I focused on that damn willow tree because if I looked at Tito, I would break. Under his intense heat, my resolve shriveled and dried, flaking off, layer by layer, floating away in the warm spring breeze.
“Tuuli.”
His breath blew my hair. His heat enveloped me.
Like a puppet on a string, I leaned into him.
“Can I kiss you?”
Yes. Kiss me, please, I wanted to beg. Instead, I turned in his arms and cupped his face. “Tell me something I don’t know about you. Something big.”
Angry eyes searched mine, begging me to take my question back. Aida’s words played on repeat in my head. He needs to break before he can heal. I couldn’t back down.
His lids slammed shut, then opened, gaze focused over my shoulder.
“Please,” I whispered. “One thing so I can kiss you.” I inched closer. “I need to kiss you.”
I feared he would pull away. Instead, on a deep inhale, he cupped the back of my neck, squeezing tight, like he was afraid I’d run if he didn’t hold me in place. His strong jaw tensed. “I was molested by my priest when I was a child.” He sucked in a sharp breath. Blew it out. “You wanted to know why I don’t like church. That’s why.”
Oh, God. Oh. God. No wonder he’d wanted to kill my father. I struggled to keep my tears at bay. Sympathy was the last thing he needed. I rose high on my toes, pulled his face down to mine, and brushed my lips in a soft stroke against his mouth, savoring the fullness, the scratch of his stubble, inviting him to take the lead.
He didn’t kiss me back, though. His grip tightened and he only stared, working his jaw, arms trembling. He wanted to say more. To share his secrets. He wanted us, his internal battle evident in the depth of his glare, the wariness, the pain.
Tito had given enough for one day. I wouldn’t push further.
I kissed him again, a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”
His face crumpled.
My heart bled, but I walked away and let myself into his car.
Shoulders hunched, he stared at the water. I waited, palms sweaty, pulse racing.
He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, then turned my way. When our eyes met, he smirked and shook his head, all vulnerability gone.
We didn’t talk on the drive home. Thrasher metal blasted through the speakers, stifling any chance for conversation. I was okay with that. He’d given what I’d asked, a gesture that meant everything. A small victory. A baby step forward.
When we reached the house, he walked me down the steps. I slid the key into the lock, then turned to face my beast.
Saying goodbye sucked. I wanted to invite him in. I wanted to tear at his clothes and lose myself in the dips and valleys of his physique. I want. I want. I wanted him. All of him. Not just his body. His troubles, too. And that was the very reason I couldn’t act on my selfish urges.
“Thank you for driving me home,” I mumbled.
He lifted a hand to my cheek and brushed his knuckles across my skin. His touch, so soft and tender, reached every unreachable inch of my body. I closed my eyes, absorbing the sensation, welcoming the ache, inhaling his scent, and holding it in my lungs, greedy for more.
When I looked up, he was staring at my mouth, eyes tortured, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. My entire body flooded with heat. The thump, thump, thump in my chest moved to my abdomen, then lower.
“I miss you so goddamn much,” he rasped, voice thick and sticky.
In a moment of weakness, I blurted, “I wouldn’t mind if you kissed me again.”
A sad smile graced his face. “No. Not until I’ve earned it.”
God, my soul. My soul. It ached. It bled. What was I doing? To him. To us?
We held each other, his cheek on my head, my ear to his chest, his heartbeat steady and strong. With a sigh, he let me go. “Lock the door behind you.”
“I will.”
“Goodnight, Bunny.” He took a slow step back.
Why did saying goodbye feel so wrong? “Tito.”
“Yeah?” Another reluctant step.
“Are you going for a run in the morning?”
“Always do.”
“Can I join you?”
“Fuck, yeah.” He jogged up two steps. Stopped. Turned to look at me. “Hell, yes.” Two more steps, he shouted over his shoulder, “Yes.” He reached the landing. “I’ll be here at six.”
He disappeared, then came right back into view. Hands on hips, he ordered, “Lock the door.” Then he waited.
I retreated inside. Engaged the locks. Then fumbled for my phone and shot him a text.
Locked. G’nite.
My phone buzzed with a reply.
Nite, Bunny.
I waited for the roar of his engine and the crunch of his tires to reply.
I miss u, too.
I fell into bed early and slept like a baby.
I hadn’t slept more than two hours on and off since moving into the penthouse. Then again, I hadn’t slept a full night in twenty years. Only difference, really, was that now, a blue-eyed pixie kept me from dreamland rather than the red-eyed demons that’ve haunted me for years.
I fell out of bed at five. Arrived at Tuuli’s apartment at five-thirty. Waited in my car until five-forty-five. Banged on her door.
She opened seconds later with a mile-wide grin, a bouncy knot of hair on top of her head, and my fucking sweatshirt hanging to her knees. She was drowning in the thing. Hell, if the sight didn’t turn me on.
“Morning, Grim.” She rose on her toes, kissed my chin, then studied my face with a pout. “You sleep last night?”
“Yeah.” Not a bit.
Brows furrowed, she chastised, “You’re lying.”
Sleep wasn’t important. Time with my girl was life or death. “Doesn’t matter. You ready? We gotta go if we wanna catch that sunrise again.”
“Tito.” She dropped back on her heels and pulled me inside.
“Bunny. Run. Remember?”
“No.” She continued dragging me down the hall, then kicked the bedroom door open. The bed was unmade, and the room smelled of sweet, warm, vanilla-scented woman. I took a deep breath, eyeing the wrinkled sheets, picturing her naked on that pillow-top queen size. A fresh wave of energy warmed my weary muscles. Warmed other places, too.
Fuck. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the mattress.
“I can’t.”
She grabbed my shoulders, turned me around, then pushed until my ass landed on the bed. “You can. You will.”
Bossy Tuuli was hot, fraying my already jagged nerves. No way in hell would I catch a wink of sleep. But I liked her determination. She wore it well.
“You need sleep.” She grabbed the hem of my shirt and tugged, trying to pull the damn thing over my head. “You’ve got stacks of bags under your eyes.”
“I’m fine,” I said, putting zero effort into my argument, raising my arms to help.
“You’re not.” My tee flew across the room. “Fifteen minutes. Just give it fifteen minutes. A power nap. Then, we’ll go chase the sunrise.”
I had no intention of winning the argument. But still, I played along. “On one condition.”
An eye roll. “What?”
“You lay down, too. Let me hold you.”
Sweet hell, that blush.
“That was the plan.”
“Okay, then.” I toed off my shoes. “You should’ve said that in the first place.”
Tuuli kicked off her Adidas, removed her sweatshirt, pulled back the blankets, and waited for me to settle between the sheets. Then, she snuggled close, wrapped her arms around me, and with those delicate fingers, started a slow stroke across my back. I nestled my head against her chest, her heartbeat a soothing rhythm, a lullaby. Her touch was entrancing. Her scent, intoxicating.
As I fought my weary lids, I curled an arm around her waist, hugging tight, and wondered if that was the closest I would ever get to Heaven.
2:47.
I’d slept over eight hours. Not one goddamn dream.
“You day-dreaming again, Toodaloo?” For the third time since my shift had started, Charlie rapped his knuckles on my head, shocking me out of my trance.
“Jeez. Sorry. My head is all over the place today.” I shook the funky vibe away and snatched the stack of folded towels out of Charlie’s hand.
Somehow, I had managed to make it through seven-and-a-half hours of a packed house without dropping any dishes or spilling any coffee. Every time the cowbell rattled, my heart jumped into my throat. Every time I looked to see who had entered and it wasn’t Tito, my chest deflated.
“You miss him, don’t you?” Tango’s thick, raspy voice shook me out of another reverie.
“Where’d you come from?” I squeaked.
He hooked an arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the end of the hall, smiling down at me with a crooked grin and those exotic, hypnotizing eyes. Seriously, those green babies should come with a warning: Weapon of Mass Destruction.
“I do. I miss him more than I want to,” I confessed.
“He misses you, too.”
Tango Rossi was one of those rare beauties, so perfect that you wanted to stare, but much like looking at the sun, if you ogled too long, you would go blind. So, with great effort, I held his gaze. “I’m trying to do the right thing. Trying to be a strong independent woman and all that. But…gah…I don’t feel right. Nothing feels right.”
Tango threw his head back and mumbled something to the ceiling, in Spanish I think, before grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. “That’s exactly what he said.”
“Why is this so hard?”
“Because nothing worth fighting for is easy.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, head cocked. “Want my advice?”
“Sure.” I hugged the towels to my chest.
“Stick to your guns. Don’t give in. But don’t give up, either. He’ll come around.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re a woman worth fighting for.” He shot me a dreamy-eyed wink, pushed off the wall, and sauntered away, leaving his words behind to seep through my skin, my blood, my soul.
Because you’re a woman worth fighting for.
He said woman. Not girl. Not brat. Not bitch. Woman.
I was worth fighting for. I had to believe that truth, for nobody else but me.
I headed back to the dining room with a bouncier spring in my step. A new customer was seated at one of my tables. A little on the short side, but thick on bulk. Messy black hair. Colorful ink covering his arms.
“Hi, there.” I smiled at the guy. “What can I get for you?”
His leg bounced incessantly. His thumb rapped a nervous beat on the table.
“Hey. Hi.” He glanced around, then leaned toward me. “Tuuli Holt?”
My stomach twisted. Throat shriveled. “Mmm…hmm.”
I looked over my shoulder. Slade was behind the counter, chatting with one of our regulars. Tango was nowhere to be found, and…Oh. Good. Andrew, one of the new security guards, was seated at the corner table, attention focused on me. I sucked in a calming breath.
“Hey, Tuuli.” He smiled. A warm, friendly smile, then offered a hand. “I’m Miguel. A friend of your brother’s.”
Every organ in my body dropped an inch. I swallowed a whimper. “Hi.”
“Hey. Listen.” He scratched his head. “I’m really sorry to hear about what happened.”
“Oh. Thanks? I’m sorry. How do you…I mean, how did you know Jonas?”
“We met in Seattle. Did some business together.”
“Oh.” Business. I could only imagine. I didn’t ask for details.
“You have a minute? If you’re busy, maybe we can talk after your shift?” Miguel’s voice was soft, kind, and carried a slight accent.
“Now is fine. Do you want a drink or anything?”
“No. Nothing. Thanks. Can you sit?”
“Sure.” I fell into the seat across from him. “Is everything okay?”
Miguel reached into his backpack, retrieved a manila envelope, and slid it across the table. “Jonas gave this to me a year ago. Said if anything ever happened to him, I was to give it to his sister, Tuuli Holt. I’m sorry it took me so long. I only heard about his passing two weeks ago. Had to do some digging to find you.”
The envelope was heavy and thick. On the front, in Jonas’s messy handwriting, was my name, and nothing else.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.” He started to scoot out of his seat.
“Wait.” I slapped a hand on his wrist. “Where are you going?”
“Home. My job is done.”
“Your job? I’m so confused.”
He huffed, sat back down, stared out the window, then reached across the table and tapped the envelope. “Your brother wasn’t who he pretended to be.” His gaze dropped to the envelope, then bounced back to me. “Whatever is in there? He said it was imperative that you have it. That’s all I know. That’s all I can tell you. He paid me a lot of money to deliver this package, but even if he hadn’t…” His eyes slammed shut and he shook the thought away before grabbing my wrist and squeezing tight. “I owe him my life, and I could never let him down.”
Startled by his intensity, I jerked my hand away, not out of fear, or pain, but the hurt behind his eyes, the agony in his voice. Miguel then hurried out of his chair, and without glancing back, slipped through the door and into the dark night.
Rubbing my wrist, I stared at the package in my hand, vaguely aware of a commotion outside. Men’s voices. Shouting.
Jonas had spent most of his life ignoring me. Why would he do this? I flicked the corner of the envelope with my thumbnail, debating whether to open the thing immediately or wait for privacy.
The cowbell rattled.
I tugged at one corner of the seal.
Footsteps. The cowbell.
Flick. Flick. Flick. To open, or not to open?
Slade ran by, shouting, “Goddammit, Tito!”
My heart jumped to my throat, and I looked outside. Miguel lay on the ground, his face bloody. Tito crouched over him, fist raised to strike. Tango dove, hooking an arm around Tito’s chest, tackling him backward to the ground.
The kid at table three yelled, “Cool,” his face pressed to the glass while his mother watched in horror.
Tito wrestled Tango, eyes dark like death, a beast, but not my beast.
I wanted to vomit.
Refusing to watch, I made my way toward the kitchen, then down the back hall where it was quiet and there was zero testosterone. I slid down, down, down, landing hard on my ass, then turned the envelope over and over, contemplating its contents.
“What did he want?” A large, bloodied hand ripped the envelope from my grasp. “What is this?”
I followed the fingers, the hand, and then the arm that led to a thick neck, and a red, angry face.
“Tito, don’t.”
Ignoring me, he ripped the top of the envelope. Vile anger heated my insides, forcing me to my feet. “What are you doing?” I yelled, snatching the paper and clutching it to my chest. “That’s mine.”
Heavy breaths hit my face. His chest rose and fell in large sweeps. Fingers curled around my arm, and despite my protests, he pulled me down the hall.
“Ouch. Stop.”
His fingers loosened, but his gait didn’t falter until he pulled me into Slade’s office and kicked the door shut behind us.
Miguel sat on the couch. Andrew towered over him, gun at the ready. Tango stood in the corner, phone to his ear.
“You know this guy?” Tito asked, pointing toward the man on the couch, all heavy breaths and haunted eyes.
“He said he knew my brother. Jonas wanted me to have this.” I shoved the envelope against his chest, harder than necessary.
His hand slapped over mine. “You don’t know him?”
“No.”
He slipped the package from under my hand and dropped the contents onto Slade’s desk. A pile of paper. Two crisp, clean stacks of hundred-dollar bills. A small, clear plastic box containing memory cards and flash drives.
I scooted closer, pushed Tito out of my way, and rifled through the papers, landing on a newspaper clipping. The headline read: Eileen Grady’s Disappearance Remains a Mystery. Family Distraught. Pregnant Teen Believed Dead.
The article was torn from a Chicago newspaper dated twenty-one years earlier. The face in the photo could’ve been mine. The girl was clearly pregnant. But the scowl she wore? I knew that grimace well. My mother.
“Tito?” I handed him the clipping, my icy fingers trembling. “What is this?”
I picked up the next paper in the stack. A birth certificate. Mine. The one beneath it belonged to Jonas. Another. Eileen Grady. And another. Ingrid Holt.
Tito scooted around the desk and sunk into Slade’s chair. His fingers floated across the keyboard, brows drawn tight, jaw set tighter.
I picked up another clipping. “Suspect in Eileen Grady Kidnapping Found Dead.”
Tito cleared his throat. “Shit.”
“Tito?” My hands trembled. Mind reeled.
“He’s not your father. That’s why there are no records. That’s why your mother doesn’t share his name. It’s all a fuckin’ ruse.” His eyes found mine, then bounced back to the screen. “Jeremy Carver was incarcerated in Missouri when Eileen Grady, who is clearly your mother, disappeared from her after-school job in Chicago. She was four months pregnant.”
“No. That’s ridiculous.” The room blurred, my bones turning liquid.
In a blink, Tango was at my side, holding me steady.
“Carver likes boys, Tuuli. Think about it. You ever see your parents together? They ever share a bedroom? Kiss? Touch? Hell, have you ever seen them fuckin’ smile at each other?”
“No.” I hadn’t. Except for public appearances, the two of them were never together. I couldn’t remember a time Jeremy spent the night at the house. Sure, he’d show up for meals because one thing my mother did well was cook. He’d also show up for punishments. Other than that, well, I had no clue where he laid his head at night.
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