THE DOORBELL RINGS AND I HAVE TO TALK MYSELF INTO walking toward it. Because I know who’s on the other side.

    Gwen.

    Airport Gwen. Beach Gwen. Tripp’s Gwen. Gwen, who Tripp never so much as mentions.

    I scoff, shaking off the way that thought makes my stomach turn and stride toward the door. As my hand wraps around the handle, I steel myself because every time Iy eyes on her, it’s this full-body, visceral reaction.

    I freeze up like a fucking teenager. My heart pounds. My hands get mmy. And I have to mp my mrs together to keep from sighing like an awestruck little boy.

    Because Gwen isn’t just hot as fuck. She’s kind. And fun. And thoughtful. And flexible.

    How do I know? Because I found her social media channels. I couldn’t keep myself from looking at her when I woke up from surgery. Alive. Just like she reassured me I would be.

    And honestly, it’s fucking embarrassing.

    Holding it together around her is hard enough, but then I went and invited her to live with me. I’m not oblivious to the shit Clyde pulled, but that’s not why I said yes.

    It’s the way she flippantly wrote herself off as a burden. The way her smile fell and her amethyst eyes went t. Her quiet voice at the beach when she so casually mentioned that she’s been told she’s too much.

    I didn’t like it. Didn’t want to contribute to it.

    We barely know each other, but I know the woman isn’t a burden. Like she said, she’s self-sufficient. Shends on her feet. And I didn’t want to be one more obstacle for her to ovee.

    So I decided to be mature about it. Even though, thanks to Gwen Dawson, turning regret and self-loathing into an erection appears to be my new superpower.

    I yank the door open with that galling thought on my mind, and just like I predicted, I take one look at her and the world around us stands still.

    “Hi!” She waves meekly. “Sorry I’m early. Guess I’m still not used to how close everything is in a small town.”

    It hits me all at once that Tripp’s ex-girlfriend is moving into my house and I haven’t told him. Part of me thinks I should text him immediately and exin myself. If he finds out, it will look bad. But the other part of me knows this is only temporary—a month or two—and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Not telling him just seems… easier.

    “It’s fine,” I choke out through an embarrassingly dry throat.

    Then we just stare at each other—me gripping the door so hard that my knuckles turn white and her hugging her duffel bag against herself like a shield.

    Because me being a surly dickhead all the time is probably not super reassuring. But the truth is, I don’t know how to act around her.

    I fear if I soften up even a smidge, I’ll cross a boundary I shouldn’t. Take something that isn’t mine. Irrevocably fuck up my rtionship with the son I’ve always wanted. It doesn’t matter that they aren’t an item anymore. It would still be a betrayal. An incredibly unfatherly one at that.

    Even just having her here in a professional capacity, living under the same roof as me, is a dangerous temptation.

    “Bash? Are you feeling okay?” she asks hesitantly, because I’m still blocking her entry like a big dumb statue.

    I step aside, internally chastising myself for being so fucking awkward, and gesture through the open doorway. “Yeah, fine. Sorry. Come on in. I’ll show you your room.”

    Her lips roll together and she ducks her head as she enters the house, peeking around from beneath heavyshes. She draws up short when she gets a good look at the wall of windows that face out to the balcony overlooking the water. “Wow. That view,” she breathes. “You have a beautiful home.”

    I turn to face theke, a spark of pride ring in my chest. I love this house. Buying thekefront lot was a gift to myself. I lived in a trailer on the property while I saved, knowing building on the rocky slope wouldn’t be cheap.

    Watching Gwen stop and stare is satisfying as hell. Those plush lips, slightly parted. That impressed expression sparking ideas in me.

    It’s all trouble.

    “Did you build this?”

    “A lot of it. Or a lot of the interior, I guess.”

    She turns in a slow circle, taking it in with total admiration. I step closer and take the heavy duffel bag from her. She hands it over silently, still gazing around the open living space and lofted ceilings with awe.

    “I don’t think I’ve ever lived in such a nice house.”

    “No?” I ask, hefting the bag over my shoulder and trying not to gawk at her.

    “Nah. Army brat. And the houses on base weren’t even close.”

    “Mom or dad?”

    She finally turns to face me. “In the military? My dad.”

    “Impressive.”

    Her head joggles, like she doesn’t quite agree with my assessment. “Almost as impressive as the depth of my daddy issues and the uniform kink my upbringing sent me out into the world with.”

    She barks out augh, and I try not to choke on my own saliva. “Jesus, Gwen.”

    Her respondingugh is light as she lifts a hand while cing the other over her chest. “Your Honor, I only speak the truth.”

    I shake my head and turn away to lead her upstairs. It feels like I’m walking to the gallows because living under the same roof as Gwen Dawson is sure to be the death of me.

    “Even this stairwell is nice,” she remarks from behind me. “Like the tiles on the face of the steps? The curve in the banister? It’s beautiful, Bash.”

    “Thanks, I made them myself.” I nce over my shoulder when I finish the stairs, watching her dainty fingers flutter over the rounded woodwork at the topnding.

    She doesn’t even look my way as she muses, “Goddamn, you must be good with your hands.”

    We freeze in time, and I watch pink splotches pop up on her round cheeks as she slowly turns her head in my direction. Fuck, she’s so pretty, I can’t even stand it.

    Eyes wide and pleading, she adds, “I mean, you must be handy.”

    “I’m both.”

    My mrs mp down hard and fast, as though that might help me take back the two words that slipped out all too easily. Toote. My gaze drops to her mouth, watching her lips part on a sharp intake of air. Her tongue drags over the seam as she slowly quirks one disbelieving brow at me.

    I’ve had too many quiet days spent recovering thinking about her. And I hate it. I hate it because what I want to do is close this gap between us. Shove her up against the wall. Peel those tight fucking yoga pants off that perfectly round ass.

    But I can’t.

    And I hate it.

    In fact, my desperate craving makes me hate myself a little bit too.

    So, without another word, I walk down the hallway and drop her bag in the spare room—painfully close to mine. Then I leave her there to get settled before I can get myself into more trouble than I already am.

    As I jog down the stairs, I promise myself I’m going to create some space between us.

    It’s only when I reach thest step—a safe distance away—that I call back up, “Leaving for the hospital in an hour!”hr

    “The energy in this truck is fuckin’ weird.” Clyde’s beady eyes bore into the rearview mirror from the back seat.

    Gwen and I worked expediently to get Clyde formally discharged, coordinating with the porter to get him arranged in my truck. When there’s a task to do right in front of us, Gwen and I get shit done well enough.

    But when you take the task away, the tension seeps back in. That’s probably what Clyde is referring to—the way we’re both sitting stiffly in the front like two kids forced to share a bench on the school bus.

    Weird? Absolutely.

    But not as weird as the drive to the hospital. That was one for the record books. Even my go-to ‘90s grunge ylist couldn’t quell the deafening silence between us. Gwen stared out the window, strumming her teeth over her bottom lip while I squeezed the hell out of the steering wheel, trying to forget that I looked her in the eye and told her I’m good with my hands.

    Right now, everything is much the same. Except Clyde is shit-talking us from the back like a snarky teenager.

    “Just focusing on the road, Clyde. I’ve got precious cargo in the back seat,” I deadpan, drawing a snort from Gwen and an eye roll from the older man.

    “That’s rich,” he grumbles. “We all know I’m only here because you’re a big, broody, dutiful motherfucker.”

    I sigh. He’s not wrong. I am those things. In fact, I pride myself on being dutiful—reliable. But with Clyde, it’s more than that. I care about him.

    I mean, I haven’t told him that. But I gave him my fucking kidney. What more does he want? A tattoo across my forehead?

    “Clyde, if I didn’t want you to live with me while you recover, I wouldn’t have offered.”

    “Heartwarming,” he mumbles, turning his head to look out the window. “You’re just so nice.”

    From the corner of my eye, I see Gwen’s head taking on a considering tilt. “Bash isn’t nice—”

    “This is going to be a long couple of months,” I mutter as I turn off the main drag onto the quietkeside road that leads toward my house.

    Gwen’s head snaps in my direction. “If you’d let me finish, you wouldn’t have to be having a big cry over an iplete sentence.”

    My jaw works. “Comment stands.”

    She turns in her seat so she can look back at Clyde. “What I was about to say is that Bash isn’t nice—he’s kind. The two are not the same.”

    I watch in the mirror as Clyde squints at her. He fuckin’ hates being told he’s wrong. It’s the source of most of our disagreements. “I’m pretty sure those two words are synonyms, Gwen.”

    She shrugs. “Perhaps. But I still think they’re different. You don’t have to agree.” Then she turns back and faces the front, ending the conversation without giving him the satisfaction of an argument. I could learn a thing or two from her.

    Silence stretches in the truck, and I can see Clyde’s lips working, twisting and scrunching like he’s chewing that over. Maybe even waiting for her to say something. Eventually, herck of engagement pushes him to break.

    “How do you think they’re different?”

    A ghost of a smile dances over her face, barely perceptible before it disappears. She doesn’t turn around this time—instead, I feel her gaze on my profile.

    “Well, I think being nice has more to do with behaving in a way that’s driven by social expectations. Whereas being kind is behaving in a way that’s driven by a concern for other people’s well-being. And the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. I’d be rather wary of someone who is nice but not kind.”

    I fight the urge to squirm in my seat as her words hang in the cab of my truck. It’s apliment, but I don’t know what to do with it. So I keep my eyes on the road, seeing my driveway ahead like a portal to freedom and escape from being stuck in a small space with these two.

    “Ah,” Clyde drawls, as though understanding is dawning on him in some grand fashion. Then, he grins at me in the mirror, and I just know he’s about to toss a grenade and metaphorically run away giggling. “So it’s like how he’s being generally not nice to you in an attempt to be kind to his son?”

    My foot instinctively taps the brake in shock as I choke on absolutely nothing. The truck jerks and then carries on as I cough to clear my throat.

    Over the sound of Gwenughing.

    Head thrown back, hand on her full chest,ughing.

    Yeah, this is definitely going to be a long couple of months.