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  She reached up and wiped away a tear that had fallen. But even though she got it, the next one replaced it and the next and the next.

  Jesus. His heart clenched, surprising him. Somewhere along the line he stopped believing he really had one.

  He'd been that kid—shuffled back and forth. He developed a tough shell of 'well, I turned out okay.' When he heard sob stories, he remembered he'd lived through it. He never talked about it to anyone. Even the guys in Wilder didn't really know. So no one talked about it to him.

  Something about her vehemence cracked him. Something about the way she fought for her boys. The way she was fighting for them every moment. It wormed its way under the shell he'd built.

  It pissed him off, too. He'd wanted a damn date. He'd wanted some of Miami Beach back. Not only was she not going to give him even a glimpse of that, she was determined to run him off.

  Shay started talking again before he even got himself a little bit together.

  "Every guy starts off as this knight in shining armor. But they turn into assholes." She stared at him. "I'd finally gotten it all figured out. I stayed with you in Miami because I wanted the fun beginning. I got out before you became an asshole. And it worked." Tears fell as she talked. She clutched the pillow closer as though it could protect her. But the tears were evidence that it didn't, couldn't. "Why did you have to show up again? I had the good part. Don't come back and ruin it!"

  Chapter 8

  Though Shay finally got Craig to leave, she couldn't get back to work. Her hands wouldn't quit shaking. Her heart wouldn't quit pounding.

  He didn't kiss her—the first time they met he'd kissed her within a few hours of saying hello, and it had sent an electric jolt through her. The good kind. Now though, when he touched her hand, her arm, she felt that same thing.

  In the past, love and lust had turned to revulsion. Clearly she wasn't at that stage with Craig. She really hoped to keep it that way.

  No, she told herself, it was just because he showed up, demanding answers he had no right to, making her dig up her past and show her underbelly. Despite the fact that she tried to keep as much of it to herself as possible, she still felt exposed.

  Not shamed. That wasn't right, but she was definitely jittery. He'd made her put into words what she usually just put into action. She had more in savings than a lot of her friends made in a year. But she never touched it; it was for her boys.

  They were in a bad spot and might need that money one day. No, they would need that money one day. They might need it on a moment's notice.

  Shay breathed in and out. Mad.

  She'd had that wonderful memory of Miami Beach—of surf and sand and three days with a hot musician who seemed to think she was something special. Now she couldn't cut a straight line or sew without threatening to run her finger under the needle, so she scrubbed her crappy kitchen. The cracked tile countertops could always use another round of bleach. Maybe the smell would get her brain going.

  Her whole day had been for shit. Jason had finally showed up around four. He'd been due at two. Owen read another five chapters of a book he shouldn't have had in the first place during that time. Craig had come back at seven. And by ten—after scrubbing the entire kitchen—she was finally able to get herself together enough to sew three bodices for the costume dresses for the theater. By two a.m. she fell asleep in the house that was always eerily silent without her boys.

  By six a.m. she was awake again. Habit? Nervous energy? Couldn't sleep without someone trying to wake her up? She didn't know. What she did know was that every penny saved was a better lawyer, a quicker resolution to getting those men out of her sons' lives, a safety net in case Owen ever came home with a bruise, or Aaron told her something his dad said that wasn't safe.

  Her heart squeezed.

  She lived a life of work and worry. Shay was not the kind for wishful thinking. She didn't date—and why would she? She sucked at it. Royally. She'd also learned some pitiful lessons from her mother. One—if you love a man, or even just think you might, marry him. If he doesn't ask, get him to. Shay knew now just how terrible that was. But she hadn't figured it out until recently.

  Two—if you love a man, have a kid for him. What her mother had neglected to teach her was that she'd be tied to that man until her kid turned eighteen.

  Three—that man should take care of you, and it was your job to do whatever you had to in order to keep him taking care of you. Like the other two things her mother had taught her, that last one was also complete bullshit.

  Her mother hadn't just told her daughters these things, she'd led by example. Case in point, Shay and Zoe had different fathers. But there were two things Shay's mother had done better than she did. Things she hadn't managed to pass along. First, she had daughters. Men didn't care about daughters, it seemed. And second, her mother somehow got the men to completely disappear. Shay didn't seem to be able to shake either of them.

  What she did need to shake was this melancholy that Craig brought with him. She'd started in a hole, and she'd dug it deeper, but she was finally climbing out. That was something she was proud of. She'd also taken care of Zoe. Maybe it was just Zoe, or maybe Shay had helped, but none of their mother's messages had stuck with her brainy little sister. Zoe was doing well. Zoe was single and had never been surprised to find she was pregnant. Shay decided she deserved to be proud of that too.

  So she ate a bowl of cereal and started back in on the dresses. More work, more money, more savings. She rough hemmed what seemed like miles of fabric. It would become swooping, regal skirts on stage. Shay imagined kid leather shoes and curtsies. She always liked to work with an image of what the clothing would do, what it would go with. It helped her tweak the design along the way. She'd given up on patterns after that first skirt. It was all pretty clear in her head anyway.

  When the phone rang, she popped up to see that it was going on ten a.m. She jumped the way that mothers do and ran for the phone. It might be the only exercise she got all day. The caller ID said "Jason Masters." Shit.

  "Hi Jason." She picked up and tried to be positive.

  "Mom?"

  "Owen!" She was both happy and fearful at the same time hearing his voice. He was her big kid—always older than Aaron—and she tried to remind herself all the time that he was still little. "What's going on, honey?"

  "I just wanted to say hello." There was a smile in his voice.

  Should she be happy that her son missed her, thought of calling her, or should she be worried? A six-year-old might say that if he didn't know how to say something more concerning. Forcing a calming breath, she remembered the code they'd developed.

  "Are you worried about me getting sick?"

  "No, mom. I just wanted to say hi. And ask if you can get me another book for when I get home? This one's almost done."

  Of course it was. He'd brushed off her code question. "What are you up to?"

  "Will you get me another book? The author's name is Stephen King. Get one by him." The voice was way too small to be saying that. Shay almost slapped her hand to her face. That was just like Owen. She could try to evade, but he never let her.

  "Can we talk about it when you get here?" Two more days. Two more days with Jason. Her son sighed at her and she asked the other question again. "What are you doing with your dad?"

  "We're watching football."

  Owen didn't really care for it. That meant he was reading. His book would be gone in no time and who knew what he'd find at his dad's house. She hoped he'd packed a backup book. Then again, even at six, he'd probably packed three. Shay frowned. "It's Monday afternoon. What football is on?"

  "It's a recording from yesterday."

  "Oh."

  Right then she hated Jason with all her heart. It was hard being so full of hate, but she was. Jason had their son for the last days of summer. School started on Thursday. He'd taken her child and set him in front of a football game. Jason didn't seem to know or even care that Owen didn't like it.

>   She chatted a bit more, trying to keep her fury at her ex out of her voice. Eventually, Owen had enough of her and hung up. Jason didn't get on the phone. She'd read about other dads who were good dads. She'd seen things about being a good divorced parent online. And she'd experienced nothing like any of it. Then again, she could pick the real losers.

  After a second bowl of cereal, and a firm decision to get dressed, she went back to sewing. By the time the doorbell rang she had two dresses done to spec if not her own satisfaction. The damned rough seams bothered her, but she wasn't doing work she wasn't getting paid for.

  Once again, she hopped up. Thank god she'd thrown on the summer t-shirt dress and put her hair up in a pony-tail. She'd added some sunscreen and mascara and one of the two shades of lipstick she owned. When she threw the door open, there stood a delivery man behind a disturbingly large vase of flowers.

  "Hello ma'am." She still couldn't see him, but he held a clipboard.

  It seemed he'd done this before, and in a smooth motion, he set the bouquet down on the small cement step beside him and held out the clipboard asking for her signature. She wasn't getting her delivery until he got his confirmation.

  Sure enough, though she signed and thanked him even as she frowned at it, he thrust the overflowing vase into her hands and was down the steps before she even finished her words.

  Cradling the flowers, she stepped inside and kicked the door closed. The flowers fought for space, in bright, almost teal blues and a peachy salmon mix. It was beautiful if not a standard color combination. Then it hit her.

  The colors called back to Miami, and she sighed. Sure enough, in the middle, almost buried, was a stick holding a disturbingly thick envelope. The single word on the front said "Shay" but she knew.

  Setting the vase on a nearby end table, she plucked out the heavy card.

  Inside was a greeting card with simple watercolor lines on the front. It was bent around a jewel case holding a CD or DVD. She couldn't tell. On the front of the disc, in what she was disturbed to say she recognized as Craig's handwriting, was one word. "Sand."

  She had no clue what that meant, but she sighed. He'd sent her old tech. Not a USB, not a download code, but a disc. Because he'd seen how she lived. Knew she didn't have cable, and knew she probably wouldn't be downloading things. She hated that he was right.

  Turning back to the card she saw his clean script.

  --What if I don't turn into an asshole?

  Dinner, tonight.

  Please.

  Dammit. Why was that sweet? That shouldn't make her heart twist. But it did. She wasn't agreeing, she told herself, she was just finding out what he’d seen fit to send her.

  Her old laptop whirred and even chugged when she popped the disc into the player, but the window came up and she hit the arrow to play before she could think about it more.

  The song was about a girl on a beach, how she'd slipped through his fingers like sand. It was a story of how she'd been something more than just a one-night stand, but he hadn't understood until she was gone.

  It was Craig's voice on the disc. Not TJ's. So this was his demo, or he'd sung it just for her.

  "That bastard." She said it out loud, her face wet though she hadn't felt the tears fall. She wiped at the tears and did what she always did when there was a crisis she didn't know how to handle.

  This had moved well beyond her zone and she needed reinforcements.

  She called Zoe.

  Chapter 9

  Craig could not remember the last time he'd been this nervous. He also couldn't remember the last time he'd taken anyone out on an actual date. He'd slept around plenty, not anything he was proud of, but it was what it was.

  But this—this was something else.

  Somehow Shay said yes, then when he suggested a nice steak place—he wanted to take her somewhere she didn't normally go—she said she only had one suitable dress.

  "So wear jeans." He failed to see the problem. He wasn't much for places that demanded a jacket and tie himself.

  "I can't wear jeans." She'd thrown her hands up and he hadn't been sure if he was supposed to wait on her or come back later.

  Since coming back later would give her a chance to change her mind, he'd sat on the couch and scoped the place again. The toys remained eerily untouched, still piled in the basket. The kids were nowhere to be seen. Could both her exes have the boys now? It was the only thing that made sense. He'd never known a six- or a three-year-old who could stay quiet long enough to not give themselves away. Not a normal one anyway. And for all her fierce parenting, he'd bet Shay's kids were as normal as could be.

  Still, Craig wasn't ready to ask about the boys. So he'd waited until she emerged in a blue skirt and white blouse. Her hair was curled and pulled around to one side. She wasn't the fairy-siren from the beach. She was something sweeter and far more wholesome, but he only said, "You look perfect."

  Shay did not respond, but she followed him out the door.

  He'd rented a Mercedes the day before. More money than he would have spent, but he'd wanted to have some class. At least that was the way he thought of it then. Now it just seemed showy. Hailey had warned him about Shay's background. So what had made him think 'showy' was a good way to go? Had he thought he'd impress her with money?

  The drive into town was awkward. He'd asked how her day went and she said only that she'd gotten a lot of work done and that she'd talked to her sister.

  There was no tone in the words to tell him if this was a good thing or if the sister had said to take him for the highest priced dinner she could get out of him then tell him goodnight. Shay didn't seem like the type for that though.

  He hadn't asked another question. When they arrived, he went around to her side of the car and took her hand, led her inside, and sat quietly across from her at the white-clothed table.

  He watched as she listened intently to the server and ordered ice water. Her hands grabbed both sides of the menu and she held it up nearly in front of her face.

  Why had she come? He'd asked himself that about five times, then realized he'd pushed her . . . a bit. That was a mistake.

  "I'm sorry."

  The menu dropped to the table top. "What?" She asked again. "About what?"

  "I pushed you." He couldn't quite look at her. "The first night in Miami, I waited until you were sober, because I didn't want to push you. I don't push." He took a breath. "I've always been a take-it-or-leave-it kind of guy. I don't like to push. I don't ever want you to be with me because I badgered you into it. I shouldn't have done that, and I'm sorry."

  Her eyes went round and she looked at him like he was a lizard at her table or something equally odd.

  One more try. It wasn't something he wanted to do, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't. "Serious offer: if I was too pushy, we'll just order and get it to go, and I'll send you home with your food and I'll take mine back to the hotel. I won't bother you again."

  She was still looking at him like he was a lizard. Finally, she spoke though the words were soft and he strained to hear them. "I wanted to come. I have a lot of reasons not to, but I wanted to come. I just—" she took a breath and tried again. "When we go out, Taco Bell is a treat for us." Shay looked around the restaurant. "I don't come here."

  That was when he saw it. She was nervous, and that was something he understood. "I'm buying. I asked you out, so I'm buying. You don't worry about what it costs. I promise I'll only take you places where I can easily afford whatever you order."

  It was just a steakhouse. But he'd been there. In the past few years, he'd been thrust into new places, new things to consider. He remembered the first time someone had offered him a steak that cost enough to eat for a week. And he remembered wishing he could have just had the money.

  She raised an eyebrow, as if to say 'duh.'

  So he went for broke. "When you ask me out, you pay. You set the menu."

  "When I ask you out?"

  "Wishful thinking." H
e shrugged again. He'd been doing too much of that, and decided that all the times he'd been uncomfortable in places just like this were finally going to be worth something.

  She almost laughed and he tried a little harder. He was normally a take-it-or-leave-it guy. So why wasn’t he being one now? He couldn't figure it out. Though he told himself he was on break and had nothing better to do, that didn't really explain any of this. So he didn't even try. "Scoot over here."

  Even as he said it he slid his chair toward one corner, inviting her to come closer. Grabbing his menu, he reached for her hand and helped her slide over next to him. He told himself to let her go if she protested.

  Slowly, Shay slid his way. He didn't let go. Just laced their fingers together and looked at her. "Would you like a drink?"

  When her brows pulled together, he dove back in. "Just one. I'm not trying to get you drunk, I just want you to be comfortable with me and you're sprung tighter than a bad toaster."

  She smiled at that at least.

  "Shay, you know I grew up in Los Angeles? Well, I grew up all over the area. Mostly the bad parts. I ran away at sixteen. Before that I lived in nineteen different places."

  She gasped a little. Tried to hide it, and offered some quick math. "That's less than a year each."

  "Some were longer. Some were very short." It wasn't the whole truth. He wasn't sure he could even speak the whole truth. But it was true. "Some were so bad . . . and most would make your house look like a castle. I know a well-cared for home when I see it."

  She'd broken. Whatever the wall was that she'd had up in between them, this had dissolved it. It had hurt to say it, even as much as it was just a scratch on the surface. But it had been worth it. She flipped the menu over to check out the drinks, then finally confessed, "I don't know what to order."

  "I've got you." He called the server over, hoping to take advantage of someone's knowledge for the evening, because it wasn't his own. "I need a rum and coke. And she needs a drink, but we don't know what." Turning back to Shay, he asked, "Sweet, sour, strong?"