust inside her body. She whimpered his name. He groaned hers like a prayer. “You’re so fucking tight,” he said, voice low, “so tight and hot and, Jesus, you feel amazing.” Better than all the others? She bit back the question, shoving it down deep where it could stay a secret. “Don’t stop,” she told him instead,

“don’t ever stop.” Tell me I mean more than just one night. Her hands curled into ﬁsts against the armrest, head dropped low. The way he moved his hips . . . It felt so good, so, so good. His corded forearm circled her stomach while the other pressed into the cushion beside her knee. She stared at that hand: long ﬁngers that brought her so much pleasure. Cuts marred the skin, old scars that were a dusty white against his otherwise tan skin. Black ink stopped short of his wrist, and the words there sent her brain spinning: when death knocks, there are no survivors. But then he changed his angle, hips pistoning against her backside, and all thoughts of death and life and survival scattered like confetti in the wind. “Gage,” she cried out, “oh my God, oh right there, please.” In that dirty voice of his, he demanded, “Are you going to come for me, Lizzie?” Yes. The word never left her lips, but it didn’t matter. With his chest against her back, his clean scent in her nose, Lizzie came with a cry and a shudder that left her gasping for air. He followed her over the edge, arm tightening around her belly, his breath hot and heavy against her neck, heart pounding against her shoulder blades. “I . . .” At her failed attempt to speak, Gage shifted behind her and said, “Yes to whatever you were about to say.” Unexpected laughter climbed her throat. “What if I wanted a new camera?” “Done. By the way, your tattoo? Man who did it, did a great job. He deserves high praise.” His lips stamped a seal of a promise on her back. “Next request.” Will you come back to my place tonight? Shaking her head, Lizzie steadied her breath. “Reverse cowgirl for the next

round. Always wanted to try it.” “Fuck yeah” escaped him on a masculine sigh. Did that mean there’d be a next time? “Gage?” Another kiss to her back, a little farther up her shoulder than the last. “Yeah, princess?” “I can’t help but wonder . . . while we were getting hot and heavy, did the couch remind you of Carli Simpson’s nipples?” Silence. More silence. And then, “My eyes are now burning with the memory.” “Mine too. I didn’t want to su er alone.” “Evil,” he rumbled, “but fuck me if you don’t taste just like heaven.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

n New Orleans, Bourbon Street was king. Well, for tourists anyway. It was only four in the afternoon, mid-week no less, and the street was packed as Lizzie wound her way through the throngs of people. Party-goers danced on the balconies, hurling down multi-colored beads as they fisted beer bottles. The French Quarter’s lone hot dog stand had set up shop directly outside of Bourbon’s most popular karaoke bar. Heavy rap floated out of the clubs, swallowing the sounds of the steamboats sailing down the mighty Mississippi River, as well as the notes of one street musician’s throaty trombone. On any given day, Lizzie would have stayed far away from the mayhem. She liked her sanity, thank you very much, and much preferred Frenchmen Street over in the Marigny neighborhood. Specifically, she tended to stick to locations where there weren’t questionable substances pooling in miniature green ponds along the sidewalks. But today wasn’t any given day. Only an hour ago, she’d met with New Orleans’s most prestigious photographer under her real name for a possible collaboration project. He’d discovered her Naked You Instagram account, surfed the web for her contact

information, and—like normal people who weren’t obsessed with the Holly Carter rumor—gave her a call. In a matter of minutes, she’d gone from Lizabeth Vittoria, owner of Naked You, to Lizzie Danvers, Beauty Influencer and Creator/Founder of Naked You. And it had felt great. Better than great. Almost sex-with-Gage-Harvey level of great, which was pretty hard to beat because . . . well, since the night at her studio, he’d successfully managed to rock her world not once but five times. Considering that only four days had passed since that first night in her studio, Lizzie figured that their agreement for “one night only” had been deemed null and void. There were only so many times a man’s tongue could stroke a woman’s clit before certain expectations unfolded, right? Right. Currently, Gage was closing in on double digits, and so Lizzie felt no hesitation at all as she stepped up to Inked on Bourbon, pushed open the glass door, and entered the tattoo parlor. A tinkling bell above her head announced her arrival, and her gaze immediately landed on the bearded version of Gage standing behind the parlor’s front desk. Owen’s head pulled up, dark, shaggy hair falling in front of his eyes. “Lizzie,” he greeted with a casual dip of his head, “good to see you.” Feeling a little surprised that he remembered her, she approached the bar. “Do you memorize all your client’s names?” “Only the ones who sleep with my brother.” Did that hyena-like laugh echoing in the parlor belong to her? Hands flexing nervously as she set them on the marble countertop, she tried to play it o . Hair toss. Wide grin. Fluttering eye lashes. “Does that happen frequently?” she

asked, hating the way his dark eyes turned pitying. Crap. “On second thought, let’s pretend I didn’t ask that question.” “But you still want to know the answer, don’t you?” Yes. No. Scrounging around for the perfect response, she averted her gaze and sought inspiration from the artwork on the walls. “How’re you doing today, Owen?” Real smooth, girl, real smooth. At Owen’s hu ed laugh, Lizzie wished she could slither back out the front door and pretend none of this had happened. “I’m doing all right,” he drawled. “Thanks for pretending you care enough to ask.” Right now. This was the moment the ﬂoors parted and Lizzie could forget all about trying to chat up Owen Harvey for insider information on his brother. “Can we start over?” She tapped her nails on the marble, then thought about doing the same with her forehead. End the misery. Let the gators in the swamps feast on her humiliated remains. She stuck out her hand again. “Hi, I’m Lizzie and I like long walks on the beach, tequila sunrises, and any kind of popcorn.” Owen didn’t quite smile, but his dark eyes glittered with humor in that familiar Harvey way she now recognized. Accepting her hand shake, he said, “Hello, I’m Owen and I prefer my whiskey straight, my tattoos black, and I’m glad you’re just as kind as my twin said you were.” Dammit. She’d been doing so well in not asking about Gage, and there Owen went ruining her progress. So close, she’d been so close to pretending that her eyes weren’t watching the entrance to the back of the parlor, just to see if he might pop out with an uncharacteristic ta-da!! and a set of jazz hands.

Spotting the wry grin on Owen’s face, Lizzie let out a beleaguered sigh. “You’re totally playing with me right now, aren’t you?” “Like a fiddle.” He shot her a wink, and in that moment, he looked so much like Gage it was terrifying. Terrifying, because there weren’t too many shared characteristics that she saw between the brothers. The sharp ridge of Owen’s nose indicated a break or two in his past, his hair was messily styled as opposed to cropped closer to his skull, and there was a somberness to this twin that Gage didn’t exhibit. Unless she and Gage were discussing the names tattooed on his chest, of course. She still felt the sting that he’d been unwilling to open up about that, especially if they were only tattoos. “I figured,” she said a tad dramatically, her bangles clinking against the counter. “I’ve been known to exhibit gullibility on several occasions. Mostly in front of your brother.” “I’m sure he enjoyed every moment of it.” Stupid heart, stop flipping over like that. “But while we’re on the topic of Gage,” Owen continued, eyes on the computer in front of him, “he’s mentioned you a few times. Didn’t mention the sex bit, but I wasn’t born yesterday.” “And I walked right into your trap, huh.” He grinned. “Hook, line, and sinker, baby.” More typing on the computer. Then, “He stepped out a few minutes ago to make a deposit at the bank over on Royal. You’re welcome to wait for him, if you want. Shouldn’t be too much longer now.” Casually, she asked, “Between the two of us, how desperate do you think I’ll look if I stick around?” With a husky laugh that sounded eerily like Gage’s, Owen met her gaze. “If we lie and say you’ve only been around for

ﬁve minutes or so? Not desperate at all.” Lizzie touched her ﬁnger to her forehead and then pointed at him. “I like the way you think, Mr. Harvey, I like the way you think.” Stepping back from the counter, Lizzie roamed the front of the tattoo parlor. She paused in front of the picture frames along a side wall, intrigued by the various designs presented within the frames. The tattoos themselves were a wide array —twisted skulls, calligraphy, portraits of celebrities. “How did you get into tattooing?” she asked as she peered closely at a particularly interesting set of skyscrapers inked onto a man’s calves. “I’ve always wondered if people just sort of fall into the business.” There was a momentary pause before the gritty response: “Jail.” Her heart landed south of her feet. Crap, crap, crap. She whirled around to see Gage’s brother standing tall and sti behind the desk. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to pry . . .” He gave a quick shake of his head, messy, dark hair slipping in front of his eyes again. He swiped it back with one big hand. “No harm, no foul,” he said, voice low. “I’m fully aware that not everyone has the same sort of background as me. Gage doesn’t.” Having a cop as a brother, and a police lieutenant for a stepfather, meant that Lizzie fully understood that not everything was always black and white. No story was as simple as right or wrong. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Gage doesn’t really . . . I mean, he doesn’t talk much about his past, honestly. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have asked such an insensitive question.” Owen surprised her by o ering the barest hint of a smile. It was more sardonic than good-humored, and guilt pooled

in her belly like spoiled milk. “It’s human nature to want to ask questions, baby. You’re good.” She felt her own lips turn up at his use of every New Orleanian’s nickname for someone else. Baby. It was an endearment she’d heard frequently growing up, slipping o the tongue of the mailman to the woman bagging her groceries at Winn Dixie to her elementary school teachers. She knew Owen didn’t mean it sexually, but it was nonetheless interesting to see the innate di erences between the two brothers. In Owen’s voice, she didn’t hear a hint of that West Louisiana upbringing. Hell, there wasn’t much of that Southern, All-American boy charm that Gage shelled out in spades, either. Gage was dark and sometimes, when he let his guard down, he looked haunted, as though always on the run to something. Or from something. But Owen . . . Lizzie studied him quietly. Owen Harvey looked restrained, like a wolf tied up at a post, eager to break free but determined to show domestication by sitting and waiting his turn for a run in the wild. She cleared her throat, turning back to the images on the wall. The photography itself wasn’t the best; the lighting was all wrong, and the exposure wasn’t handled well. “Well, it seems like you’ve come a long way from all that,” she said. “I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but if you ever wanted someone to take some really awesome photos of the tats y’all do here, I’d be happy to help out. It’s sort of a . . . thing that I do.” A career. It was a career for her—she had to stop acting as though it was some side hobby to be brushed under the rug. A mentality she’d fostered over the years, thanks to trying to keep it all quiet. She tried again. “What I meant to say is, I don’t know if Gage told you, but I operate a photography company. We’re

largely social-media based, but I do most of my work out of N’Orleans.” “Do you?” The curiosity in his voice had her turning around to face him. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah,” he said gru y, dark eyes moving to the wall behind her, “the photos are shit; you can say it.” His laugh was short and low. “We can set up a time or what not. Anything’s got to be better than what I have up now.” “They’re not awful . . .” “Yeah, they are.” Another laugh. “Anyway, if you’re based locally, you should join EOCC—sorry, it’s Entrepreneurs of the Crescent City. I got roped into it a few years back, and hell if I know why I still go”—the way his dark eyes darted to the front windows hinted that yeah, maybe he knew exactly why he still went—“but without fail, the first Tuesday of every month, my ass is there and eating some of the shittiest food you’ll ever taste.” Lizzie tucked a hand against her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Just so you know, you’re really selling it, Owen.” His mouth tugged upward. “Trust me, you don’t want to hear me when I’m really trying to push my case.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Pathetic.” “I’m sure you’re fine.” Why did she get the feeling that he was talking about a woman? Wanting to push, but not wanting to press her luck, Lizzie gave him a noncommittal wave of her hand, brushing aside his worries. “I’m always up for crappy food, especially in the mix of other businesses. It’s a bonding experience.” The more she thought about this EOCC thing, the more excited she grew. It was the perfect step to gather her brand and own it, just as Gage had told her to do. The calendar spread was one thing—and she appreciated Gage trying to help her take the reins—but joining a group like EOCC?

She almost wanted to throw an arm around Owen for a hug. Followed by a quick two-step around Inked. For years, she’d spent her life online. Dating. Working. Interacting with other people. But finally she was shedding that lifestyle, and it felt damn good to know that she could be just as successful in her own city as she could as a nameless identity over the internet. “I’m looking forward to—” The rest of her sentence was cut o by the front door flinging open and Gage storming through like a gust of dark storm clouds. “I swear to God,” he ground out, his eyes on his twin, “my ass was pinched at least three times on the way back here.” “The little old ladies again?” Owen said. Gage shuddered. “You’d think that they’d be the respectable ones coming into town, but no. There they are pushin’ the damn walker along the sidewalk, and I become a casualty of walking down the damn street.” Lizzie couldn’t hold in her laugh. It slipped out like a firecracker bursting, loud and heavy and not the least bit delicate. Gage whipped around at the sound, and she didn’t miss the way his lips lifted in a half-smile. “Find that funny, do you now?” “Hilarious,” she told him. “What can I say? Those little old ladies have good taste.” “You’re damn right they do.” “Lizzie,” Owen groaned, “don’t boost the guy’s ego anymore. It’s big enough.” He pointed a finger at his brother. “Don’t say it.” Throwing a wink in her direction, Gage put his hands up, all innocent-like. “Say what? I wouldn’t dare dream of

disputin’ that—it is big.” Lizzie could testify to that statement. Gage Harvey certainly wasn’t lacking in the dick department; the man was perfectly proportioned all the way around. Even so, she couldn’t help but enjoy the brothers’ back and forth. For some reason, she’d gotten the sense that perhaps they weren’t that close, and it was nice to know that wasn’t the case. For however much hell she gave Danny, she couldn’t imagine her life without him. He’d been an ally on her side since they’d been kids, and she ﬁgured Owen and Gage, being twins, were even closer. Probably came with the territory of sharing the same womb for nine months. “Have you been waitin’ long?” Gage asked her, driving her pulse faster with each step he took in her direction. If he caught the wide-eyed look she sent Owen, he didn’t say anything. “No, just a few minutes.” She swallowed an ill-timed giggle. “I actually wanted to ask you a question. Okay, it’s two questions.” His expression tensed, and Lizzie threw up a hand. “Nothing bad, I promise.” “Just what every guy wants to hear,” Owen called out from the tables behind the bar. “For future reference, baby, don’t lead o with that.” Her mistake. But it really wasn’t bad. “Do you want to grab an early dinner maybe?” “Oh, Jesus,” Gage muttered, slipping his hand over her jaw to angle her face for a kiss to her forehead, “trying to fatten me up before you slit my throat, are you?” Her nose wrinkled. “That’s disgusting.” “I have a morbid sense of humor.” “No,” she drew out, pursing her lips, “I never would have guessed.”

“She’s a spitfire,” Owen said. “Yeah, she is.” Gage’s dark eyes dropped to her mouth, and she could easily read the lust swirling there. The man was insatiable, it seemed, when it came to her. “All right, let’s do early dinner. We’ll grab some po’boys and head up to sit along the river.” Against her will, her heart flipped over in her chest, and that same damn litany she’d been hearing started up again: him, him, him. “So romantic,” she teased, a touch breathlessly. His mouth stamped down over hers in a kiss that stole her breath. “Keep it between us, princess.” “And me,” Owen griped. “Get out of here before I throw up. Y’all are sickening.” Sickening, maybe, but so happy. And for a girl who had a track record of dating douchebags, it felt good to be with a guy who really seemed to care about her. Even if they weren’t dating. And even if all they’d ever be was friends-with-benefits.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

y the time they grabbed their po’boys—fried oyster for her and fried shrimp for him—and made their way up to the riverfront, the sun had already begun to set. It felt . . . Gage stared down at Lizzie’s chocolate-brown hair, feeling a measure of panic settle in his stomach. Well, it was beginning to feel a lot like a date. Like they were dating. A relationship. Couple-hood. Fuck. “Gage,” she said now, fussing with her sandwich bag, her purse, and the oversized jean jacket she’d thrown over one arm, “can you hold this a sec?” She didn’t give him the chance to tell her no. A bright blue bag with a crazy number of straps was shoved against his chest as she set the sandwich bag on the bench and slipped into her jacket. “Blue’s a good color on you,” she teased, lips lifting in a soft smile. “Let me know if I should buy you one of your own.” “I’m good.” “In so many ways, too.” She threw her head back and laughed at her own innuendo, and no matter how much he knew distance was necessary, Gage couldn’t stop himself

from setting a hand to her waist and claiming her lips for a kiss. Her palms immediately came to rest on his chest, her mouth eagerly parting under his. What he’d intended to be a casual brush of the lips deepened. His tongue sought entry into her mouth, and she gave it without hesitation. Parting her lips, releasing a small moan when he tugged her closer. The damn purse kept him from dragging her ﬂush against him. As if sensing his frustration, she chuckled against his mouth and pulled back to murmur, “Poor O cer Harvey. That purse is like a modern-day chastity belt.” She smelled like ﬂowers. Sunshine. Do you hear yourself, man? Stepping back, he set her purse on the bench and sat down to the right of it. She took the spot to the left. A modern-day barrier wall was more like it. If she noticed his strained expression, she didn’t bring it up. With a little hum of happiness, she broke into her po’boy and took a massive bite o the end. Her gaze soaked up the Mississippi River before them. The grassy levee, the ferry shepherding people from the French Quarter to Algiers, directly across from them. From where they sat, he could make out the church steeple of St. Mary’s, as well as Algiers City Hall. New Orleans’s Central Business District arched into the sky to their right, sunlight glancing o the windows. “Have you ever taken one of those river cruises?” she asked without preamble, indicating with her sandwich to the historical steamboats which sat nearby in the water. “Nah.” Unwrapping the wax paper from around his po’boy, he added, “Seems like something you do with family.”

Shit. Not what he’d intended to say at all. It practically begged her to ask a question, to poke around some, and those doors were locked tight. He opened his mouth, prepared to cover his ass, when she tromped right over his silence. “Yeah, I can see that. Tourists, family, couples.” Her perpetual smile dimmed ever so slightly. “I’ve never done one either. Always looked like fun, though.” His hands itched to smooth away the frown from between her brows, but that’d lead her on, right? Encourage the idea that they were anything more than casual sex. He felt like the worst kind of dick. Striving for nonchalance, he said, “If you want a boat ride, princess, you’re better o sailing on the lake. Wide open space, blue for as far as you can see.” She turned her head to study him. “Have you been sailing before?” Gage laughed. “Never, but it seems like something I’d enjoy. Sometimes I get tired of the grit of the city.” “Seems like you might be in the wrong profession, then.” Her eyes sparkled as she tacked on, “I can’t imagine your job is all rainbows and unicorns.” Only in his dreams. “No,” he said with a slow shake of his head, “it’s not. Furthest thing from it.” “I know.” She bumped his shoulders with hers. “Big brother is on the job, remember?” “Oh, I remember.” She took another bite of her po’boy, and he did the same. “You know, he warned me about you.” “Seems ﬁtting, since he casually told me the other day that he’d slice o my dick if I hurt you.” “Slice?” “Yeah, slice. Told me he could go for a quick shot with his .22, but where’s the fun in making it all end quickly?” Gage shifted his body, uncomfortably remembering that joy of a

conversation with Nathan Danvers two days ago. “Your brother has issues, in case you didn’t know.” Her laughter was like music to his ears, husky and throaty and so many shades of sexy. “Tell me something I don’t know. In case you’re wondering, it doesn’t run in the family.” She leaned in as though imparting a big, bad secret. “I’m totally sane.” Gage barked out laughter. “Lies.” “What?” She pointed her po’boy at his chest. “Take that back.” “Nuh-uh, princess, no can do.” He bit into his sandwich, chewing slowly, determined to ignore the warmth spreading in his chest. She was damned infectious. Her humor, that smile, the way she ﬁdgeted with excitement. “Make another wish.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve already hit three, if you recall. Don’t be a tease, Gage.” “Not being a tease.” Except that he sure enjoyed messing with her every chance he got. Mimicking her earlier pose, he leaned in, silently encouraging her to do the same. Which she did, admittedly with a theatrical sigh. “Now, you might have hit three wishes, but there is something you can rub to earn yourself another.” He purposely dropped his gaze to his crotch. “What d’you say, Lizzie? Want another wish?” Her plump lips parted. “You . . . you . . .” “All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll make it happen for you.” He waggled his brows, thoroughly enjoying the way her cheeks crested with red. Any moment she’d throw her hands up in the air, or maybe launch her po’boy at his face, and man, he almost couldn’t wait for it. This repertoire with her, it was more dangerous to him than anything else. From the moment that she’d strolled into Inked on Bourbon, he’d felt completely at ease around her. Yeah, he was tense—lust tended to do that to a guy—but

even the lust couldn’t deny everything else: Lizzie Danvers was quickly becoming his best friend. And for a guy like him, who’d spent his entire adult life keeping everyone, even his brother, on the surface level, he was close to falling down the rabbit hole of no return. He’d been here before. Maybe not quite like this. He and Michelle had been practically kids when everything had gone to shit. But fourteen years didn’t dilute the memory of how he was when he fell hard for a woman, just as it didn’t dilute the memory of being left behind. The heat of his body cooled, and he wrapped the rest of his po’boy up, prepared to throw it into the black waste bin a few feet away. He turned to Lizzie, noting the blush that still reddened her smooth skin. “You all set with your food? I’ll toss out whatever you don’t want.” “I’ll do it.” He arched a brow. “Do what?” She visibly swallowed. “Rub your genie lamp.” “My genie lamp?” Laughter erupted from him, and tears sprung to his eyes. Jesus, she was amazing. “C’mon,” he said, gesturing for her crumpled up wax paper, “give me that and I’ll throw it out. We can walk along the river. Ask me your questions. Whatever you’re feelin’ like.” “I’m serious,” she said, her blue eyes near slits with determination, “I’ll rub it.” Gage scrubbed a hand over his face. Stop smiling, man, it’s weird. “I was kidding, Liz. You ready to get out of here?” She launched up from her seat, moving toward him with sharp motions. Her hands came down on his thighs, nails digging in, her beautiful face mere inches away from his. And then . . . and then her palm cupped him, and damn him if she didn’t give a little circle. Maybe he should have put up a ﬁght, told her to stop because the dude two benches down was giving them the eye

like he knew Gage was as hard as the damn stone his feet were planted on, but he didn’t. Because he couldn’t. Didn’t stop him from growling, “You lied, princess. You’re as certiﬁable as your brother.” Her grin was pure self-satisfaction. “Hey, I didn’t threaten to slice o your dick.” “No,” Gage grumbled, gripping the lip of the bench to keep from reaching for her, “you’re just ensuring my arrest for indecent exposure.” “Indecent exposure,” she repeated, licking her lips like the temptress she was, “I like that. Perfect name for a photography series on the sexy side of N’Orleans. Thanks for that.” “Lizzie.” Blue eyes dipped down to his mouth. “Yes, Gage?” “If you keep that rubbing up, I’m going to revoke your wish rights.” “What?” She pouted dramatically, and he felt the absurd need to laugh. Again. “But how will I rub your genie lamp?” “Good question.” He drew in a deep breath, seeking elusive control over the situation. “The genie lamp has spoken for the day. You get whatever you want.” “Brilliant!” Her mouth brushed his in a sudden kiss, and she dropped back onto the bench beside him, half-crushing her purse under her butt. Leaving him with a hard-on the size of Louisiana. As subtly as possible, Gage pressed the heel of his hand to his cock, seeking relief from the want. He couldn’t even be mad when she looked as pleased with herself as she did, even if it was at his expense. “When’s your next few days o ?” She wanted to talk right now? A man could only do so much with the blood in his body, and right now, Gage’s was

all south of the equator. “Hell,” he muttered, “I don’t know. This weekend comin’ up? I think.” “Oh, that’s perfect!” Gage thought so, too. It was rare that his days o aligned with both the NOPD and Inked, not to mention his volunteering. But why did she ﬁnd it perfect? “It is?” he said, a tad warily. “Rubbing the genie lamp works.” She winked playfully at him. “I actually met with this guy today; you probably don’t know who he is. Robert Heston? Anyway, he’s this major photographer in N’Orleans, and he saw my photos on Instagram. He reached out and we met. Gage, he wants me to collab with him on a new series about abandoned structures in Louisiana!” Her enthusiasm was addicting, and before he knew it, he’d stolen another kiss from her lips. A congratulatory kiss, he told himself, nothing more. So much for putting up boundaries. “That’s great, princess. You gonna take him up on it?” “Heck ya.” She patted his thigh familiarly. “I told him I could get started this weekend. I mean, without worrying about ThatMakeupGirl, my schedule is pretty wide open at the moment. Would you”—she tucked her hair behind one ear—“would you want to come with me maybe? Have another adventure, although preferably without landing in the swamp this time?” The adrenaline junkie in him shouted, hell yes. Exploring abandoned buildings? It was right up his ally. Hell, at least a few times per week he found himself at trap houses in the city along with S.O.D. Most of those properties had been usurped by vines and nature, thanks to disuse since Hurricane Katrina. Nowadays, junkies squatted in them. Guns were stored beneath the raised foundations. Drug transactions passed hands within the unhallowed walls.

He doubted that this abandoned location of hers would have any of the . . . additives of his job, but still, could be fun. “Yeah,” he told her, waiting for that moment when her blue eyes lit with joy, “I’ll go.” He waited. And he waited. When she bit her lower lip nervously, Gage’s sensor went haywire. “What else is there?” She opened her mouth. Shut it again. Went for a second go-round. “It’s, um, a bit of a drive.” He didn’t mind road trips, especially not when the company was good. “Across Lake Pontchartrain? We could go and head back the same day, no problem.” “Yeah . . . it’s a bit farther than the Northshore. Like, we’re talking your old neck of the woods.” Fuck. No. She must have read the shut down in his expression because she launched into a ﬂurry of waving arms and bright smiles. “It’s this old plantation just a few miles from Hackberry. Actually, it might not be a plantation. Could be post-Civil-War, which would make it—” “Lizzie.” She gulped air like a ﬁsh on land. “You could see your family while we’re there maybe?” What family, he nearly ground out. There was no one left, not in Hackberry, not anywhere. No one but him and Owen. “I’m gonna have to pass on this one, princess,” he bit out from between clenched teeth, hating himself when her lips pinched with hurt. Guilt stabbed him in the chest. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. You could tell her, you idiot. But he wouldn’t. He hadn’t returned to Hackberry in fourteen years and there was no way in hell he’d go back

now. Every painful moment of his life had taken place there. Every black memory, every gasp for breath when shit hit the fan. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, hoping to ease the sting of his rejection, “it’s not something . . .” “Is it the money?” His chin jerked back. “Excuse me?” “The money,” she repeated with a look of question in her eyes, “for staying over the weekend. I don’t . . . I’m not trying to be rude or whatever, but I could cover for you. As much as I wanted to leave YouTube, it, well, it gave me a nice nest egg. I don’t mind.” As though his ego hadn’t taken enough of a hit. Shaking his head, he grunted, “I can a ord it, Lizzie. The money isn’t the issue.” Everything else was. She shifted to the left, away from him. “I know you’re not really feeling it, but I think we could have a lot of fun. I guess it would just be nice to . . .” When she trailed o , her eyes on the sinking sun over the historic city of Algiers, Gage cursed himself for wanting to know where the rest of her sentence would lead. “It’d be nice to what?” he bit out. He didn’t miss the way her hands curled in her lap, nor the way she ducked her chin. “To have someone of my own.” Fuck, she was just going for the jugular today, wasn’t she? “Lizzie, I—” Her raised hand cut him o . “I know we’re not anything, Gage. Just sex and all that. We’re casual, temporary, and I’m okay with it. All I’m saying is that I really like hanging out with you. When you’re stuck with the Hollywood couples all the time, it sucks always being the odd one out.”

She was talking riddles around him and he didn’t even know where to start. He went for the obvious, the safer option. “Hollywood couples?” “Yeah.” She gave a soft laugh. “Luanna—that’s Luke and Anna, obviously. Then there’s Braelyn. Brady Taylor and his wife, Shaelyn? He’s best friends with Luke. And, of course, my own family: Jathan.” Even now, when his stomach felt like a rioting mess, she made him grin. “You really thought this all out, haven’t you?” Her nod resulted in her hair swinging forward like a thick curtain. Hair that he’d had spread across his pillow every night since that day in her studio. Hair that he’d fisted as he took her in every position she wanted to “try out” next. “I’ve had a few years to get their names just right, obviously. You can’t rush these things.” Blue eyes landed on his face. “I figured we could be Li’Gage. It’s got a sort of French sound to it, which is fitting.” Li’Gage. How did she always manage to say the perfect thing that broke the dark cloud swarming him? “It’s good,” he murmured, “original.” “Yeah, I thought so.” She shifted again, crossing one leg under her butt. “Like I said, we’re completely casual. But you seemed to enjoy our trip to the bayou, and I’m feeling itchy to be on the move again, just to see somewhere new. You’re the perfect adventure buddy. We have fun. We have great sex. It seemed like a good idea.” It was a good idea. It was also a terrible idea. Besides the fact that he wanted to go nowhere near Hackberry, there was also his relationship on the line with Lizzie. Wouldn’t a trip with her push them to the next level? Would that be such a bad thing? Yes, but only because he wasn’t a forever kind of guy.

Maybe he was a glutton for punishment, though, because he heard himself ask, “How abandoned are we talkin’ with this plantation?” “I looked up photos. It seems pretty desolate.” Dammit, he was going to do this. To see the smile flit back to her face. To see the excitement in her hands when she waved them around like a crazy lady. To feel as though, briefly, he wasn’t on a track to a solitude of his own creation. “We could leave Saturday morning.” He said it quietly, but as the sun dipped its final descent beyond Algiers, she launched at him with a hug and a loud, smacking kiss to his cheek. “C’mon, O cer,” she said in his ear, “I have to finish rubbing the genie lamp.” He grinned. “You’re crazy.” She nudged his ear with her nose, hands on his shoulder. “Just as crazy as you.” Yeah, they were pretty much two peas in a pod. He didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

hree days later, Lizzie could admit that perhaps she’d stretched the truth about the plantation just outside of Hackberry, Louisiana. Maybe. Just a little bit. Seated in the passenger’s seat of Gage’s pickup truck, she spared him a quick glance and edged out, “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” His jaw worked—hopefully with the e ort to keep from grinning. Or so she told herself, to feel better. “I thought you said the place was abandoned?” She squirmed in her seat, fighting the urge to stare at the plantation. “I mean, technically it is abandoned.” Teeth scraping his bottom lip with an indrawn breath, he raised his fingers o the steering wheel to point at the Greek Revival structure. “There’s a gift shop, princess. With electricity. And correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s a stand selling fresh lemonade. Forgive me when I say ‘desolate’ isn’t the first word to come to mind when I look at this place.” Yeah, so perhaps Mayberry wasn’t completely abandoned any longer, not in the way she’d originally hoped. Some internet stalking had shown her that Mayberry House was under restoration by a local non-profit preservation organization. The shop, the nearby inn, even the lemonade

stand provided the necessary funds to bring the nineteenthcentury building back to its original glory. Lizzie unclicked her seat belt, determined to make their overnight stay the best it could be. So what if the place wasn’t crawling with critters and bats? It was just like a man to ignore the haunting beauty Mayberry o ered. Plus, after four hours of driving, her butt was sore, her back even more so, and she refused to sit in the truck for another minute longer. “I’m going to go poke my head around,” she said. “You’re more than welcome to join if you want.” Snagging his LSU cap o the dashboard, he settled it over his head. “Obviously I’m coming. Can’t let you face the unknown alone.” Her lips pressed together. “How gallant of you.” “Just doing my civic duty, princess.” Climbing out of his truck, she slammed the door shut and took a deep breath of good, old country air. Abandoned or not, she didn’t regret their impromptu trip at all. She and Gage had discovered a similar taste in music during their drive—a blend of country and rock, although she didn’t care so much for the heavier stu . She’d leave the screamo to him. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, and she pulled it out. Jade. You and lover boy arrive yet? Lover boy. Lizzie snorted as she typed out her response. Yup. Just got here. Jade’s response was instantaneous. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Well, that pretty much gives me open rein, doesn’t it? Don’t forget that I know everything you’ve done with my brother, and I’m still scarred by the knowledge. Freaks. From the stories you’ve told me about you and Gage, I’m guessing it runs in the family. Freak.

“What are you laughing at over there?” the man in question asked as he came around the hood of the truck. “You’re snickering like a school girl.” She tucked her phone back into the back pocket of her jeans. “It’s Jade. She just gave us permission to have wild, crazy sex all over this place.” His dark eyes were obscured by the brim of his hat, but she didn’t miss the curl of his mouth. “I like Jade,” he announced, hands going to his lean hips. “She’s a great girl.” Lizzie rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know her.” “I know you and I know your brother. By default, I know Jade.” He turned to look at the historic Mayberry House. “Abandoned,” he sco ed under his breath, shaking his handsome head in clear disappointment. “Remind me to take you to this place out on the Northshore if you really want something desolate.” “Scary?” “Scary enough to ﬁnd sleep hard after,” he said smugly. “Legend has it that the property used to belong to this convent. There are all these no-trespassing signs. Electric fence that no longer works. Great stu .” “And, naturally, the no-trespassing signs didn’t stop you?” He squeezed her shoulder. It felt like a pity squeeze, or a poor you, you naïve little thing squeeze. “All comes down to a matter of interpretation.” She gave him a side-eye worthy of an award. “How the hell do you interpret no-trespassing signs?” “Easy.” He stepped close, ﬁtting a hand around her waist, and lowered his mouth to her ear. “I ignore them.” Before she had the chance to even issue a reprimand, he was strolling o toward the house, all long, easy strides and

sexy masculinity. Lizzie skipped a step to catch up, calling out to his back, “You think you’re such a badass!” His laughter curled around her like a wisp of smoke. “Thanks, princess.” “It wasn’t a compliment.” This time, he didn’t respond. With a flat palm to the entryway door, he shoved it open and stepped inside. Lizzie had planned to take photos of the exterior, but it’d have to wait. No way was she letting Gage Harvey explore Mayberry without her. She followed a few paces behind him, drawing to a stop when she entered what was clearly once the parlor. From what information she’d found online, construction on Mayberry had begun just a year after the Civil War had come to a close. The original owner, one Martin Rechibleaux, had hoped to bring back the sophistication of the Antebellum era. Sweeping galleries, oversized columns, and tall ceilings were the staple of the period, and Mayberry was no di erent. Her gaze tracked the worn-down stairwell that didn’t look fit for a mouse to climb, never mind an adult. The windows were easily six feet tall; although she used the term “window” loosely. Glass lay scattered on the dusty oak floors. The entryway sat absent of all furniture but a long mirror strung up on the wall. Cracked and foggy, Lizzie stepped in front of it and lifted her camera. She rarely allowed herself a spot in her photographs, but she felt called to do so now, as though the house wanted her the chance to capture the memories through the looking glass. Just before her finger inched down, Gage stepped into the frame. Click-click. “Sorry,” he murmured, “didn’t mean to get in the way.” Those photos were for her, to remember their trip. “You’re fine,” she said, grabbing two more stills from the

same spot when he moved o to the side. “Did you ever hear about this place growing up?” Blunt-tipped ﬁngers traced a tear in wallpaper. “Never. Owen and I . . . Houses weren’t our thing.” “Even abandoned ones?” she teased, stepping up next to him. “I can’t help but imagine y’all sneaking into everywhere.” She dropped her voice to a lower octave. “Hello,” she growled in a poor imitation of him, “my name is Gage and I like to jump fences, drink protein shakes, and mingle with the creepiest stu Louisiana has ever seen.” He chuckled, and the sound made her feel ten feet tall. “Trust me, it was my job with S.O.D that kicked o my interest in weird-ass places.” “Do I even want to know?” She so wanted to know, and she waited, breath held, in the hope that he might open up, just a little. “Probably not.” He stepped away from the wall, trailing a hand down her back in a soothing gesture, as though it were second nature, and moved toward the open doorway to the next room. “But I can tell you’re curious.” “I’m always curious,” she said, following him into a former dining room. “It’s part of my charm.” “Ain’t that the truth.” He gave her a small grin. “But really, you think you know a city, and then you do what I do. Did you know there’s an old orphanage up near the river, and that it has a basement?” At her furrowed brow, he nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought too. N’Orleans is beneath sea level, and I’ve never seen a basement at all except for the casino and One Shell Square. Anyway, we got a call about a possible threat. It’s me and my boys—before O’Connor got on the job—and we’re staring at this doorway leading to a basement, and it’s so damned small, none of us can ﬁt through.”

Lizzie gave him a slow once-over. “You are a pretty big boy,” she teased. “What did y’all do?” “Squeezed, princess. Sucked it all in like we’d skipped out on a week’s worth of dinner. My buddy, Cardeaux—you met him—holy shit, I wish you could have seen him.” Gage moved, shifting back to the doorway. At first she thought Gage had decided to quit the room, but when he pivoted and mimicked shoving his bulk through the door, she burst out laughing. Unable to stop herself, she raised her camera and caught him in action, snapping photo after photo as he retold his story with gusto. “So there we are,” he said, hands up on an imaginary door, “I’ve just gotten through, right? Pretty sure I left skin behind, and I say so. But then I look back, and Cardeaux is stuck. Stuck! I’m looking at him, he’s looking at me, and we’ve got a dude running around the basement of this abandoned orphanage with a gun. It was like something out of a horror movie.” He swept his LSU hat o his head, flipping it around in that way of his that made her stomach all fluttery, exposing his rugged face to the soft light streaming in through the cracked windows. Another photo. And another. She fiddled with the exposure, getting it just right, and then captured another of him looking o , mouth firm with the memory. “That night I realized what a lucky son of a gun Cardeaux is. The damn bastard couldn’t get out of that tight doorway, and who’s the one who got shot? Me, that’s who.” The air rattled in her lungs. “You were . . .” She licked her suddenly dry lips. “You were shot?” He ran a hand over his thigh. “Right here.” “Oh my God.”

“I’m all good, princess.” The smile he sent her was obviously intended to soothe her nerves, but there was no soothing them. Lizzie strode toward him, camera clutched in her left hand. “How are you so casual about it? You could have died!” “I didn’t.” Why was he being so reasonable about this? She thought of her stepfather, who’d spent the last ten years as a white shirt. Her mother rarely had to worry about her husband when he generally found himself seated at a desk. For as long as she could remember, Danny, too, had worked in various positions that didn’t make him a direct target. First as a homicide detective, and now as one of two K-9 o cers for the department. No one crossed Rocky unless they wanted a missing limb. But Gage, as a member of S.O.D., he put his life at risk every day he went to work. She knew that. She’d known that, of course, but hearing how close he’d come to— “Lizzie, sweetheart, you have to breathe.” “I am breathing.” A familiar hand closed over her shoulder, then slid down to the center of her back where it rubbed in circles. “You’re hyperventilating, and as much as I’d like to do mouth to mouth on you, I’m worried we might inhale all the mothballs in here. Guess my adventurous streak has a boundary, and that’s it.” In a whisper, she said, “You always say the sweetest things.” “Only for you.” More gentle circles on her back, followed by the brush of his ﬁrm lips against her hairline. “Touch my chest, my arms. I’m good, all good. I have a buddy—he’s been shot three times. Damn unlucky fellow. He goes out, and the rest of us all steer clear. We tempt fate enough times as it is every day.”

She knew he’d said it to make her laugh, but it just . . . Well, it wasn’t funny. He’d said that he had a morbid sense of humor, and generally she did as well, but she couldn’t scrub away the visual of him bleeding, clutching his leg, begging for help in some dark and dingy basement. “How in the world does your mom put up with the worry?” she asked, wanting to burrow into his chest. “My mom, she worries about Danny. We all do. But I think him having Rocky makes her feel better, for what it’s worth. Like he’s not alone when he goes out on shift.” When she heard his jaw audibly clamp shut, she lifted her gaze from his chest to his face. “Gage?” He didn’t meet her eyes, though his throat worked with emotion. “My mom passed.” The words were hollow, a cut of his soul o ered on a broken platter. “But I imagine if she were still alive, she’d have something to say about it.” And with that bomb, he whirled away, muttered something about needing air, and stormed back out the way they’d come in. Leaving Lizzie in the dining room alone. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the emptiness of Mayberry, to Gage, who no longer stood in front of her. No wonder he’d looked all shaken up when she’d mentioned visiting Hackberry. He’d told her that he’d spent his teenage years here in west Louisiana, the weekdays with his mom and the weekends with his father. Lizzie understood all too well the feeling of being blindsided by the memories. Danny’s house did that to her, although not so much recently. Still, a death was a death. Her father’s drunk driving accident had ﬂoored her when she’d been twelve. She hadn’t missed the man when he’d left them. You couldn’t miss an abuser, no matter what people said.

But Lizzie suspected that Gage’s mother’s death was not the sort of unwanted reprieve that her father’s death had o ered. She wanted to wrap her arms around Gage, hug him close. To o er comfort in any way that he’d accept. You are in way too deep. She knew that full and well. With a heavy sigh, she hooked her camera strap around her neck and let it hang between her breasts. She’d come back later, maybe when the sun had started to set. Danny had once called her a sunset chaser, and it was true. Right now, it was Gage’s well-being that mattered most, and she didn’t care whether he wanted the comfort or not. Lizzie sidestepped a break in the wood floor, and stuttered to a halt. The dust on the floor had settled, outlining the shape of two large-sized tennis shoes. Gage’s shoes. They looked like a ghost had stepped through, like a moment captured in time, and it seemed just a little ironic to her that Gage had stood tall and strong in this historical house, and yet his heart was firmly lodged in the past.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

od, he was a mess. As Gage sat in his truck, eyes on Mayberry, he realized it to be true. What thirty-four-year old hauled ass during an adult conversation? Obviously, you’re the winner on this one. Congrats, man. Gage snapped his palm against the steering wheel, threw his hat onto the dashboard, and focused on evening out his breath. Get a grip. Over the years, he’d come to accept that there were a few topics that succeeded in clamming him up. Michelle. His father. His mother. Owen preferred to talk about them now— he’d sung a di erent tune during his early years in and out of jail—but that wasn’t Gage’s style. He didn’t want to discuss Ben and Bethany’s deaths, and he sure as hell didn’t want to think about Michelle walking out on him—after he’d proposed to her, no less. The passenger’s side door creaked open, the hinges rusty and in desperate need of oil. Quietly, Lizzie took her seat, set her camera in her lap, and ﬂicked the AC vents away from her face. “I don’t know what happened to your mom,” she said after a moment, eyes straight ahead on the Greek Revival mansion, “but I’m glad you loved her. I can tell.”

What did that have to do with anything? Of course he loved his mother. He’d loved her, even when she’d made a decision that tore his and Owen’s lives apart by the seams. In a wry tone, she continued, “Not everyone’s so lucky, you know. My dad? The biggest prick you’d ever meet. Think city-slicker with a penchant for booze, and you’ve got him to a T. He, uh”—her fingers flew into an uneven tap-tap-tap on her thighs—“he used to beat my mom and Danny.” Gage saw red at that, and he found it hard to breathe. “Tell me that he didn’t touch you,” he growled, “Lizzie, tell me that he didn’t—” “Not once.” A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Danny always cut him o . Told me to go play with my dolls upstairs. Sometimes, he pretended that my friends were at the back door, begging me to come out and play—only, I didn’t have any friends back then.” His heart ached with the image she painted of her as a little girl, both for her and for Danvers. He’d known the guy for years now, and never once had he suspected what lay beneath his a able, relaxed exterior. “It’s good he protected you. That’s what big brothers do, sweetheart, they protect their little sisters.” The tapping stopped. Her palms pressed flat. “When Danny was fourteen, my dad tried to kill him. The details have always been sketchy—Dad, of course, faked concern and worry, and Danny passed out during the attack, so there’s not much to go on from his side of things. But you should have seen my dad, parading about in front of EMS, claiming that Danny had attempted suicide.” The word lodged in Gage’s head. Lodged and rotated, and his stomach heaved like he’d been sailing the choppy Mississippi River, instead of being seated in a beat-up truck that hadn’t moved in an hour. With shaking hands, his

ﬁngers went to his face. Knuckles dug into his eye sockets, hoping to release the pressure. Palms dragged down his face. Oblivious to his anxiety, Lizzie went on in a low voice, wrapped up in the memory. “My father died the same way he lived. Drunk. Behaving recklessly. I guess I’m telling you all of this because sometimes, even if we’ve lost someone, we have to celebrate the love we had for them. I don’t love my father; I never did.” Her blue eyes blinked, and then she glanced his way. “I can tell that you love your mom, Gage, and it’d be a shame if you went the rest of your life unable to talk about her. People like that . . . they deserve to be mentioned from time to time.” “And your father?” he rasped. Her chuckle was dark. “Deserves to rot in hell, which I’m sure he’s doing even now as we speak.” The vehemence in her tone didn’t lighten his mood, but it did go a far way in softening the panic threading through his veins. “I see cases like yours at work all the time,” he told her. “I have for years. But I’ve never . . .” Gage swallowed. “I’ve never known a single person to grab life with as much . . . fuck, I don’t even know the word. Zest? Determination? How do you approach life, ignoring all the shit that happened to you and your brother and your mom, and not feel jaded every step of the way?” By the time he’d hit the streets as a beat cop at twentyone, Gage hadn’t known how to look at the world with rosecolored lenses any more—if he ever had. He might as well have worn a cloak of distrust, for all the beneﬁt of the doubt he gave to the general public. And then Lizzie had burst into his life with her talk of dating challenges and redeeming bad boys, and Gage had been hooked instantly. Her vitality. The excitement always brewing just beneath her surface.

He craved her. Even when she sat inches away, beside him in his truck, he craved that enthusiasm for himself, as though through her, he could dare to feel something more than brimming anger for the cards he’d been dealt. “It’s easy,” she said finally, “I choose to be happy. Sometimes there are speed bumps along the way, but each day that I wake up, I’m determined to make good of what I’ve been given. If I don’t like something, I change it.” I choose to be happy. So simple. So easy. And something so entirely foreign to Gage. The closest he’d come to it was with her, from that very first moment that he’d met her, and she’d flashed those startling blue eyes at him. “I need to touch you, sweetheart.” It was so wrong of him to need her like this again, to pull her in because he wanted her light to wash away his dark. “How far away is that inn we booked?” Her breathing hitched into a slight gasp when his hands cupped the back of her neck. “It’s just over there, less than a mile, I think. Not far.” As much as he wanted to take her in the backseat of his truck, he didn’t need any folks from the lemonade stand pulling a Peeping Tom. Didn’t mean that he couldn’t kiss her, though, here and now. Their lips met in a frenzy. It wasn’t soft and it wasn’t slow. He felt frantic, searching for something only Lizzie could give him. Her mouth parted beneath his, drawing him in, touching her tongue to his when he swept through, claiming ownership. No, not ownership. “I want you so badly,” she whispered against his mouth.

He wanted her, too. More than was healthy for his piece of mind. More than he should, when he knew, now more than ever, that Lizzie Danvers actively sought out her happiness . . . And Gage had spent the last fourteen years existing in the dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

he Mayberry House Inn had seen better days. As she and Gage pulled up in his truck, their hands linked on the center console, Lizzie couldn’t help but notice the dipping porch line, the chipped hurricane shutters, and the overgrowth of plants in the front lawn. So far, their trip wasn’t turning out exactly as planned. Glancing at the stoic man beside her, Lizzie worried over the straight line of his mouth. Tense didn’t even begin to describe his aura right now, and it hurt her to think of everything he’d been through. Was clearly still going through, if the exhausted pinch of his expression was anything to go by. She squeezed his hand once, and then leaned over to grab her backpack o the ﬂoor by her feet. “I bet it’s going to be great,” she announced, looping her hand through one padded strap. “The pictures don’t even do it justice.” Understatement of the year. “Wonder if it’s haunted?” he said after a brief silence, and she could tell that he was trying to pull his mood up from the bottom of the barrel. “Maybe the ghosts will do me a solid and retrieve the sheets for me every time you steal them away.”

“Hey”—she jabbed a finger into his hard bicep—“I always return them. Stealing implies that you never get them back.” There. There was that sexy smile of his that turned her to molten liquid. “I get them back all right,” he said. “When you climb out of the bed the next morning.” “You enjoy every minute of it, O cer Harvey, I refuse to believe anything di erent.” They climbed out of their respective sides of the truck, and Gage moved over to the bed. He lifted his du el out, then her travel-friendly suitcase. “Do you want me to get that?” she asked, stepping close and waving her hand toward the bright pink luggage. He batted her hand away with a mock-glower. “Nope, your only job is to do the socializin’ with this innkeeper.” Turns out, that didn’t happen. The moment they stepped into the Mayberry House Inn, the old floorboards creaking beneath their shoes, there was a flurry of commotion as a woman decked out in a lavender tracksuit strode forward, brown hair artfully arranged on the top of her head, oversized glasses perched on her nose. “Gage Harvey?” she exclaimed, eyes wide behind the clear frames. “Is that you?” Beside her, she practically heard his bones cringe as he muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Louder, he said, “Mrs. Whitehouse, good to see you.” “Good to see me?” The brown bun shook atop her head, threatening to spill over. “Boy, I haven’t seen you in over a decade. Get your little tush on over here and give me a hug.” Slowly, dread threading through every movement, Gage set the du el bag next to the suitcase and did as Mrs. Whitehouse ordered, wrapping his big arms around her bony shoulders for a quick hug.

“Now that’s more like it. You think I don’t remember you and your brother runnin’ wild around here? How is Owen?” “He’s good, ma’am.” She shook her head, ﬁnger going to the bridge of her nose to shove up her glasses before they slipped right o . “Sure is a shame about his criminal record now. Some of the girls couldn’t believe it, you know. They’d sit at Moe’s, sipping their co ee, and your brother always did come up. Such a shame.” Gage’s shoulders, broad as they were, dipped as he slid his hands into the front pockets of his cargo shorts. Then he glanced back, black eyes seeking her out. “Mrs. Whitehouse, this is Lizzie, my . . . girlfriend. Lizzie, Mrs. Whitehouse was my high school history teacher.” Shock jolted up her spine, and it took everything in her to keep from smiling like a fool. She knew that he hadn’t meant it, not literally. Lizzie might have lived her entire life in New Orleans, but she knew that in small towns like Hackberry, appearances were everything. Don’t overreact. Play it easy, calm. She stepped forward, catching her reﬂection in the large entryway mirror o to her right. Oh, God, someone please slap the stupid smile o her face right now. “It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Whitehouse.” She held out her hand, not the least bit surprised when the woman grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her into a boobsmashing hug that threatened to cut o air supply. Over the innkeeper’s shoulders, she met Gage’s gaze. Help, she mouthed. He launched into action, ever the protector. Like peeling the skin from a juicy orange, he tugged Mrs. Whitehouse away. “So when did you buy the inn? It’s just, uh . . .”

“Old?” Mrs. Whitehouse supplied, and then laughed heartily. “No need to mince words, Gage; I’m fully aware that it’s a little sad around the edges right now. And to answer your question, about two years back or so. The local preservation society decided they wanted to restore Mayberry House, but lacked the funds to do so. Asked the town if anyone minded taking a more important role in creating awareness, and I stepped in.” A small grin worked itself onto her face. “The gift shop was my idea, as was this inn. Actually had this house moved over from Lake Charles, can you believe it? Rode all the way down here on one of those crane things like something out of a darn movie.” Fascinated, Lizzie glanced around at the furnishings. Soft, muted colors decorated the space. The circular stairwell that led to the second floor was the major showstopper. They’d passed Lake Charles on the way here, a good thirty miles away. “I can’t believe y’all managed to move it such a far distance and keep it intact.” “Amazing, isn’t it?” Mrs. Whitehouse planted her hands on her hips and took a look around at her home, a pleased expression on her face. “Part of the bargain with the preservation society was that I could live here free of charge, and they’d keep any profits from the guests. Which just so happens to be you two for this evening! Our lulls are slower than molasses here, so your booking was a nice surprise.” Without preamble, she stretched up onto her toes and pinched Gage’s cheek like he was two feet tall, and not sixfoot-two and solid muscle. “It’s good to see you happy again, boy. You and your brother, especially after all that dreadful mess with—” He cut her o before she could finish. “It’s good to see you, too, Mrs. Whitehouse.” Grabbing the du el again, he hooked it over one strong shoulder. “We already stopped by the plantation. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” she repeated, ﬂapping a dismissive hand through the air. “There are reasons the doors aren’t locked yet over there. So many loops and holes to jump through, and we’re not even close to getting the poor house o cially listed on the historic register. For now, anyone can pass through free-of-charge. Although . . .” Her eyes squinted behind her square frames. “Did y’all leave a dollar or two in the collection jar out front? Donations, of course.” Lizzie and Gage exchanged a glance. There’d been a collection jar? “We’ll be sure to do so before we leave,” Lizzie murmured smoothly. “I’d like to go back tonight anyway. With the lack of city lights over here, I’d love to grab some photos of the property sometime around sunset and into early evening under the stars.” At Mrs. Whitehouse’s furrowed brows, Gage explained, “Lizzie is a professional photographer.” “A photographer?” The woman glanced down at her velvet tracksuit and then jerked her gaze over to the mirror. “Fate would have it that the day I decide to let nature tame my hair, a photographer comes to stay.” Lizzie hid a smile. “I promise, I’m really not—” “Will you take my photo later?” Mrs. Whitehouse demanded with undiluted excitement. “A nice photo I can hang up above the mantelpiece? I’ve always dreamed of having a picture done professionally!” Like she could say no? The woman was so friendly it bordered on unreal. Small town living for you, though. “Absolutely, maybe before dinner?” Mrs. Whitehouse beamed, and then made a show of sweeping them up the stairs to the rooms on the second ﬂoor. “Now, you had booked for one of the smaller rooms, but”—she sent a happy smile toward Gage—“it’s so good to have you back in Hackberry, baby, and I can’t be shoving

y’all into a room with only a full-size bed. How do you feel about a balcony?” She didn’t wait for them to answer, simply stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall and keyed it open. “Just for y’all!” She swooped in and did a little spin in the center of the room, the hem of her sweats catching on the backs of her tennis shoes. “A balcony and a king-size bed. You’re bigger than I remembered, Gage.” “Oh, Jesus.” Lizzie snickered, thrilling in the way Gage’s cheeks flushed with color as he set his du el on the flower bedspread. “He’s definitely bigger,” she teased, unable to resist making the big, badass O cer Harvey squirm. His mouth gaped. Mrs. Whitehouse hooted with delight. “Oh, I like you, Lizzie! All right, you two lovebirds, I’ll leave you to it. Y’all are the only guests in tonight, so I’ll be making supper around six, yeah? Come on down before then, so we can take my photo!” With a flash of her hand, Mayberry House’s innkeeper sailed out of the room and shut the door behind her. “She didn’t leave behind a key,” Gage grumbled, still bright red. Laughing, Lizzie scoped out the bedroom. “Scared she’ll take a peek in here later just to see how big you really are?” “You’re enjoyin’ yourself, aren’t you.” Her feet rooted to the area rug. “For a playboy, Gage Harvey, you can be real serious at times.” He rolled his dark eyes, stalking toward her with intent. “We both know it’s a good thing you quit that challenge of yours. Sooner or later the world would have found out that the guy you picked was—” “The right guy,” she said boldly, skipping away from his reaching hands to sashay to the bed. “Bad boy or not, I

clearly felt inclined to pick you for a reason.” “Because you were desperate and there I was, tall, dark, and tatted up, and you thought, him.” Settling her back against the hard pillows, Lizzie watched him toe o his tennis shoes and follow her onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath his heavy bulk, one particular coil squealing like a pig when his knee landed on it. “No,” she told him as he straddled her hips and placed his hands on the headboard behind her, “it was because you stared at me like I wasn’t real, like I’d struck you over the head with a two-by-four and you didn’t know whether to kiss me or shove me away.” His mouth met her neck with a gentle nip of his teeth, and she gasped even as she twisted her head just so, giving him more space to play. “I should have kissed you right then and there,” he growled. “You can kiss me now.” And so he did. Moved his lips to hers and drank from her mouth like she was the ﬁnest blend of whiskey he’d ever tasted. The storm in his touch from the plantation had quieted, leaving behind only languid strokes of his tongue, his body moving against hers. Lizzie soaked up every drop of a ection. Her ﬁngers dug into his shoulders when he tangled his tongue with hers. Her body squirmed beneath his when he intertwined their hands and pinned them to the pillows on either side of her head. “How do you always get under my skin?” he rasped, his stubble grazing her cheek as he nipped at her earlobe. “How do I always tell myself that we need to cool it down, take it back a notch, and then you fucking look at me, and I’m gone in an instant?”

A gasp escaped her at the friction of the big bulge in his shorts rubbing against her seam. Nothing could have stopped her from meeting his hips. She backed her heels into the mattress, lifting her hips again and again to meet each sensual stroke, despite the fact that they hadn’t even removed their clothes. Because that’s what Gage Harvey did to her. He made her feel like a teenager again, touching a guy’s erection for the first time. He made her feel as though she could orgasm with nothing but his hot breath on her neck and a dry-humping session that was a hell of a lot more appropriate for someone half her age. “Those sounds you make when I hit the right spot,” he said, voice tight with lust, “the way you bite down on your lip just before you come all over me.” With her hands still pinned under his, he moved his body down, down, down so he could kiss the top of each breast through her T-shirt. “You drive me to distraction, princess.” “I-I tempt you.” The words left her on a whimper when he released one of her hands so he could push up her shirt and close his mouth over her pebbled nipple. Her eyes fluttered shut, no matter how much she wished to keep them open and on the darkly beautiful man hovering over her body. “Gage, I—” His tongue rolled over her, circling and sucking until her legs twisted beneath his, her very soul desperate for the release only he could give her. “You tempt me with more than just your body.” His weight lowered, heavy and hot on hers, tongue swirling over her nipple and making her crazy. “You tempt me into thinking that forever is a possibility when I know it’s a lie we tell ourselves to feel better. You tempt me to throw caution to the wind and make you mine, Lizzie. Mine to kiss, mine to hold at night, mine to have ridiculous adventures with that only we find fun.”

Her heart squeezed. Why did it sound so final? Why did his voice waver like this was the end, and there was nothing else to them? Her thoughts scattered at the touch of his hand between her legs, over her leggings. Oh, yes, please. His thumb circled over her clit, faster and faster, until her palms were pushing down on his shoulders. Push him away. Pull him closer. She was a hot mess, completely dialed into the pleasure he doled out in spades. That hand disappeared from where she needed him most, going to her waistband and drawing o her sweatpants. Her shoes, her socks. Her old Saints football T-shirt that had seen better days. He left her naked on the bed, stripped of every accessory—subject to only his hungry eyes. Shoulders heaving with heavy breaths, he touched his hands to her thighs. “You tempt me to do wild things, Lizzie Danvers, to take chances I know we’ll both regret.” He was speaking in riddles, clouding her judgment in a haze of lust, desperation, and yes, love. She shouldn’t have fallen for him, not like this, not when something so very obviously held him back from that final leap. She’d fallen in love with the bad boy, the way she said she would never do again, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she’d been right all along. She’d changed, let down her walls, had given him everything, and would not be the one left standing. As his hands skimmed her body, fear lurked in the back of her head that this moment was the end for them. But Lizzie had spent her entire life taking chances, on building a life out of making makeup tutorials; capturing photos; being more than the little girl who spent her first twelve years hiding from her own shadow, scared to make her presence known. Happiness was never handed over like a gift; it was created, molded, formed out of the shadows and the despair

into something beautiful and inspiring. “Then I’ll just keep tempting you,” she vowed softly, pushing o her back so that her ﬁngers could go to the button of his shorts. It slipped through the hole, freed. Down went his zipper. When her hand wrapped around his thick erection, a hoarse groan left him like it’d been ripped from his heart, his chest, his soul. Lizzie slipped her gaze up to his face and whispered, “Until you see that the only wild chance you’re willing to take is with me.”

S HE KILLED HIM . With her words, her hands, the damn goodness in her heart. Gage’s head dropped back as her small hand stroked up his length, twisting at the head just as he liked. Fuck. He was mindless to the pleasure, the feel of her smooth palm, the touch of her equally soft lips capturing the pearl of come o the tip of his dick. Being back here in Hackberry was like calling the dead from their graves. Messing with his head. Destroying his sense of calm, the handle he’d held over his life over the years. Both softening his heart to the woman on her knees before him and steeling it, just the same, against the memories that ravaged him. He needed air, space like he regularly sought out in the Preserve, but he wasn’t willing to let her go to get it. “Lizzie,” he rasped, tugging on her hair so that she’d stop, “do a wild thing with me.” Blue eyes blinked up at him as his hard-on slipped from her mouth with an audible pop. “Always, Gage, always.” That blind trust in him, it was nearly crippling. He wrapped his hand around hers, pulling her o the bed, leading her to the balcony doors. He shucked his shorts as

soon as the doors opened wide. Pulled o his T-shirt a moment later. With a squeak, Lizzie jumped behind him, curled hands on either side of his spine. “Gage! There are—” “Cane fields,” he said slowly, “there are endless cane fields. The plantation is the closest thing to us, and it’s a mile away.” “Mrs. Whitehouse,” Lizzie started, her small breasts flush against his back. Gage popped his head out, glancing to the left and right. The balcony itself was deep but not so wide, an obvious addition dating to around the 1980s, if he had to guess. It didn’t wrap around the second floor like the plantation’s— but it also seemed sturdier and less likely to buckle under their combined weight. “Can you stay quiet?” He peered back to look down at her. “Can I make you come and you not make a sound?” The challenge in his tone brought the fire to her blue eyes. “Of course I can. You’re not that irresistible, Gage Harvey.” “Lies.” He stepped to the side, his hands going to her waist so he could drag her forward, in front of him. She held her head up high, proud and sexy and so damn confident. Gage touched his mouth to her ear and whispered, “But I’m willing to let you prove it. Put your hands on the railing and face the cane fields, princess, and then spread your legs for me.” She gasped at his dirty talk. Grumbled about all his “demands” when she moved into position, hands on the balustrade, her curvy legs moving shoulder-width apart. Moaned when Gage dropped to his knees in front of her, gripped her thighs to keep her steady, and slicked his tongue

over her clit. His gaze climbed her body, the soft flatness of her belly, her small, perky breasts, up to her face. Her lips were parted, ragged breaths sucking in and pushing out, her blue eyes half-lidded with absolute desire. That one look spurred him on. He hooked her right leg over his shoulder. Drove his tongue against her in tight little circles that had her hands leaving the balustrade to grip his hair. “Please,” she whispered, thrusting her mound against his lips, “oh my God.” This moment . . . it was wild and dirty and so damn raw. Tell her everything, he thought, tell her everything and be happy for once. As his mouth moved against her, his finger finding her entrance and dipping inside her heat, he watched her. The unwrinkled brow. The heart she wore on her sleeve. The creaseless features that were unburdened with worry, defeat, sadness. If he told her everything, if he poured out his soul, that happiness of hers would dissipate. He’d heard the commentary in Hackberry when he’d returned for his mother’s funeral. He’d heard it while he finished the police academy, and countless times during those early years on the job. Did you hear about his dad? His mom? So damn sad . . . Must run in the family, huh. First what happened to his grandfather on the job, and then that awful accident with his father? Poor, poor Bethany. Can you blame Michelle for leaving him? If I saw the luck of that family, I’d leave too. Wouldn’t matter if he’d just put a ring on my finger, no sir. Lizzie’s fingers tightened in his hair, sharply pulling on the short strands. She was close, so damn close.

With a last flick of his tongue on her clit, he rose to his full height. She stepped back, giving him space, her breasts and neck and face red with pleasure. “Not out here,” he ground out, “I want to see your face when I take you. I want you to know it’s me that drives you over the edge.” Her tongue flicked out to touch her lower lip. “Like I could ever forget.” Tell her, tell her, tell her. He fused his mouth to hers, backing her up into the guestroom, kissing her until her thighs hit the bed and she landed on her ass. On that damn butterfly tattoo he’d given her weeks ago, and she’d been right about that too. Even with roots in New Orleans, she longed to fly free, to stretch her wings and to bask in the excitement of life. His tattoos matched his life, too. Every NOPD o cer who had died on the job since Gage had joined the force in 2003, was marked into his skin. His grandfather and father sat at the top of his list, just over his heart. A constant reminder of the danger that he faced every day. A constant reminder that not every death came as a result of a tra c stop gone wrong like his grandpa, or a drunk idiot slamming into a police o cer handling a roadside accident, like his father. And then some deaths didn’t come at the cause of others, but because of self-harm. Like the moment his mother had learned of her husband’s death, no matter that they’d been separated for years, and had seen fit to take her own life that very night. And there was Gage’s fiancée, Michelle, who had looked at all the death, all the ruination, and pressed the ring he’d given her into his palm. Her parting words, a very quietly delivered, “I can’t do this. No woman can do this.” “Gage?”

Lizzie’s husky voice yanked him into the present, to her naked body on the bed, to the temptation he’d faced every day since he’d met her. I can’t do this. No woman can do this. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He needed to get out of his head. Put the memories away. The pain, the— A feminine hand linked with his, and the contact sent a shiver down his spine. “Come back to me, Gage,” she said, tugging him down over her body. He went willingly, his still-hard cock nestled against her. “Get out of your head and just feel.” That was the problem. He felt too much, and every word that spilled from her mouth cracked the gates wider, destroying the locks, throwing away the keys. Under all that, though, was the softness of her against him, encouraging him to let go, to be in the moment. “I need a condom.” He tried to pull back, only for her legs to cross over his hips, holding him in place. “I’m on the pill.” Her breath escaped on an embarrassed laugh. “We don’t have to, obviously. I trust you, and it’s not like—well, I’ve never done it without one. Ever.” A gift she gave him alone. Every word, every touch, she ruined him. “Me either, princess.” Not even with Michelle, the girl he’d dated throughout high school and until he’d been twenty. Six years, and not a single time. Less than six weeks with Lizzie, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into her body without barriers. He shouldn’t accept her o er, not while knowing that she wouldn’t be with him in the longhaul. But Gage had made a living out of serving others, and for the ﬁrst time that he could remember, he was being o ered something precious. And he couldn’t say no. He drew in a deep breath. “You sure?”

Her lips quirked in one of her ﬂashy grins. “Get to it, O cer. I’m waiting.” So he did. He wrapped a hand around his cock, placing the tip at her entrance. Waited for her to meet his gaze, and when she did, he thrust in deep, hard. Her neck arched, head hitting the pillow with a hissed sigh, her nails scraping down his forearms. “Yes,” she moaned, eyes shut, mouth parted, “yes.” The sensation of being bareback in her was almost too much to bear. It was heaven. It was hell. Gage leaned back, gripping her hips. Glanced down to see his cock slip out of her tight body, and drive back in again. Over and over again. In and out. Heaven. And hell. Without intending to, the words fell from his lips, tangling in the room already echoing with her whimpers and his groans: “Everything, sweetheart. You mean everything.” Her thighs quivered around his hips. “I can’t let you go. I should, I should, but I can’t. You’re mine.” Those brilliant blue eyes of hers snapped open, and he saw the moment her orgasm swept over her. Pupils dilating, hips pressing down on his, as though she couldn’t bear to let him do all the work—always so independent—breath seesawing as she gasped for air. He gave her his mouth instead, kissing her, thrusting into her hot, little body, until she came under him, and kicked o his own orgasm. “Fuck,” he ground out, eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head. For the ﬁrst time in his life, he came inside a woman. It seemed momentous. Terrifying.

Her lips crashed against his forehead as he lay draped over her, his cock still nestled in her body, his elbows ﬂattening the pillows on either side of her head. “I love you, Gage. You don’t have to say it back, but I just want you to know that I . . . well, I kind of adore you.” Adore. Love. His eyes slammed shut. What the hell had he done?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

t was miserable outside. Drizzling rain. Humid air. Unforgiveable heat. It fit Gage’s mood to perfection. “Yo, Harvey, how’re our photos looking?” Cardeaux asked as their unit sat in the bearcat, prepared to deliver another warrant. “Your girl have any news?” His girl. It was the first week of October, three days since they’d spent the night in Hackberry, around a month since she’d first waltzed into Inked on Bourbon for a butterfly tattoo. It seemed too short of a time for someone to fall in love, wasn’t it? But for seventy-two hours now, her words stayed locked in his brain: I love you, Gage and I kind of adore you. Seventy-two hours since he hadn’t returned the words because the last two, and the only, women he’d ever said those three little words to had left. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he even knew how to say them anymore. He and Owen hadn’t traded “I love you’s” since they’d been kids, and Gage sure as hell didn’t go around saying the words to his boys at work. Not unless he wanted a good ribbing, and a crap ton of snark for the rest of his life. “Gage, man?” Cardeaux prompted. “The calendar?”

His hands clenched down on the government-issued body shield. “She’s good. Working on them.” He was pretty sure she was, anyway. She’d spent the day they returned to New Orleans fussing around with the photos of Mayberry House. Gage couldn’t pretend to understand what she did to them, but by the time she’d finished, the stars in the night sky above Mayberry shone like diamonds, and the cast of the moon on the cream-colored building o ered a dream-like glow. When she’d left the room for a glass of water, he’d snuck a quick picture on his phone and had later set it to wallpaper mode. Fucking hopeless. The bearcat hit a pothole, and the lot of them swayed, shoulders brushing, shields clashing. “Are the proceeds still going to that group of yours?” Cardeaux pushed, shoving Timms to the side when they bounced against each other. “What’s it called again?” Gage bit the inside of his cheek. “Care for Blue and Red.” It was a stupid name, but he’d never claimed to be creative anywhere outside of the bedroom. He’d started CBR in his twenties as an attempt to provide aid to first responders, and their families, who struggled with the stress of their jobs. CBR was both a call center and an anonymous hotline, a local place for cops and firefighters and EMTs to go when the darkness swarmed in and all hope seemed lost. Owen told him he was nuts for taking it on, for bleeding red every time a new o cer came in, a wild look in his or her eyes and a desperation in their voice. That’s how he’d gotten to know Kevin and Carli Simpson before Simpson had joined S.O.D. He’d been one of the program’s first attendees, his depression turning to a heavier abuse of alcohol. Now the guy volunteered at the

center over in Mid-City twice a week, sometimes with Carli, sometimes alone. There hadn’t been a program in the city like it when Gage’s parents had died and his ﬁancée had left. Owen had gone on his bender, and Gage had clammed up—for fourteen years, it seemed. “I bet I’m going to look delicious as Mr. December,” Timms announced, his eyes bouncing around the other guys as the bearcat swung a right. “I’m going to have women dropping at my feet.” “Yeah,” Cardeaux muttered, “but only because I’ve walked in right behind you, and they’re in awe.” “Y’all are a bunch of idiots.” This came from Luke O’Connor, and Gage swallowed a grin. “I swear I lose brain cells every time I get in this damn van.” The bearcat rumbled to a stop, and Gage thumped his buddy on the back. “Guess it’s a good thing that we’ve arrived. Time to rock and roll.” Another warrant. Another day at the o ce. This time their guy was a white male in his twenties. Heroin. Crack. Weed. Guns. You name it, and this guy probably dabbled in it. Task force had been called in to help again today, and Gage issued the men a single nod as he and his boys climbed out of the bearcat and took their positions. It was a routine call, something Gage had been doing for years now. He tried not to let his mind wander as he took to the front of the group. Since Hackberry, he’d been more jittery than usual. Probably due to Lizzie’s “I love you,” if he had to guess. Though the nightmares waking him at night had nothing to do with a blue-eyed woman, and everything to do with his mother, Bethany. His dad, too. He tossed and turned at night, seeing their faces, seeing bruises and the blood and the scars marring the body of his

mother. Disturbing, that’s what it was, and distracting. There was a reason why Gage was frequently named o cer of the month—because he put the job first, always. He needed to do that now. Just shove everything else aside to be dealt with at a later date. Birds chirped, followed closely by a siren some blocks away. Gage’s boots crunched across the gravel walkway. His right leg pinched as he took the first step up the porch. A light flickered on inside the house, and he made a small prayer, no matter that he wasn’t religious in the slightest. “Gonna do the honors tonight?” Luke said from beside him. “Hooah,” he grunted. “Hooah.” The guys behind him shu ed into position, poised to strike if the scene took a turn for the worse. “Police with a warrant!” Gage bellowed, just as he’d done hundreds of times, his boot hitting the door, cracking it open, letting it swing on the hinges. A thousand times. He’d operated scenes like this for a decade. Knew it inside and out. Could run an operation with his eyes closed. He just hadn’t expected the sight before him. Their target with his arm wrapped around a woman—a woman that looked eerily like Michelle—a gun positioned just under her chin. The guy held a Glock, and the momentary silence that filled the room was fraught with tension. Glock’s didn’t have an external safety switch. The “safety” was your finger, which meant . . . Gage swayed, his gaze latched onto the woman’s face. Blonde hair. Pockmarked skin. Full body.

It wasn’t Michelle, but it sure as hell looked like her. He heard Cardeaux radio in to task force. Heard the heavy, ragged breathing of the woman as she stood frozen in the man’s arms. Heard his own heavy, ragged heartbeat. Disable the guy or start up negotiations. Those were their only two options, and yet all Gage heard was the ringing in his ears, saw not this woman’s tears but saw his mother’s. The blood on her chest from the gunshot wound. A gun which had once belonged to Ben Harvey. The blood-soaked area rug in the living room. The tears staining her cheeks. He’d been home in Hackberry for the weekend— proposing to Michelle—and he’d been the one to find her. The one to call 911. The one to hold her limp body, fruitlessly trying to staunch the blood loss. Around him, Gage heard the commotion even though it felt like a fog had closed in, hammering at his vision, roiling his stomach. Luke talking to the guy, ordering him to put the weapon down. The woman’s sobs as she begged her boyfriend to let her go. The boyfriend’s demands that he’d be released, allowed to leave city lines, the state completely. Cardeaux’s consent. The woman stumbling forward; Timms’ attempt to calm her down. A shot fired. Another shot fired. And then nothing but silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Y

ou fucked up, Harvey.” Sitting in his lieutenant’s o ce at S.O.D generally meant one of two things: either someone was getting a promotion or someone was about to get their ass chewed out. Considering the events of the evening, Gage had no doubt in his mind that his ass was about to get reamed—and that Lieutenant Brauchard was going to enjoy every minute of it. “I know,” Gage muttered. “No,” Brauchard snapped. “You. Fucked. Up.” Icy blue eyes narrowed into slits. “The only reason you aren’t getting launched to a di erent department right now is because this shit isn’t you. Timms? I can see him freezing under a hostage situation. Not you, Harvey. It’s not like you.” Gage forced himself to sit tall in the seat, despite the fact that he desperately wanted to sink down and avoid the disappointment in his lieutenant’s eyes. He’d known Brauchard for years. Hell, Gage had been in S.O.D. before the guy had even come onto the NOPD. Eight years. He’d worked with the guy for eight years, and this was the ﬁrst time his ass had ever come under ﬁre. One thing he knew about L-T, though, was that he didn’t deal with excuses.

Whether or not Gage had su ered a panic attack—the first one he’d ever experienced on the job—was not his problem. Following protocol, ensuring the safety of his o cers and also the general public—that was his problem. “How many days?” If Gage wasn’t getting launched, that meant a guaranteed suspension. “Twenty-one.” Gage blanched. Curled his hands around the seat’s armrests. Stay seated, stay calm. “P.I.B. voted for four weeks,” Brauchard added sti y. “I was able to narrow it down.” Normally, Gage was of the opinion that the Public Integrity Bureau only deserved a fat middle finger. Not today. He deserved every single day without pay that he was hand-delivered. He’d screwed up. He’d put his boys and the victim at risk. His only saving grace was the fact that no one had been critically injured. Johnson, their target, had mistakenly pulled the trigger— a problem for those untrained with shooting a Glock—and had shot up at the ceiling. Cardeaux had been the one to return fire at the sound of the gun kicking o , but he’d aimed at Johnson’s leg, clipping him in the thigh. Gage knew firsthand that it must have hurt the guy like a bitch, but better a leg than a blow to the stomach or the heart, as they were all trained to do during police academy. It could have been worse. The woman could be dead or even one of Gage’s coworkers. “I’ll take the month if that’s what they want.” “You’ll take the twenty-one and shut your trap, Harvey. Pull a stunt like this again, and I’ll personally ensure that

you’re transferred out of S.O.D.; I don’t even care if you babysit my dogs every summer.” It probably wasn’t the time to let Brauchard know that he hated those two Weiner dogs with a passion. Instead, he only dipped his head, accepted his fate, and climbed to his feet. “Get your shit out of the lockers. See you in twenty-one days, Harvey. Don’t forget to turn in your badge on the way out.” Twenty-one days. It’d almost feel like a vacation if he weren’t so damn ticked o with himself. This is what you get for opening up the gates. Yeah, sometimes it was best to leave the past where it belonged, in the past. The Special Operations Division was located in an old warehouse along the Mississippi River. As he stalked back to the lockers, the brick walls seemed to close in, ramping up his anxiety and turning his mood even more foul. The guys were all in there when he stepped in, and a collective silence took hold. It wasn’t disappointment he saw in their eyes but pity. Gage had been in S.O.D the longest; he’d seen and done shit half of them never would. He’d worked during Hurricane Katrina with no sleep, determined to do his job for his city and to make his father proud. He’d handled hostage situations, snipers, drug busts, natural disasters. And now this. Fourteen years of working for the NOPD, and he’d crashed and burned and nearly took his entire unit down with him. “Yo, Harvey,” said Cardeaux, seated on one of the metal benches, “how many days until I can see your ugly mug again?” “Twenty-one.” Twenty-one-motherfucking-days, and it might not even be enough. His head wasn’t screwed on right.

Gage unclipped his badge from his BDU, and then slipped his police identification card from his wallet. He stared down at the photo he’d taken years earlier. Same black eyes, black hair, same jaded sneer. He yanked out his du el bag from his assigned locker, and dropped the badge and I.D. inside. Grabbed his extra uniforms o their hangers and shoved those inside, too. “Your spot will be here when you get back,” O’Connor said, approaching him. He rested his shoulder against the locker next to Gage’s. “It’s yours.” There’d be a replacement for twenty-one days. That’s how the department worked. Supply and demand. If Gage had any luck on his side, the filler would be an idiot who shit his pants every time they filed into the bearcat. And what if Brauchard found someone good? There was a decent chance Gage wouldn’t have a place in the unit when his twenty-one days were up. “Hooah, brother.” Gage clapped O’Connor on the back, then zipped up his du el and folded the strap across his chest. “Hooah.” Luke’s green eyes narrowed. “You know you’re welcome over to my house, right? I don’t give a shit if you’re suspended.” Yeah, he knew, but it was one thing to hang out with your buddy when you talked work, swapping crazy stories about the days on the job, and another thing entirely when one was on the outs through no one’s fault but his own. He gave another clap to his boy’s back, because he didn’t have much else to say, and then waved to the rest of the unit. They all assured him he’d be back. They didn’t sound convinced, and neither did Gage. Badge and I.D. were left at the front desk, as was his gun and the keys to his take-home vehicle.

Looked like he’d be calling a cab, because there was no way in hell he’d walk the five-mile trek to his house in this damn heat. He pulled out his phone when he stepped outside, intending to call the cab service, but stopped when he saw two text messages. He opened the first, from Owen: Dude, you’re late to you’re own shit. EOCC meeting tonight, remember? The one your sponsoring for the evening? Fuck, was it Tuesday? He ignored Owen’s misspellings, squinting his eyes at the date on this phone. Shit, shit, shit, it was Tuesday. He’d been preparing for tonight’s meeting for months, ever since he’d jumped on Owen’s case to let him approach the Entrepreneurs of the Crescent City about supporting CBR. His speech—hell, his ride—was all at his house, but there wasn’t any time. It was six now, and he was due on stage to talk to the city’s upper crusts in exactly an hour. Cab. ASAP. He called the first service on Google, trekked it across the parking lot, and waited. Glanced down at his phone and saw he still had one unanswered text. He tapped it open, feeling a fissure of warmth slide through him when he saw Lizzie’s name. So, crazy thought about an adventure idea . . . I’m going to this event tonight, and I know it’s not going to be all fancy, but I’m still excited. Any interest in going as my date? The message had been time-stamped for two-twentyseven. In other words, hours ago. Might as well feel guilty all the way around, then, because he didn’t even have enough time to get home and change, never mind meeting her for a night out.

Can’t, he typed back, shit went down at work, and I’m running late to a meeting. Rain check? Gage stared at his phone, watching the little bubble icons forming and then receding as she typed out her response. Sure. Text me later if you want xoxo :-) Tires squealed as the yellow cab pulled up in front of him. As he settled in the back seat, it occurred to him that he’d be giving a speech about supporting ﬁrst responders’ mental health tonight . . . and that for the next twenty-one days, he wasn’t a police o cer. No badge. No. I.D. No gun. A civilian for the ﬁrst time in fourteen years, and he sure as hell wasn’t ignorant about the irony.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Y

es, girl, that color,” Lizzie’s friend Shaelyn said, selecting a purple lipstick out of one of Lizzie’s many makeup drawers. “Do me up.” Tonight was Lizzie’s ﬁrst EOCC meeting, and even though she knew it wasn’t meant to be fancy, she’d still invited the girls over for makeup and hair. Both Shaelyn Taylor and Anna were already members, thanks to the fact that they coowned the lingerie boutique, La Parisienne, down in the Quarter. The cousins were nothing alike: Anna’s fairylike features to Shaelyn’s dark hair, Anna’s classy demeanor to Shaelyn’s snarkier attitude. “You’re really going to go for purple?” asked Jade from her perch on Lizzie’s cushioned leather bench. Although Jade didn’t own a business, local or otherwise, they’d planned to squirrel her inside the event anyway. No one said that girls’ nights out in one’s thirties had to be boring. “I’m sorry,” Shae said, “who’s the one with the baby at home already? You don’t even want to know the last time I wore a lipstick that wasn’t nude. I’m starved for excitement here, y’all.” Snickering a little, Lizzie uncapped the liquid lipstick and felt a little burst of joy when Shaelyn glanced up at her. Long

lashes. Peach blush. Dusty, neutral color eyeshadows. “The purple will look good. Just be prepared for it to stain your lips.” “Perfect,” Shae said with a wink, “it’ll just give Brady a chance to kiss it o of me.” “Because he needs a reason to kiss you at all.” Anna paused at the full-length mirror, admiring Lizzie’s makeup masterpiece. She’d chosen a sultrier look for the blonde: red lips, black, winged liner, shimmery highlight across the crests of her cheekbones. “Every time I come over to your house, there you two are making out like teenagers.” Smugly, Shaelyn shrugged her shoulders. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.” Jade laughed. “I used to be irresistible. Now I’m just the size of a beached whale.” She curved a hand over her belly. “Did I tell y’all the last time I saw my vagina?” “No,” Lizzie said, swiping purple in expert strokes along Shae’s lips, “but I have a feeling you’re going to tell us.” “Thirty-six days. Thirty-six days! They don’t tell you that crap in those pregnancy books. I forget what it looks like.” “Good thing your husband hasn’t,” Shaelyn muttered, earning a sharp bark from Lizzie, and an even louder, “Rules! Remember rule number seven, please.” “No sex talk about Lizzie’s brother in her presence,” intoned Jade. “Anyway, we can’t have sex anymore. It’s really sad and I think I saw him limping the other day.” “Blue balls will do that to a guy.” Lizzie swatted Shae playfully on the arm. “I told you, lady, no sex talk about my brother. I have sensitive ears.” “Hey, Liz, your phone is ringing.” Maybe she shouldn’t have thrown herself at Jade so obviously, but there was nothing to be done about it. Be Gage, be Gage. She’d texted him hours ago about him joining them

at EOCC, and it was perhaps the reason she’d dolled up tonight more than she had recently. Blown-out brown hair, fake lashes, burgundy lip color. Her dress was silver and just a little shimmery under the light, but still remained perfectly respectable. Professional. Yup, that was her. “Thanks,” she said, taking the phone from her sister-inlaw, her heart in her throat. His name on her screen made her belly all ﬂuttery. She opened the text. Felt her shoulders droop with disappointment a moment later. “Is that Gage?” Anna asked softly. “He can’t make it?” “No, he can’t.” Lizzie moved over to her vanity mirror, sent him back a quick text, and then shoved her phone in her purse. She had no reason to be disappointed. Life happened; sometimes you didn’t get everything you wanted. Plus, she never minded a night out with her friends. “Y’all ready to go?” By the time they arrived at the restaurant where the event was taking place, down in the French Quarter, Jade barely made it in the front door before excusing herself for the bathroom. “Pregnancy pees are the worst,” Shaelyn announced loudly as they received stamps on their hands at the entrance, taking note of the male attendant’s pinched expression. “Do you want us to ask her to come back over here when she’s done?” “Uh . . . no, you’re good.” Name badges were shoved at them. “Tell her she’s all set. Y’all have a good night now.” Tossing a wink in Lizzie’s direction, Shaelyn linked her arm with Anna’s, and sauntered into a large dining area. Why Lizzie had expected a scene out of a homecoming dance, she didn’t know—but it was nothing like that. Men

milled about in business casual attire; the women were dressed in more variety: skirts, dresses, pants. Lizzie tugged down the hem of her dress. When she’d attended a makeup brand’s launch party some months back, her dress had been perfect and she’d blended right in with the other beauty influencers. Tonight, she was definitely on the top scale of overdressed. Even her friends had gone with traditional pant suits. Her shoulders squared. Well, once a YouTuber always a YouTuber. Her version of casual would always be a few notches closer to the extreme. Her gaze caught on a familiar figure across the space, over by the bu et table. “Oh, look, Owen’s here already. C’mon, let me introduce y’all.” He must have sensed their approach because he turned at nearly the same time, grabbed a bottle o the table, and headed toward them as well. He didn’t smile in greeting, but she figured that wasn’t quite his thing. “You made it,” he said, his voice so very similar and yet radically di erent than Gage’s. “I hoped I didn’t have to eat the food by myself again this month.” Laughing, Anna leaned forward and held out her hand. “Anna O’Connor. My husband works with your twin?” “Yeah.” Owen nodded slowly, dark hair falling forward. “Luke’s come in a time or two when Gage has been working at Inked. Nice to meet you.” Not to be left out, Shaelyn introduced herself and immediately went in for the kill: “What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever tattooed someone before? Don’t spare us the details, please.” “Tattooed or pierced?” Owen asked and then sank one hand into the front pocket of his black slacks. Shaelyn’s hazel eyes went wide, purple lips parting. “Both?”

“It has to be the tongue for the tattooing. It’s more common than people think, but I hate it every single time. As for the piercing . . .” His dark eyes flashed with muted humor. “Anytime someone walks in wanting a Prince Albert, I have the most ridiculous urge to hand the job over to Gage.” “A Prince Albert?” Anna echoed. Lizzie felt her lips curl upward. “You’re evil, Owen Harvey.” To Anna, he said, “It’s when a dude gets a barbell on the tip of his dick.” Then, he met Lizzie’s gaze. “And you have me to thank for your butterfly. How do you think Gage wound up with that one?” She shook her head slowly, fighting back a laugh. “Totally evil. I mean, I approve of this one-hundred percent, don’t get me wrong. But no wonder he’s always grumbling about how many butterfly tattoos he’s had to ink.” She paused, a thought occurring to her. “Does he know you manipulate the system?” “You can ask him when he gets here.” Every muscle in her body froze. Or maybe it was just her knees locked tight and her arms clapped down against her side. “He’s coming here?” “Yeah . . .” In that quiet way of his, Owen watched her steadily, as though gauging her reaction. “He runs CBR— tonight’s sponsor? Didn’t he tell you he’d be here?” Well, no. Or rather, he’d mentioned running late to a meeting and she’s figured it had to do with work. She tried to rack her brain for whether she’d told him she’d be attending EOCC specifically, but no, she didn’t think she had. Obviously, he hadn’t realized she’d be here. A simple mistake, really. It wasn’t as though he’d purposely withheld the information from her.

Although she had absolutely no idea what CBR stood for— had to be a cop thing. Snagging a water bottle from the table, she cracked the lid and turned back to their small group. “I didn’t realize that he ran any organizations.” She sipped the water, placed the cap back on. “Pretty fancy if you ask me.” Owen scrubbed a hand over his beard. “Yeah, I don’t know if it’s all that fancy or not.” “What does he do?” “He really hasn’t mentioned any of this to you?” Was she missing something here? She checked over her shoulder, searching for any sight of the man who’d captured her heart. Nothing, not yet anyway. “No, he hasn’t.” What could she add? We’re taking it really slow, as in, usually I have to browbeat the information out of him. Or, alternatively: we’re really just fuck buddies, but I made the mistake of falling in love with him, even though I knew it was a bad idea. Oops! Yeah, neither of those would go over remotely well. Shaelyn gently bumped her shoulder. “Brady’s mentioned it a few times in passing, I think. Cure for Blue and Red, maybe?” “Care,” Owen said in a low voice, “it’s care, not cure.” “Oh, yeah. That’s right.” Keeping her shoulder pressed to Lizzie’s, Shaelyn added, “Brady said it’s been great for a lot of the city’s ﬁrst responders. Providing hotline services for those who need to talk anonymously. Therapy sessions at their facility . . . I can’t remember where the o ce is based out of, but it’s local. I didn’t realize Gage was the man behind the curtain, so to speak.” “He keeps a pretty low proﬁle. Generally keeps media focused on the organization as opposed to his involvement with it.” Again, Owen stared at her, and this time Lizzie knew that something had to be up. “You’re really sure he didn’t mention this at all to you?”

She bristled at his incredulous tone. “He didn’t, no.” Lizzie ignored the sting. How many times had they slept together now? How many times had they spent minutes, hours, in his truck just . . . driving? Enough. Not that she’d show her ace, not in front of everyone. “I think it’s great,” she said, twisting and untwisting the bottle in her hands. “I mean, sometimes we all need a little help now and again. I’m glad Gage is able to do that with . . . CBR? Right, CBR.” “CBR?” said Jade as she strolled up to them, waddling like a penguin after a long stint in the water. “Nathan’s mentioned them a few times over the last few years, and that he often saw Gage at one of the therapy sessions.” She paused, her dark eyes blinking back at them from an array of the false lashes Lizzie had stuck on. One was askew, a clear sign that Jade had already scrubbed her eye without second thought. “Is Gage the one who runs it?” “Yes.” How had everyone known but her? Had she lived under a rock for the last however many years? No, you’ve just been involved in the makeup world. Great, now she sounded shallow even in her own head. “What aren’t you saying, Owen?” Dark eyes ﬂicked away, strained, and Lizzie pressed on. “I don’t get why this is such a big fuss or a secret. It’s good that Gage does this for the NOPD. I mean, isn’t that what we want our o cers to be? Healthy, both mentally and physically?” “It’s not the fact that he runs it, Lizzie, it’s the why behind it all.” The why behind it all? That didn’t even make sense. God, between the twin Harvey brothers, she was tired of constantly going in circles. Whatever they said had a secret meaning—hell, two secret meanings—and it was exhausting. “Owen, just spit it out, would—” His voice cut over a microphone, and Lizzie whirled around, the start of a smile already on her face. It faltered

when she saw him, still dressed in his black BDU’s, his NOPD hat drawn low over his head, shielding his eyes. His shoulders, the line of his spine all indicated that he was done. Shit went down at work—hadn’t he said that in his text earlier? She knew from watching her brother and stepfather that living the life of a cop was more than a little di cult. Unable to stop herself, she stepped forward, closer to the raised stage, closer to him. “Sorry, y’all,” came his rugged, west Louisiana-tinted voice over the mic, “I unfortunately had some minor di culties at work. Actually, they were pretty major—I’m already rambling.” The crowd laughed lightly, as though charmed to have a rough and handsome police o cer within their midst. “I had a speech,” he continued, “and obviously it’s at my house, along with my civilian clothes. I guess y’all are gonna have to put up with whatever I come up with for the next few minutes. If I ramble, just . . . don’t ignore me.” “You’re too sexy to ignore!” shouted a female voice from the back of the pack. Lizzie glared, then tugged on the hem of her dress again. Guess she wasn’t the only not-quite-professional person they’d let inside the doors tonight. “Yeah, thanks.” Gage laughed awkwardly, brim of his hat tipping down as he looked at the stage ﬂoor. “First, just want to give a quick shout out to Savannah Rose for letting Care for Blue and Red sponsor tonight’s activities. Drinks are on me, y’all.” There was more enthusiastic clapping. “All right, so, for those of you who don’t know, CBR is a local organization geared toward supporting all ﬁrst responders and their families. We’ve been runnin’ strong for six years now, providing help to those who need it. In our line of work,

a lot of the scars aren’t on the outside. I mean, we’ve all got those, too.” The water bottle crinkled in Lizzie’s hands. Why had he kept this a secret? The question ran on repeat in her head, refusing to move on. Be calm, girl, don’t leap to conclusions. Gage unhitched the microphone from the stand and stepped back. “So yeah, we have those outer scars. No one really notices the ones that seep beneath the skin, though, sometimes not even our own friends and family. The increasing alcohol intake, the sleepless nights, the fact that we become so ingrained in the job, that we leave and can’t turn o that part of our brain. Anyone in here know a first responder? Firefighter? EMT?” Hands raised. Lizzie’s hand stayed wrapped around her water bottle, unwilling to draw attention to herself. She wanted to hear what he had to say—without him noticing her presence. “How many times have you heard a cop say, ‘hold on, something ain’t right up there’ just before he or she goes out of their way to approach a situation? Or maybe you see a person at a scene. They’re dressed in plain clothes, but are barking out orders to passerby. I’ve seen it multiple times over. An EMT, o the clock, rushing forward to lend a hand.” Gage let out a self-deprecating laugh. “We are never o the clock, and it takes a toll on ourselves and on our families. I founded CBR in the hope that first responders would have a place to go when they feel anxious or the first threat of depression takes hold. Because at the end of the day”—in that customary way of his, he turned his hat, all Southern charmer—“if our first responders aren’t healthy, if they aren’t at the top of their game, it a ects every single one of you. The quality of your calls of service, your wait times when you call 911, everything.”

The water bottle popped in her hand, she’d squeezed it so tight, and Gage’s gaze swung in her direction. There was nothing she could do, nowhere she could hide. And so she lifted her chin up and refused to look away. She watched his chest inﬂate with a sharply inhaled breath, heard it crackle over the mic, and then he twisted away, commanding the crowd’s attention with his smooth voice, the passion behind every word he uttered. “CBR’s done well over the last few years to spread the word, but we’d like to push out of Orleans Parish, and for that we need investors. Much as I’d like to say my salary would allow for multiple facilities in multiple towns, I’d be lying.” There were a few hollers of agreement, some cat-call whistling, and another round of applause. “Savannah agreed to set me up tonight and o er more information to anyone willing to contribute. I’d promise payment in response, but the organization doesn’t make a dime. However, I did arrange for a calendar spread with my unit. Shirts were not harmed in the making, and I can guarantee every cop is shirtless and lookin’ good. Anyone have any questions I can answer?” “What month are you?” a guy shouted. “I’m hoping for December because I’d love to unwrap you.” Shaelyn spit out her drink beside Lizzie. “Oh man, I’m sorry. So good, though, so good.” “September,” Gage said, dark eyes concentrated on the guy who’d asked the question, “I believe I was givin’ September by the photographer. Any other questions?” “Yes, I do.” Everyone in the room whipped around to face Lizzie, and it was all she could do to keep from sinking into the ﬂoor. Back up, stand straight. Just like all the times she’d sat around in her pajama pants, a cute top, and her hair and makeup done up to the T

for a tutorial. Lizzie stepped forward, only to be tugged back by a masculine hand around her wrist. “Don’t,” Owen muttered, fingers letting her go, “if you love him, don’t do that to him. Not in front of everyone.” She cradled her hand to her chest as though it’d been seared. Don’t do that to him. Clearly, she didn’t have as much of a poker face as she’d like to believe. Yes, she loved Gage Harvey, but was it too much to hope that he wouldn’t shut her down and shut her out? Owen was right. The EOCC wasn’t the place for her questions, and so she faked a laugh, her old YouTube laugh, and called out, “I bet the photographer had an amazing time with you as the model!” The crowd erupted into laughter. Her friends remained quiet at her side. And Gage, the man who had the ability to ruin her, lifted the mic to his mouth and said, “She did. The time of her life, I believe, and the feeling was mutual.” Lizzie squashed the fluttering in her heart and turned to Jade. “I need air.” Her friend’s hand wrapped around hers. “You want company?” “You’ll be kicked out for good.” With a wry smile, Jade shook her head. “No one’s going to fight a pregnant woman, mi hermana. Do you want me to go with you?” No. Some things had to be handled alone, and she suspected even that wouldn’t last for long. As she wound her way through groups of people, she heard Gage calling out her name, following behind her. She only stopped when she’d entered the hallway, ducking o to the side so that she wouldn’t be slapped by the door each time someone stepped out.

Which Gage did, not even ten seconds later. Exhausted. As she took in the shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw, it was the only word to come to mind. He looked utterly exhausted. Well, so was she when it came to playing his mind games. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said, crossing her arms over her dress. “Quite a surprise.” His throat worked with a swallow. “Lizzie, let’s not do this.” “Do what?” she threw back at him, hating the bitter note in her voice. It wasn’t her. Even when she’d dated Scott, the bitterness had never seeped in and taken root. She was not a bitter person. Taking a calming breath, she tried again. “I feel like you’re constantly winding me up in half-truths, Gage. You pull me in, push me away. Why wouldn’t you tell me about CBR, about an organization that you founded? I mean”—her hands flew up with frustration—“you’ve had plenty of time to do so. You had seven hours stuck in a car with me, and you never mentioned it.” Mouth flattening, he pressed his hands to the top of his head, over his hat. Chest inflated, shoulders rose up. He looked ready to crack and splinter down the middle. “I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone that I’m constantly forcing to talk to me.” There, she’d said it. “We aren’t dating, Lizzie.” Oh. Was that the sound of her heart breaking? No, just a random female screaming from the EOCC meeting? Perfect. Lizzie squeezed her eyes shut. Nope, totally her heart. Four little words and he’d successfully managed to slice it in two and toss the carcass onto the grill for a little pop and sizzle. Might as well get her while she was down, of course. “You’re a jerk,” she ground out. “I hope you’re aware of that.”

He gaped at her. “Because I told you something that you already knew?” “No.” She stepped forward, jabbing him in the chest with a ﬁnger. “You’re a jerk because you knew all along that I’d fall for you, and that you’d fall for me, and that you would still never let us happen.” Another jab, then another, and another. “You’re a self-sabotager, Gage.” “That’s not even a word.” “Does it look like I care?” Fury set aside the hurt and disappointment. Fury at him for putting her in this position, and fury at herself for once again setting herself up for heartbreak. This time it was worse, though, because this time she’d actually allowed herself to picture a future with Gage. Double dates with her friends. Marriage. Kids. The damn white-picket fence that no one had in New Orleans, not that she’d ever seen, at least. Anger planted her hands on his chest and shoved. He didn’t budge, not even the slightest waver, and that ticked her o even more. “I hope you’re happy, Gage. I hope that when you’re old and gray, you’ll look at this moment and think, damn, I screwed that up. You could have come out here and explained why Owen looked like I’d about run over his dog when I raised my hand. You didn’t. Instead you waltzed out here to inform me that we aren’t dating and you don’t owe me a damn thing.” The door to the ballroom creaked open, and Gage wrapped a hand around her arm and tugged her down the hallway. He opened a door three over, poked his head in, and gave her a little shove inside. “You push,” he growled, shutting the door shut behind him, “and you push. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn’t tell you for a reason? That maybe I liked seeing you look at me with something other than pity?”

“Pity?” Lizzie sco ed, and then bit back a squeak when he cornered her against a desk and a set of chairs. “There’s no reason to pity you, Gage.” “No? Then let me tell you a story.” His hand came down on her shoulder, directing her to one chair, sitting her down like a good little student. “You want to know the whole, gritty truth? The reason why I created CBR? The reason why, you and me, we’ll never make this o cial?” Her knees squeezed together at his sardonic tone, and yes, that was her heart picking up speed, tumbling over itself in pain. “My grandfather was a cop,” he started, “as was his father. Main di erence being that my grandfather died on the job, a tra c stop gone wrong. My grandmother did what she could to raise my dad on her own, and imagine her horror when her only kid decided he wanted to join the NOPD, too. I suppose it’s a stroke of good fortune that she passed away before my dad did.” As she watched his almost manic hand gestures through the air, Lizzie worried that she’d pushed him too far, that she’d requested a story that would ruin her, just as it had ruined him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his jaw clenched and unclenched with every step he took, pacing the room like a caged lion. “My parents separated when I was nine. She loved him, both Owen and I could see that, but my dad’s job took a toll on everyone. Overtime. Details. She’d sit by the damn radio at home, tuned into his district just to hear his voice. To make sure he was safe.” A masculine hand ﬂipped o his hat, tossing it on the chair opposite hers. “When he was at home, it was worse. She begged him to quit. Apply to a di erent department, she’d ask. Every night for years on end, she pled her case. Until she stopped. That’s when she took us to Hackberry. Sent us to Dad every weekend with letters

written to him in our handwriting, even though she dictated every damn thing we wrote.” “She loved him,” Lizzie whispered, hands curling in her lap. “You can’t fault her for that.” Black eyes narrowed, and he averted his face. “Yeah, well, he loved the job more. I dated a girl from Hackberry in high school, and after. Sweet, quiet. She dreamed of becoming a nutritionist of all things, and I’d always planned to follow in my father’s footsteps. Work for the NOPD, work for S.O.D. It was in the plans, and then it all went to hell.” It was on the tip of her tongue to beg him for information, but this was his story, his pace. He hadn’t rushed her when she’d opened up about her father, and it seemed unfair to cut into his now. He stopped behind the chair across from hers, hands gripping the back. “He died up on the I-10, with the Superdome in sight, doing his job. Helping some lady with her car, even though he’d already gotten o the clock.” Lashes ﬂuttering down, his nostrils ﬂared. “There wasn’t any chance to revive him, not even to tell him the news. The plan was to visit him at work that Monday, when he’d be out patrolling, and I’d be able to sneak away for lunch during the academy.” Weakly, she asked, “What was the news?” “I’d proposed to my girlfriend that very evening back home in Hackberry. I’d planned it all out; September was her favorite month.” September, the month he’d chosen for the calendar. Something told her he hadn’t done so because of his ex, though, but rather in honor of his father’s passing. She hadn’t thought it possible for her heart to crack any more, but here he was, proving her wrong. “What did your mom say about your proposal?”

His expression turned pained. “She celebrated. Wine, toasts, the whole shebang. I went to Michelle’s apartment for the night, but something . . . I couldn’t sleep, so I went home early the next morning. Four a.m., maybe, and I found her there in the living room. Gunshot to the chest, blood everywhere. No cell phones back then, but my dad’s sergeant had called Mom’s house phone with the news.” “Gage.” His name broke on her tongue, and he hardened before her, jaw locking, temple pulsing. “Gage, I—” “I know,” he grunted, then shut his eyes. “I sat there, you know, not understanding what had pushed her to take her life. No one had called me, and my mom was dead, and I didn’t even know why.” She couldn’t take it—she shot o the chair and stepped in front of him. She’d been right that he’d ruin her, but he’d been wrong about the pity. Lizzie didn’t pity him. Her heart ached for what he’d gone through, and his dread about visiting his hometown made sense now. Would she want to go back to a place with very few good memories? She could barely visit Danny at his house somedays, so strong were the images that had once been her life. “Let me hug you,” she said. He chuckled, and the sound sent a fissure of worry through her. “Don’t you want to hear the rest?” The urge to vomit was real. “There’s more?” “You might have noticed, princess, that I’m not engaged.” “Well, yeah, but I figured that breakup came later, much later. Not . . .” “What’s that saying again? When it rains, it pours?” His smile was not kind. “My engagement lasted a total of fifteen hours, give or take. Michelle heard the news about my dad,

then about my mom, and she wasted no time in coming to my house, returning the ring I’d bought, and skipping out.” It was shitty, no doubt about it, but . . . “You were, what, twenty at the time? Gage, y’all were kids still. I’m not surprised that she left you.” “Would you have left?” His sharp question caught her o guard, and she stumbled over her words when she spoke. “I-I, maybe back then. Probably not.” “Probably not.” Jamming his hands on his hips, he snorted. “That’s what I ﬁgured. Truth is, I didn’t expect a di erent answer from you, from any woman. And that’s why I didn’t want this to go any further. I might be suspended—” “Suspended?” she echoed. Oh no, his text. She reached for him, only to be shaken o . “I let my head get all messed up.” With you, seemed to be his unspoken words. “Don’t blame this on me, Gage Harvey. I didn’t do anything wrong.” “You said that you loved me.” Her heart cracked, and she dropped her gaze. “I did say that. I’d say it again now, if I thought it’d make a di erence.” “It might,” he answered roughly, “but not forever. Forever is my mother killing herself because she lost my father. Forever is my girlfriend of six years deciding that I wasn’t worth the headache of everyday life with a police o cer. I don’t blame them for it, not anymore. But I don’t want that for you, Lizzie.” No, her heart whispered, no, no, no. “Don’t martyr yourself just because you think you know what’s best for me,” she told him. “It’s not noble. It’s stupid.”

His lips moved up in a sad smile. “Owen tells me that all the time. You’d probably be better o if you’d asked him to do your challenge.” “I don’t want Owen,” she snapped, ﬁghting back tears, “I want you.” “I’m o the market, princess. It was good while it lasted, and trust me when I say you opened my eyes to a lot of shit about myself I’d rather not deal with, but the fact remains: one day you’re going to realize that you’ve been livin’ your life beside the radio, waiting for the moment you hear that I’m the one who’s not coming home. I’m saving you the hassle.” The . . . hassle? “You’re a self-sabotager, Gage.” “I told you, princess,” he said, mouth curling in the smallest of smiles, “that’s not a word.” A scream launched in her throat, but didn’t escape. It hummed over her tongue and vibrated in her throat, and Lizzie turned for the door before she did something stupid, like punch Gage Harvey in his stupid, handsome face. His voice stopped her just before her hand landed on the doorknob. “I know you said that you love me, but sometimes . . . sometimes love isn’t meant to last forever.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “If you loved me, would it last forever?” Adam’s apple dodging down with a hard swallow, he gave a short nod and an even shorter response. “Yes.” “Then why would my love for you be any di erent?” If he answered, the door slamming shut behind her captured the words. It was just as well. It wasn’t like he could say anything more to shatter her heart, anyway.

FROM THE DESK OF THATMAKEUPGIRL

WRITTEN AND THEN READ ON YOUTUBE

ear Doll, You’re probably wondering a few things. One, why the hell am I back on YouTube after I made a whole big fuss about needing a “break”? Yeah, I plan to bunny quote that as soon as I read this out loud to you. Back to our list. Second, what am I doing writing this all down? Here’s a little fun fact for you . . . if you scroll back to the early days of this channel, like ten years ago, you may have noticed something. I stuttered. A lot. Don’t worry, I’ll just wait here in case you’re hoping to go stalk me down. Oh, you’re back? Great. Either you couldn’t make it through a single video (I don’t blame you), or you’re ready for me to keep going with this super odd update. (I expect it to trend, don’t let me down). Anyway, there was a deﬁnite stutter. In fact, I stuttered quite frequently growing up. I suppose it came as a result of certain things in my upbringing. We won’t get into that here. In any case, it wasn’t until I started creating and uploading videos that the stutter quieted and I could enjoy myself. You did that, doll. Playing with makeup, however silly it might seem, did that. For so many years, this channel was my happy place. It gave me conﬁdence when I had none. It straightened my posture when

I slouched and hid in the shadows. It reminded me that we can all be beautiful, no matter the shape of our noses, the height of our cheekbones, the strength of our jawlines. And if you don’t like it, you can always contour the hell out of it and be the YOU that you want to be. (It should be noted that my writing is atrocious, and there are underlines all over this paper. Sorry for any random stumbling over of sentences.) Sometime in the last few years, I lost love sight of all that. I wanted something new, to be something more than just the chick applying makeup. So, naturally, I created a new online identity as if that would solve all my problems! (bahaha, don’t do this. Trust me). To this date, Naked You, my photography business, has half as many followers as ThatMakeupGirl, even if a woman in Boston had the credit for a little while. Spoiler alert! It was me all along. It’s been great traipsing (I love this word) around Lousiana Lousianna Louisiana and having new types of adventures. Only . . . do you remember that challenge I started without meaning to? The #badboyirredemption one, which is still trending and I honestly don’t understand why? Well, I fell for the bad boy, just like I warned you all not to. Interesting tidbit: he’s not all that much of a bad boy. He’s actually quite noble. Too noble. I love him anyway. I let him charm his way into my life, even though I knew I shouldn’t let down my guard. I let him become my happy place, my rock, my best friend. If I needed a laugh, I called him. If I wanted to go on an adventure, he was the ﬁrst person I looked to. If I wanted to feel special, wanted, loved, all I had to do was sit in the same room as him and he showed me all of that. It wasn’t a lie. None of it was. And when he broke my heart, I made a startling discovery. I didn’t want my friends, I didn’t particularly want my family

either. I love them and all, but what I truly needed was you, doll. Sometimes, when we as beauty influencers sit in front of our cameras and film, we think of the viewer. What do you want to see? What can I say to hold your interest? Sometimes, however, YouTube is my personal diary, the timeline of my growth as a woman finding her way, the space in which I retreat when nothing else provides comfort or solace. I’m reading this to you today because I have a few things to say (obviously), and I hope that one day, I’ll look back on this video and think, “Oh yeah, that was the day I grew into the next best version of myself.” We’re numbering this because I feel like it. 1. I didn’t fall for the bad boy. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be here now. (There is a pile of crumpled up tissues scattered over my desk, and I’m drinking wine at eleven a.m. Don’t worry, this is good progress). No, I fell for the man who tempted me to do wild things, who made me smile and who taught me to never fear the fall, no matter how gross or disgusting the landing. I fell for the man who met me out at a club because I asked him to, and even when I threw up all over him, he made me laugh and pushed me to do more for myself. Which leads me to . . . 2. Sometimes you can’t make other people do what you want. You can’t own their shit, you can only own your own. You can choose to be happy or you can decide you want to be miserable. From this day forward, I’m going with the former. Happy is not only better for the skin, it’s also better for my heart and soul. Win-win. 3. I’ve missed my makeup. They’ve sat lonely and quiet for the last few weeks, and there is a decent chance I spent my morning in my three-day old pajamas, swirling foundation all over my skin and pretending I looked fabulous. (Confession: I did)

Thank you for being you, doll. Thank you for listening to me read this letter out loud, and for forgiving me because my stutter is back in full force after nearly ten years of absence. It’s the reason I wrote it all down, you see. I have to accept all that I am, and I encourage you to do so, too. Never believe you’re not worthy of something or someone. You are. You’re better. Change only because you want to, and not because someone holds that expectation of you. Laugh loudly every day. And take the risk on love. The heartbreak may come, but you may still learn something along the way. I’m signing o as someone else today. Not as ThatMakeupGirl, but as Lizzie, plain old Lizzie from New Orleans, Louisiana, who spent her later teenage years on the Wank, otherwise known as the Best Bank there ever was. See you soon, doll. I’ve got more tutorials to tackle, and I swear to God I tried this facial primer the other day and it was like an orgasm and a unicorn came together to birth something magical. Stay tuned. Love, Lizzie

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Y

ou’re an asshole, Harvey.” Nathan Danvers. Shit. Gage ﬁnished spritzing the leather chair with an antibacterial mist, swiped a white towel over the seat so it’d be ready for the next client, and then glanced up. Only to meet the beady black eyes of Rocky, Danvers’ K-9 partner. The dog’s bottom lip quivered, revealing white teeth that may or may not have made Gage’s balls disappear into his body. Once, when he’d done some surveillance work, the old K-9 o cer had mistaken Gage for a criminal and had sent his Malinois over for a little “meet and greet.” In other words, the dog’s teeth had both met and greeted Gage’s right forearm. He didn’t fear dogs explicitly, but he’d be damned if he ended up with anymore stitches. Tucking the spray bottle behind his back, so that the dog didn’t think he was about to get spritzed in the face, Gage glanced up at Lizzie’s brother. “Really? You had to bring the dog?” “Seemed like a good idea for intimidation purposes.”

Yeah, because Nathan Danvers didn’t do a solid job of it on his own. The man was taller than even Gage, and at sixtwo, it wasn’t often he had to crane his head up to look someone in the eye. “I could cite tattoo parlor policies.” Danvers gave a short whistle, and the dog jumped o the tattoo table and retreated back to his owner’s side. “You could,” he drawled smugly, “but your brother was the one to let us in.” How wonderful. “Owen likes to pull pranks,” Gage said. “No, I just like to see you happy.” His eyes snapped to the right, where his twin emerged from the back room. He ambled toward them, expression somber, eyes rimmed with tired shadows. Jesus. “What, is this a circle jerk or something? If so, thanks but no thanks.” Gage didn’t miss the way his brother rolled his eyes, nor the little head dip he gave Danvers. “In all seriousness, an intervention isn’t necessary. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got shit to take care of before the next—” “Sit,” Danvers snapped, followed by a very close-up, very loud, ru ! from Rocky. Gage’s ass hit the chair he’d just cleaned down. “I feel like this might be a little dramatic? We could do this without the intimidation tactics.” “Nope, Rocky likes taking part in the festivities. Don’t you, boy?” Ru ! Ru ! There was a good chance Gage would be leaving today without an appendage—if he was lucky, it’d be his left arm since he was a righty. If he continued to be plagued with all the bad luck in the world, it’d be his genie lamp. Did you really just think that? Say it with me now like a man . . . C-O-C-K.

Not for the ﬁrst time in the last two weeks, he thought of Lizzie. He’d hated seeing her tears. Despised the way that, just before she’d slammed the door in his face, her beautiful blue eyes had glittered with disappointment. In him. He could handle the anger—hell, he’d pushed her to that, purposely acting like as ass with the hope that she’d walk out without a hint of regret. Better that she leave furious now, he’d decided, than for him to take everything she o ered and later leave her with nothing. One day she’d thank him. A breath shuddered across his lips, and Gage steeled himself against the pain and the doubt. The pain of not having her beside him. The pain of not hearing her voice. The creeping doubt that he’d damned himself to a life of misery. In a hollow voice he hardly recognized, he said, “Are we going to get this over with?” Ru ! Gage’s dick twitched in apprehension. “Harvey, I’m going to do you a huge favor here.” Danvers issued a quiet command and Rocky dropped to his haunches. He undid the dog’s collar, and the Malinois shook himself free. Aimed for Gage. Pounced. And licked the hell out of his face. Gage came up for air with handfuls of fur. “Danvers, seriously, you’re fucking insane. You don’t just—” The rest of his sentence was swallowed up by dog tongue, and Gage’s stomach twisted in disgust. “He’s o duty now,” Danvers said, swatting the leather leash and collar combo against his leg. “Collar on, and my

boy is as vicious as they come. He did his job by making you piss yourself in fear.” “I didn’t piss my—” More tongue. Doggy breath. It would probably be the most action Gage ever saw again because the thought of being with any woman but Lizzie left him feeling nauseous and uneasy. “Just so you’re aware, the only reason I’m not fucking you up right now is because I’ve been in your position.” “You’ve made out with a dog?” Owen said dryly, posted up against the wall with his arms crossed over his plaid shirt. “Shit gets weirder and weirder in the NOPD every year.” “Nah, I reserve kissing for my wife.” Danvers dropped his bulk onto the tattoo table, snapped his ﬁngers, and relieved Gage from su ocation by K-9. “I meant that I’ve been where you are, Harvey. Shoving away the woman I love because I’ve got all these ideas in my head that it won’t last, that I’m not good enough. We’ve all been there.” Owen raised a hand. “I haven’t been there.” “You will,” Danvers vowed, “and when you do, you’re going to realize that you’re a dumbass for letting the woman of your dreams walk away. Or, if you’re like me and frequently say stupid shit, for pushing her away.” Thinking that he wasn’t an idiot had never been Gage’s problem. That, he knew. But it still didn’t change one fact . . . “You know the world we live in, Danvers. You know it, you live it every day. Do you really want your sister with a guy like me? Someone who thrives o the rush of a drug bust? Someone who, if we’re honest here, has already been shot once? If I had a sister, I wouldn’t want her dating me. Hell, look at Owen.” Gage’s twin straightened from the wall. “What do you mean, ‘look at Owen’? Don’t bring me into this.”

“Don’t bring you into this?” Gage’s hands moved to his knees to stand, but one sharp look from Rocky had him sitting back down again. “You don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve spent years trying to get me away from the NOPD? You don’t think I haven’t noticed the bonuses you give with each week’s check? You’re as subtle as a bull, Owen.” Eyes as black as his own snapped with annoyance. “Am I not allowed to worry about you?” Owen demanded, stepping in close. “You’re the only family I have left. Sue me for wanting you out of a job that can land you in a goddamn casket just like our parents.” Silence creaked in the parlor, the only sound Rocky’s happy panting. And then, roughly, “Do you know that I pick up every number with a 504-area code? All times of the day and night, Gage. I never stop thinking it’s going to be you they’re calling to tell me about. Injured. Dead. Fuck.” Owen twisted away, dragging his hands through his messy hair, and Gage . . . Heart beating a mile a minute, Gage struggled to piece together his fractured thoughts. He’d always known that Owen worried about him, but he’d never quite realized quite how much. Ignoring Rocky’s growl when he stood, Gage wrapped a hand around his brother’s neck, pulling him close so their foreheads touched—just like when they’d been kids believing that it had the ability to unleash their super awesome twin powers. “I’m good, brother,” he said, staring into identical blackhued eyes, “I might be younger than you, but you don’t have to live terriﬁed that I’m going to get hurt. We’re good, you hear me?” “Then why is it di erent for my sister?”

Gage’s head jerked toward Danvers. “What?” Dark brows lowered as the dude’s creepy gray eyes watched him. “I said, why is it di erent for Lizzie? Let’s be honest, Owen has to put up with your ass. Lizzie does not, which if we listen to reason—that’s me, by the way—then Lizzie doesn’t have to stick around. So, if we go with that, then that means she cares more about you than Owen does. He’s blood, she’s not.” He looked to Owen. “No o ense, man.” Owen held up his hands. “None taken.” Gage’s head felt ready to burst. “That is straight up the most convoluted, shittiest reasoning I’ve ever heard.” “This is coming to you free of charge, Harvey. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” The hand that fed him? “Do you hear yourself?” Danvers folded his hands behind his head, clasping his neck. “My wife says that to me at least four times per week.” Gage clenched his hands to keep from throwing them up in the air. “You might not know this, Harvey, but my wife works for Crime Lab—or rather she did until a few weeks ago. We’re about to have a baby girl named Elizabeth, o cially. Anyway, she worked Crime Lab and I worked in homicide. Her dad was the police chief of Miami until he retired last year.” As if sensing his owner needed him, Rocky dropped his chin to Danvers’ thigh. In a low voice, Lizzie’s brother said, “You don’t think my wife worried about me every day? You don’t think I didn’t freak out when I’d call and she wouldn’t pick up? Hell, she nearly died—” He broke o , eyes slamming shut. “I worry every goddamn day, and you know what? I wouldn’t trade my life with her for anything else. She’s my best friend, my lover, the mother of our future baby girl. I would lay down my life for that woman, even if I

knew something might cut my life short. Because any years with her are better than none.” It was suddenly hard to breathe. Gage opened his mouth, seeking air, life, and yet he could only hear Danvers’ words: any years with her are better than none. “Do you feel that way about my sister?” Yes. The word reverberated in his chest, pounding at his ribs as though demanding freedom, demanding exit. It wasn’t until he heard Danvers say, “damn right you do,” that Gage realized he’d spoken at all. “I don’t want to let her down,” he rasped, “that’s my biggest fear. That I’ll drop the ball and she’ll wake up one day and realize that she’s lived a life she’s hated. That would . . . that would kill me.” “Easy, then don’t let her down.” Easy. I choose to be happy. A rough laugh broke free from his chest. Maybe he needed to take his girl’s advice—ﬁnally. “What do I do?” “Well, you’re in luck, Harvey, because you just so happen to know a guy who’s pulled o some epic couple reunions in the last few years.” Gage dropped his eyes to the dog. “You talkin’ about Rocky?” Danvers rolled his eyes. “Me, asshole. You have me.” God help them all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

izzie knew she was exhausted when staring at images of hot guys just didn’t cut it for her anymore. Leaning back in her desk chair, she stared at the photos she’d planned to edit earlier in the week for New Orleans’s new version of the Chippendales. Ripped abs. Muscled thighs. Shaved chests. Yawn. The photoshoot had been equally as boring. Nothing against the guys, of course. They’d all been pleasant and respectful, but none of them were him, Gage Harvey. “Stop thinking about him, Liz,” she whispered to herself, even as her traitorous fingers clicked the mouse over her photo catalog and brought up the set from the NOPD cop calendar. She flicked through photos of Timms, Luke O’Connor, Cardeaux. Felt her heart flutter when she finally reached the batch with Gage. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Sexy, inked body. Yum. It wasn’t healthy to constantly think about him, but Lizzie never claimed to be a health nut who refused co ee,

donuts, and cheese. Nope, she was the girl who enjoyed every last dessert, and Gage was the most satisfying—when he wasn’t being an idiot. With a little sigh, she clicked out of the catalog and pulled up her calendar. In the last few weeks, her schedule had skyrocketed. Between setting aside time for new photoshoots, and also uploading videos regularly to YouTube, her energy level was at an all-time low—and yet she wouldn’t trade it for anything. Her read-aloud letter had taken YouTube by storm, and within days Lizzie had found her face plastered on the local newspapers as well as on national ones online. Everyone wanted to voice their own take on the encouraging words she’d given young girls and boys everywhere. And every single one of them wanted to know the status update on her relationship with Gage. Currently: nonexistent. Lizzie pulled up YouTube, intending to check yesterday’s video on a Halloween makeup tutorial she’d posted. A notiﬁcation bubble in the right-hand screen of her dashboard popped up. Hold on . . . her upload was processing? She pushed down the initial panic. Sometimes social media sites behaved wonky. It was part of the business, and not much could be done about it. But she deﬁnitely hadn’t uploaded anything new since yesterday. Her computer dinged and a bubble popped up: Congratulations, your upload is complete! What. The. Hell. She clicked the icon to view the video, and . . . “O-oh my God.” There was Gage, sitting in what looked to be the living room at Jade’s house. She’d recognize that photo of St. Louis Cathedral behind his head anywhere. What was he doing?

“Are we rollin’?” he said in that west Louisiana accent of his. A piece of paper crinkled in his hands as he looked to someone standing behind the camera. “Danvers, dude, are we—oh shit, does that red light mean we’re on?” “Does it look like I know what I’m doing?” A foot hit the stand, and the camera wobbled. But Lizzie couldn’t look away from Gage’s handsome face. Her heart thudded rapidly, a loud ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum that proved selective hearing was real, because her dratted heart drowned out every sound but his voice. The chords of Halestorm ripping through a guitar solo faded and left only him. Him, him, him. “S-shut up, heart.” Black eyes blinked back at the camera and a sweep of red covered his cheeks. “Hi, uh, dolls, I apologize for the way we signed on. I’d like to pretend that we’ll know how to edit this video but that’s unfortunately above our pay grade.” “I’m not even getting paid for this.” There was a thud and a grunt, and then she heard Owen say, “Pro bono, man, pro bono.” “Anyway,” Gage growled, “I’m sure many of you watched Lizzie read her letter out loud. I have my own letter to read”—the paper rose in view—“and I’d like to think of it as the other half of her speech.” He coughed into a closed ﬁst. “Okay, here we go. Dear Dolls—” “I think it’s just one,” muttered Danny o camera, “dear doll.” “Dude, let him talk.” Gage turned crimson. “Dear, um, Doll, I’d like to start by introducing myself. You might recognize my face as the guy who got roped into the bad boy irredemption challenge. I should probably start by sayin’ that rope wasn’t needed. Lizzie came into my brother’s tattoo parlor like a burst of

color. Gorgeous, was my ﬁrst thought, and then there was something about wanting to get her into bed.” The camera wavered again. “Fuck, now I know how Lizzie feels when me and Jade talk about sex.” Another male grunt from the peanut gallery, and Lizzie couldn’t stop the grin forming on her face. She shouldn’t smile; she really shouldn’t even watch this video. But Lizzie didn’t always do what she should, and so she raised the volume, kicked up her feet on the desk, and watched her man grovel. Just like in every romance novel and rom-com there ever was. “I’ll be honest with y’all—I mean, doll.” Grimacing, Gage scrubbed a hand over his mouth, a curse escaping under his breath that the camera still picked up. “I wasn’t ready for Lizzie. She waltzed in with her stilettos and her sunny smile and her wry sense of humor, and I fell hard. So hard. It wasn’t in the plans—no relationship was. I was good with casual, good with temporary, and then Lizzie blew that out of the water. Suddenly, I wanted to be the one to make her smile, laugh, make those blue eyes of hers fucking shine.” This time it was Owen who cut in: “Gage, man, I think cursing is o limits. Aren’t there kids watching this?” “Shit.” His eyes went wide. “Dammit.” “He’s fucked,” muttered her brother. And Lizzie laughed. She laughed so hard that her feet lifted o the desk, and her hands dug into her belly because this was so them. Not a single one of them, especially Gage, was particularly ﬁt to be on stage for millions around the world. Gage was rough around the edges, with a dirty (and morbid) sense of humor, and a smile that could drop panties in an instant. He was comfortable hiding in the shadows and was determined to keep his city safe, above all else.

The fact that he was doing this for her? Sitting in Jade’s living room in a black button-down shirt, his tattoos all covered up, and his face clean shaven for once . . . Lizzie understood that sometimes you had to play hard to get. Sometimes it was necessary to make someone grovel for days on end just to push your point. Not everyone had lived her life, or Gage’s, however. Not everyone understood that life could be gone in a second and everything could disappear. She could choose to cry into her wine every day or she could choose happiness, love, Gage Harvey, because she didn’t have to watch the entirety of the video to know where he was going with this. Lizzie reached for her phone, pulled up his contact information, and briefly stared at the very last text he’d sent her on the night of the EOCC meeting: I’m sorry, princess. I wish . . . sometimes I wish I were di erent. She didn’t. She loved him as he was, and considering that he was sweating on YouTube, she had a feeling he felt the same way. Her fingers flew across the phone’s small keyboard, and she hit SEND before she could convince herself otherwise. I see you’ve hacked my channel. Someone deserves punishment, O cer. His response came in less than five seconds later, as though he’d been waiting for her: It’s just Mr. Harvey for the next six days, but I’ve brought the leather belt in case you’re up for it. And then a follow-up: I’m outside. Lizzie cast one last glance to the Gage on her computer screen. “There are a few things I want to say,” he read from his written speech, “the first being that I love you, Lizzie Danvers. I love that you’re my adventure girl. I love that you dance like no one’s watching. I love that you’re the first up

for a good time, but you’re just as content to watch the stars and wander through the cane ﬁelds. I love that you’re you, brown hair and all, makeup and all, stutter and all. I would never ask you to change, but I will ask you this: is there any way I can tempt you into forever?” Yes, her heart sang, as she launched from her chair and hurried for the front door. Yes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

izzie didn’t bother to put on shoes. Barefoot, she high-stepped it to the front door of her studio, her eyes on the prize. Or rather, they would be on the prize the moment she swung that bad boy open. Gage was here and he loved her . . . Her hand went to the doorknob, palms slick with excitement. The first thing she noticed was his handsome face. The Midnight Passion dark eyes staring down at her. The stubble already grown in along the lower half of his face. The quiet intensity ticking away in his clenched jaw, as though he worried she might slam the door back in his face. And then her gaze wandered down, over his strong chest sheathed in a nice shirt and to the jar he held awkwardly in his hands. A clear fishbowl stu ed with makeup brushes designed like a rose with a green, intricate stem and red hair bristles. Her hand lifted to the beautiful array, brushing her thumb across the soft tips. “What in the world?” Gage shifted his weight. “Real flowers don’t really seem your thing.” Oh man, he was delicious when he was nervous. She watched him carefully and reminded her heart to stand down

and be patient. “They’re not,” she said, “I’m way too practical.” Mouth lifting in that sexy grin of his, he said, “I know. That’s why when Owen suggested roses, I went in a di erent direction.” “You know me.” “I know you.” They grinned at each other, and Lizzie fell back a step. He entered the studio, all big male and hot swagger. Dressed in the same shirt as his video, the sleeves were cu ed to his elbows, and to her surprise he wore a pair of basketball shorts on his lower half. Paired with his button-down, the shorts looked all wrong. “Did you forget pants?” she asked, closing the door and slipping the deadbolt into place. “Hmm?” He set the bowl of brushes on the counter and turned back to her. “These things?” He swatted at the leg with N-O-P-D emblazoned down the side. “No, but I’d heard from a little birdie that this is how it’s done on YouTube. Class on the top, party on the bottom.” At the mention of the video, Lizzie wrapped her arms around herself—it was either that or leap at him with a hug, and she wasn’t quite sure they were there yet. “You did a good job,” she murmured, “I mean, for your ﬁrst time.” His dark eyes warmed. “Admit it, princess, it was horrendous.” “Nooo . . .” She batted a hand at him. “Not horrendous at all.” “Your brother knocked over the camera.” Shocked laughter bubbled up, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “No, he didn’t.” “You didn’t watch till the end?” “I-I—” Breathe, don’t get nervous. “I didn’t, no. I’d heard enough, honestly.”

His face fell, lips turning down, and one hand came up to rub the back of his neck. Wait, did he think that—? Lizzie jumped to his side, her hands going to his tattooed arms. “No, no, I mean that . . . I didn’t need to hear anything more because I’d heard the most important part, when you said that you loved me.” “Love,” he corrected, one big hand cupping the back of her head. “I love you, Lizzie Danvers, and I’ll admit that I’ve been a ﬁrst-class idiot. Fears held me back, fears that have gripped my heart like a vice for over a decade.” She felt the tremble in his hand, and Lizzie gave in to her need to comfort him. Wrapping one hand around his wrist, she tugged his hand over to her mouth and kissed the center of his palm. His dark lashes fell shut, and his Adam’s apple rode down the length of his neck. “When I met you, I held on to the fear because it was easier than admitting that every moment I spent with you, you cracked open my layers, peeling them back, refusing to let me stand in a prison of my own making. You were right—I’m a self-sabatoger.” Heart in her throat, Lizzie whispered, “That’s not a word.” “It is now,” he said. “You made it one.” “You’re doing really well at this kiss-and-make-up thing.” “We haven’t even gotten to the kissing part yet.” He smiled and Lizzie’s body positively tingled it was so warm. With a single step, he closed the distance between them, forcing her to lift her chin if she wanted to keep her eyes on his face. “You were right about a lot of things, princess, but most importantly you were right to call me out. You loved me and I threw that back in your face, as though you didn’t even

know your mind. I made a decision for the both of us, fully believing that one day you’d thank me.” “Sorry to disappoint, but that’s just not happening.” Another hard swallow. “I’d like to show you something, if you’d let me.” Wanting to bring back the smile on his face, she teased, “Is it your genie lamp?” It worked. He threw back his head, rich laughter spilling from his firm lips. “Fuck, I love you. C’mere.” Snagging her hand in his, he brought her over to the antique sofa and patted the cushions. “Take a seat.” Lizzie did as he said, drawing her legs under her so she could get comfortable. “Please tell me you’re about to strip for me.” “This has got to be the craziest make-up session in the history of couples everywhere.” Her gaze locked on his fingers slipping each hole through their individual slots. Breathlessly, she murmured, “But we’re crazy.” “Touché, princess, touché.” The last button came loose, and he shrugged out of the material, letting it fall to the floor at his feet. Standing only in an old pair of basketball shorts, he was every girl’s fantasy man. Strong arms, carved abdomen, thick neck, and the sweetest vulnerability in his expression that she’d ever seen. “You once asked me about the names on my chest.” “I-I did, yes.” One big hand lifted to his chest, over the list—over his heart. His voice emerged as a rumble: “I joined the force in 2003, and less than a year later my parents were dead. It made me hyperaware of the e ects that the stress of being a first responder could have on an o cer, and these names represent each person who has lost their life since then while

working for the NOPD. My father and grandfather are here”—he tapped the space just above his pec—“and I included my mom, too. I know it’s weird, I know it’s really fucking odd to see that . . .” Her ﬁngers covered his, then traced the scrollwork Owen had inked into him forever. “It’s not weird,” she told him softly, “it’s your way of keeping their memories alive, Gage. There’s no shame in that.” He hung his head and his breath whispered against her hair. “It was also my penance. I could have been in any one of their places. When I was shot in that orphanage? I was out of the hospital less than twenty-four hours later. Twentyfour hours after that? A female cop was shot and killed at a domestic call gone wrong. The guilt of survival is something I carried with me for a long time, but I can’t do it anymore.” “What do you mean?” “I can’t make a forever with you, Lizzie, if I’m always livin’ with the burden of somebody else’s past. So I can’t do this—adding the names, choosing to live with the guilt and the sadness. I’ll pay my respects and do what good I can with CBR, but I choose to be happy, princess. I choose you.” Oh, God. She really wasn’t going to cry right now, was she? His thumb went to her cheek, catching a tear, and if she’d had any plans to apologize for being such a water pot, he didn’t let her. Lips came down on hers, hungry and insistent, and it was everything that Lizzie needed, now and forever. Her hands on his shoulders, her breasts against his sternum, she arched on her tiptoes and gave him everything that she had. Love. Happiness. Lust, too.

They fell to the sofa in a tangle of limbs, fighting for control over who got to be on top. She hooked one leg around his, giving her best to pull him o her. He sank his hips against her, using his weight to pin her down. “You can’t always be in charge,” she gasped as his hands lifted her shirt and his fingers found her nipples. “Oh, okay, maybe just today then.” “Always,” he growled against her neck, “you like it.” “Sometimes.” He tweaked her nipple and Lizzie’s head shot back against the armrest. “Always, princess, always.” He was right. She did like it when he took control, just as he did right now. Pulling down her leggings to reveal a pair of granny panties, he teased, “Sexy,” and then slipped them to the side to stroke his tongue down her center. Oh yeah, her toes curled at the sensation. He was just that good. Her Gage was a giver to the very end, and today, most especially, he gave. His tongue lapped at her until her cries grew out of control, her hands fisting his hair. He didn’t stop. Two fingers, not one, touched her core, then drove inside. He laughed out right when she gasped his name. Did nothing more than murmur, “I won’t stop until you come on my tongue, princess,” when she begged him to switch out his fingers for something bigger. He left her no choice but to do exactly what he’d ordered. And when she complied, he gave her what she wanted. His shorts on the floor, his hard cock at her entrance, a single thrust that pushed her up against the armrest. He seemed to read exactly what she needed in this moment. Hard. Raw. His powerful body moved over her, ink rippling with each roll of his hips, biceps clenching when he leaned forward to

shift his angle and hit her just there. It was all she needed before she was coming again, his name on her lips. “I love you, Gage.” Black eyes swooped over her body as though memorizing her shape, her voice. He thrust again and again, until his groan echoed in the studio and he spilled himself inside her with a tremor that racked his shoulders. “I love you back, princess,” he whispered, “you’ll never know how much.” Heart full, Lizzie grinned up at him. “I think I might have an . . .” She frowned, ears perking up at a sound outside Naked You. “Wait, back up. Do you hear clapping?” “Did you leave your computer on?” “Yes, but I don’t think that’s it.” She swatted at his chest until he scooted o her, and then glanced around his solid frame. “Oh no.” “Oh no, what?” he echoed, following the line of her sight to the front windows . . . where multiple people stood just beyond watching. And clapping. With cameras. The damn paparazzi had arrived like something out of a nightmare. “Lizzie.” “I-I forgot to shut the blinds today,” she whispered, fighting the good fight but losing in the end. Her chest squeezed with laughter, and her hands flew to her mouth to stem the flow. “I always . . . oh my God . . . this is so bad.” Always the cop, Gage said, “What’s the best course of action?” “Rub your genie lamp and pray that they go away?” “Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s going to help the situation.” She dropped her gaze to his shorts on the floor, then scooted her butt over so she could grab the fabric with her toes. “We’ll go for a trade? Your shorts for my leggings over there?”

“Done.” Except that he didn’t move and she didn’t hand him the shorts. “What are you thinking?” she whispered, doing her best to hide behind his body. With his ass to the windows, Gage glanced down at her. “We’re getting rid of this sofa.” “That’s what you’re thinking?” But he was on a roll, grumbling and one hand covering his hard-on, his inked body fully on display for anyone who cared to look. “First Carli Simpson’s nipples and now this? The sofa is gone, princess, ﬁrst thing in the morning.” Lizzie giggled at his aggrieved expression. “You can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Simpson’s nipples now, can you?” His lids slid shut. “No and it’s awful.” She slipped her foot alongside his calf. “I know what could make you feel better.” Eyes popping open with interest, he adjusted his hand over his cock. “Yeah?” “Shut the blinds against the Peeping Toms out there and I’ll tell you.” “I’d like a hint, Miz Danvers.” “It starts with doggy and ends with style.” His shorts were up his legs in a heartbeat, leggings tossed in her direction, and his feet pounding against the ﬂoor as he shot over to where she kept the remotes for the blinds. And as the blinds came down, blocking anyone outside from seeing their indoor activities, Lizzie couldn’t help but marvel at her life. It was good. No, it was everything she’d ever dreamed. “We’re doing it on the sofa,” Gage announced on his return. “But I thought you wanted to get rid of it?”

His mouth curled in a sexy smirk as he dropped his shorts to the ﬂoor. “Mission has changed. I plan to make love to you so many times on this thing, that I’ll never think of anything else again but you.” Lizzie smiled. “That just might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” “I love you, princess.” She tipped her head up to receive his kiss. “I love you, too, Gage. Always.” “Forever.” Yes, forever.

EPILOGUE

8 MONTHS LATER…

“P

rincess, I swear to God, if you don’t stop teasing me with that, there’s going to be some major damage. Namely, you ridin’ me until tomorrow.” Gage stared at his wife, then looked at the donut she held in her hand. The last donut from the box. Lizzie took a dramatic bite and then let out an equally dramatic moan of approval, tossing her head back against the couch cushion in abandon. “Oh my God, Gage! This is just delicious. Orgasmic. Amazing. G-Gage, I think I’m going to . . .” Another theatrical moan. “I think I just came.” “You’re cruel,” he teased, lifting a hand to her chin and leaning in for a kiss. She tasted like powder and chocolate and a healthy dose of spitﬁre and sass. She sighed under his mouth. Then, “You should have o ered better terms. What did you think I was going to do when you threatened me with a good old time in bed? Give you the donut? Absolutely not.” Gage drew her legs over his lap in preparation for TV night. It was his only day o this week. Between S.O.D., CBR, and managing Inked for Owen, he was exhausted. But happy—happier than he’d ever been. He and Lizzie had eloped a few months back, although perhaps “eloped” wasn’t the best word. Their trip to Mayberry House

Plantation hadn’t started with the intention of marriage, but one thing led to another . . . and there they were, giggling like teenagers in front of a justice of the peace in the middle of nowhere, west Louisiana, exchanging their vows. When they’d returned to New Orleans, none of their friends had been surprised. Danvers had rolled his eyes and muttered, “Figured y’all wouldn’t want to plan a wedding.” Owen had clapped Gage on the back and then bussed a kiss over Lizzie’s cheek. “Welcome to the family, Liz,” was all he’d said, but with Owen, that was enough. “You sure you don’t mind coming in tomorrow?” Gage asked, twining his fingers through his wife’s newly accented caramel hair. “I can recruit Jordan, if need be, for extra hours.” Lizzie kissed his palm. “Don’t even worry about it. You know how much I love to be behind the needle.” Gage had taken her on as an apprentice after Owen had announced he was going on a tattoo-artist retreat or whatever it was. Turns out, Lizzie had a knack for the art of tattooing. She’d been relegated their “butterfly-tattoo” girl, since she was still in the early stages of learning, but he’d never seen someone more excited to butterfly it up than his wife. The customers loved her. Owen loved her for stepping in while he was away. And Gage—well, he pretty much just worshipped the ground she walked on. They settled in, her feet over his lap, his arm around her shoulder. “What show are we watching again?” She patted his leg, a total you are such a guy love-tap. “Put a Ring on It.” Gage grimaced. “Sounds girly as shit.”

“We can watch your crime shows later,” she said, edging closer to him, “but I’ve been waiting weeks to watch this. It’s all anyone is talking about lately. The Bachelorette meets The Travel Channel meets real-time air. There’s no going back and editing anything, from what I’ve heard. What you see is what you get.” “It sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.” “Exactly,” she said brightly, and Gage couldn’t stop himself from laughing. His wife had spent way too many years in the spotlight, and even though she was more focused on creating makeup now instead of showing it o , she couldn’t extinguish the fact that she lived for social media of any kind. “Plus,” she added, trailing a ﬁnger up his thigh, “we know the girl who’s being featured for the debut season.” “We do?” Lizzie glanced up at him. “Savannah Rose.” Shit, did Owen know? Gage swallowed and distracted himself by rubbing his hand over Lizzie’s shoulder. Owen kept his life so on the down low that it was di cult to know what the hell was going on with him most days. He hadn’t mentioned her once in months, but Gage wasn’t an idiot. Up until maybe two months ago, Owen and Savannah often left EOCC meetings together. Never hand in hand, but always within minutes of each other. “Do you know why she went on the show?” he asked, watching as Lizzie fast-forwarded through the opening credits. “We talked about it a few times.” Lizzie shrugged, then hit PLAY on the remote. “Her mom actually submitted an application for her online, so she didn’t even know anything until the producers were knocking on her door. I think . . . I think it’s part expectation—her family is so old N’Orleans

and she’s inching toward mid-thirties. No one meets their qualiﬁcations, and I’m sure they view this show as the ultimate debutante season or whatever.” “Ah.” “Yeah. I also, I don’t know . . . I feel like she’s running from something here. She hasn’t said that, but you know what I mean.” He did, and he had a sneaking suspicion about who she was running from. Dammit, but he needed a donut. Lizzie had gotten him hooked on them, and she was lucky he loved to work out so much. First the cheese, then the donuts. Give them another year and he’d be taking co ee from an IV. They watched as Savannah came onto the screen, darkhaired and olive-skinned. Gage didn’t know her that well, not like Lizzie did, but he understood that her family had been prominent in the city for centuries now. High FrenchCreole society type of thing with a family mansion in the French Quarter and another one over on Esplanade Ridge. No wonder she’d felt pressured to go on the show. One by one, the men ﬁled out of a limo, all dressed in suits. Gage and Lizzie teased each other about which one they’d want to take home. Lizzie voted for the Greek dude who looked like John Stamos. Gage threw his hat into the ring for a former NFL Quarterback. “I liked his stats when he played for the Broncos,” he muttered when Lizzie openly laughed at him. “You’re totally appreciating his butt in those dress slacks of his.” “What can I say? It’s full.” Lizzie caught onto the joke and grabbed his shirt, pulling him down for a kiss. God, he loved her. Sometimes he

wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t gone in to work at Inked that day. Maybe they would have met at some other time, but it wouldn’t have been the same. They’d earned their happiness every step of the way. He parted her lips with his tongue, seeking entry, loving her with everything that he was. “Gage,” she moaned, and his name . . . Hell, hearing his name on her lips never got old. He rearranged her legs over his thighs, angling her hips just so, so that she could feel how hard he was for her behind the fabric of his sweats. Her hands went to his arms, using his weight so that she could straddle him, press down against his cock and make him groan. “Fuck yeah, princess,” he growled, nipping her bottom lip, “grind on me just like—” Her head whipped around, and then she was tugging on his shirt frantically. “Gage. Oh my God, oh my God.” “What? What’s wrong?” She fell to his side, one hand still on his chest, and then pointed the other at the TV screen. Slowly, Gage shifted his focus from his wife to the show, and the man stepping out of the limo. Beard. Dark hair. Fullon black suit. A familiar grimace on his face. “And ﬁnally,” the host said on the TV, “we’d like to welcome our last bachelor for this season, Owen Harvey from New Orleans, Louisiana.” Oh. Fuck.

P SSSTTT ! The Put A Ring On It series is coming in 2018 - no way would I leave Owen hanging! Want an update when the

ﬁrst book, HOLD ME TODAY, will be “airing”? Sign-up here for the alert! And if you enjoyed Danvers & Jade, then check out their journey to love in Take A Chance On Me, available now!

D ID YOU LOVE G AGE & Lizzie? Do you want to stay updated on releases, sales, free books, and all that juicy goodness? If your answer is yes (and it should be! LOL), consider signing up for my bi-monthly newsletter here. And if you really want to delve into the world of my books, receive weekly short stories, and all the latest news before anyone else, then deﬁnitely join my Facebook reader group, Book Boyfriends Anonymous. The only requirement? You have a somewhat (un)healthy addiction to the men we read about in romance novels ;) Join Book Boyfriends Anonymous

DEAR FABULOUS READER

Thank you so much for reading Tempt Me With Forever! I really hope that you enjoyed diving into Lizzie and Gage’s journey to an HEA. For those of you who are new to my work, this section is to share a little behind-the-scenes glance at the book. Where did some of my ideas comes from? What locations are actually real that you can visit—that sort of thing. Without further ado…let’s get started, numerical-style! 1. First and foremost, I should start with the biggest whammy of them all just so there isn’t anyone coming at me with a pitchfork…yes, I totally did just end the NOLA Heart series with a cli hanger! As my editor said, “You really didn’t just do that, did you?” I did. I totally did. But never fear, Owen Harvey will absolutely get his own story in 2018 when the Put A Ring On It series airs (see what I did there?). Unlike many other bachelor-esque like books, however, the books in Put A Ring On It will take place after the show is over, once the contestants go home. To me, that’s even more interesting than any of the debauchery on the TV show itself. I can’t wait to share this amazing new series with you!

2. Why Hackberry, Louisiana? Well, it’s a real place— though Mayberry House only exists in my imagination. I recently attended a writer’s retreat with some of my close author friends, including romcom author Jami Albright, in Hackberry. It was deadcenter between all of our homes, and for a weekend I found myself farther west in Louisiana than I had ever been. Placing part of this story in Hackberry played a little homage to my time spent there, the tranquility of the waters, the expanse of the sugarcane fields, and my own obsession with 19th century architecture. 3. Did you notice a lot of the police anecdotes sprinkled throughout Tempt Me? Well, I’m here to tell you that some of them are true! (All names were obviously changed to protect identities, LOL). The case with the wife who Tased her naked cop-husband? True story. The case of Jarvis Reed, the cop who stood up in roll call and called out his lieutenant (who claimed he’d never let another man give him a blow job) for lying to everyone? Also true! As for the orphanage, it was actually Mr. Luis’ partner who got stuck in the doorway—no one was shot that night, however, and the robber was arrested. Sometimes the best stories are those that come from reality! Even if, as authors, we twist and turn the truths so they sound even better as fiction. 4. Lizzie’s love for makeup (and photography) can also be attributed to reality. In other words, my obsession with watching makeup tutorials on YouTube. We won’t discuss how many beauty influencers I follow, but I will say this . . . in watching YouTubers for the last few years, I couldn’t stop the questions from bubbling up. If you follow the beauty industry closely

enough, there are always hints of rumors swirling. But I wanted to dive into the psyche of someone who had lived their life online and in front of millions of people. What happened when they no longer wanted that life? What happened when something major happened to them, and suddenly everyone knew? Thus, Lizzie was born. To date, she might be the best heroine I’ve ever written. 5. As for the locations you can visit from Tempt Me, besides Hackberry, they are: the Barataria Preserve, which is my favorite escape from the city; the co ee house from the start of the novel, named Rue de la Course, in New Orleans’ Carrollton neighborhood; St. Patrick’s Church, which does actually face a set of gorgeous 19th century American-styled townhouses; and, of course, the intersection of Toulouse and Bourbon street, where Inked at Bourbon exists in my book. My only suggestion is to wear close-toed shoes and to protect your head from the onslaught of Mardi Gras beads. And speaking of beads and the French Quarter . . . second lines are a true part of New Orleans culture. To get them set up, you contact the NOPD, request a detailed cop, and they’ll even help you plan the route and ﬁnd a band to play you some music. Awesome, right? Thank you so much for reading Tempt Me With Forever, and as for Lizzie and Gage . . . we’ll certainly see them again in Owen’s story!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you. Truly, those two little syllables don’t even convey the amount of gratitude I feel—not just in support of Tempt Me With Forever, but for the entire NOLA Heart series. This series began two years ago with Say You’ll Be Mine. I wrote that story feverishly, coming home from work each night to type away at computer until my eyes dried, my ﬁngers hit the wrong keys, and the words blurred on the screen. In 2015, a career as a published author was a far-fetched dream. It lurked on the horizon, popping up here and there, a constant reminder that while I may spend my days in historical archives, the reality of becoming a full-time author was not tangible. And so back to the archives I went. Two years later, that tendril of hope that refused to slacken is real. Not only does the release date of Tempt Me With Forever mark the fourth and ﬁnal NOLA Heart novel, but it is also an exact marker of time that I stepped o the edge of insanity and decided that I could do this for a living. I could write. I could tell stories. And, oh yeah, I could—but they’d be nothing (and, admittedly, they’d be terrible) without those who have hoisted me up when the doubt rolled in. To Terra Kelly and Samantha Garman, the two of you have listened to me rant,

you have listened to me rattle on about book ideas and marketing ideas, and I’m convinced that the reason my phone battery is always so low is in thanks to you two. May we remain Boozers Who Write for the rest of our lives, and no matter what Brian says, y’all are my rock and my friends. To my VIPers and to my die-hards in Book Boyfriends Anonymous, thank you. No really, thank you from the bottom of my heart. If not for your enthusiasm in this series, Lizzie & Gage’s story would never have been told, and that’s too sad to even contemplate. But even more, thank you for being there for me. Your undying support has been a lifeline when I would have otherwise remained closed o in the writing cave. Y’all are my pack, as Julian would say, and I thank my lucky blessings every day that I met each and every one of you. Love you!! Xx To Najla, who took this project on from Book 2 and ran with it. You rock, girl. You have a way of taking my ideas and creating utter beauty from them. Eight books in now, and I would not trade a single one of them. You’re amazing! To Kathy, your What Would Kathy Do? T-shirt is happening. It is. With your feedback, each book grows stronger. Thank you for pushing me and never letting me take the easy way out. My characters are better o — especially the sex scenes when you rightly question the penis size of every one of my heroes, LOL. To Tandy, thank you for making my books sparkle and shine. Trust me when I say that no matter how many revisions go down, they always need your special touch at the end. To the ladies of Give Me Books, working with you has been such a pleasure. Thank you for getting my books into the hands of bloggers and eager fans. And to every blogger, reader, and fan who spread the word about Tempt Me With

Forever, thank you. I can’t say this enough—it’s because of you that people have even heard about Lizzie and Gage! A special shout-out in this book must go out to all the first responders of New Orleans, those that I know personally and those that I don’t. Your job is not easy and it is never-ending, and for every person you help, protect, and guide, thank you. And, lastly, to you, Dear Reader, thank you. This book tugged at my soul in a way I didn’t anticipate. Like Lizzie with YouTube, Tempt Me holds a magnifying glass to my own fears of having an NOPD o cer as a significant other; but it also holds a magnifying glass to the fears and experiences many of the first responders that I know, too. Thank you for taking a chance on Lizzie and Gage, and I so hope that you enjoyed the ride. Much love, Maria

ALSO BY MARIA LUIS

NOLA H EART

SERIES

Say You’ll Be Mine Take A Chance On Me Dare You To Love Me Tempt Me With Forever B LADES H OCKEY

SERIES

Power Play Sin Bin C OMING S OON Breathless: a Love Serial (Dec 2017) Put A Ring On It series (2018)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maria Luis is the author of sexy contemporary romances, though she may or may not have (read: she does) a few historical romances hiding in the cobwebs of her computer. When she’s not writing about strong men and the sassy women who sweep them o their feet, Maria is a historian/content marketing bu with a specialization in medieval England and 19th century New Orleans. What do these two eras have in common, you ask? Not much, except for disease, scandalous activities, and crime —Maria’s favorite topics. Maria lives in New Orleans with her better half, where she can generally be found hiking with her two dogs, Zeus and Athena, kayaking in Louisiana’s inter-coastal waterways, or curled up on the couch with a good book! Find Maria out in the wild! www.marialuis.org