“And?”

“They’re so good. You should read them.”

I laugh and hold my hands up as if in surrender. “No, that’s okay. I’ll leave the romance novels to you girls.”

She shrugs and lays the book aside. “Your loss. You never know, you might learn something.”

“I’ll take your word for it. How are you settling in, brat?”

She smiles, reclines back in her chair, and lays her hands on her belly. “I love it. I’m so happy that Cara shacked up with Josh and let me live in her house.”

“So kind of her,” I reply sarcastically. Cara Donovan is Jill’s best friend, and when Cara moved in with her fiancé, Josh King, she offered her house to Jill, who’d just moved back to town.

“So, what’s up with you?” Jill asks, eyeing me carefully.

“Just a lot on my mind.”

“No.” She shakes her head and narrows her eyes. “You have that look you get when you have a woman on the brain.”

“I don’t get a look.” I chuckle and cross my arms over my chest.

“Yeah, you do.” She turns in her chair, facing me squarely. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me, Tyler Sullivan.” She shakes her finger at me, making me laugh. “Spill it.”

“No woman.” I shrug and watch a cat scurry across the road. “Just work stuff on my mind.”

“Well, whoever she is”—Jillian ignores my sigh of exasperation—“she’s not good enough for you.”

“Of course she’s not. She’s imaginary because there is no woman.”

“Okay.” She smiles smugly. “Is it someone I know?”

“Oh my God!” I exclaim, and pull myself out of my chair. “I’m going home. I was going to take you out to dinner, but you fucked it up.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she pouts, then lets out a belly laugh as I grab my briefcase and walk toward my own house just a few doors down. “You know you love me!”

“You annoy the hell out of me!” I respond over my shoulder with a laugh.

I jog up my porch steps and into my house, toss my keys on the coffee table and briefcase on the chair. I change into jeans and a T-shirt and saunter into the kitchen, open the fridge, and try to decide between leftover Chinese or pizza, then slam the door with a curse.

Unable to stop myself, I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Lauren’s number again.

Voice mail.

Fuck it.

I grab my keys and jog down to my car. I’m going to make sure she’s okay. Her house is at the edge of town, so it only takes me about ten minutes to get there. I can’t explain the pull I feel toward her. Hell, we grew up together, but it’s only been in the past six months or so that I feel drawn to her in ways I can’t put into words. My body yearns for her, I need to feel her, kiss her.

Protect her.

Jillian would laugh at me and accuse me of finding another broken woman to try to fix, but she’s wrong. Lauren isn’t broken, not by a long shot. The woman has more fight in her than just about anyone else I know.

Knowing her divorce was almost final, and seeing her around town, smiling shyly, trying to blend in—as if she ever could!—has had me in a permanent state of arousal since I saw her help a lost little boy find his mom on Main Street months ago. She’s been in my head, and I can’t seem to shake her loose.

Lo’s Mercedes is parked out front when I pull into her drive, and I feel a surge of both relief and anger. Why the hell isn’t she answering the phone?

I ring her bell and wait, my eyes moving over the house and property. There’s no movement.

I ring the bell again and then pound on the door. She has to be here. Just as I’m about to back away and search the side of the house for another entrance, she pulls the door open, and the air leaves me.

Her big blue eyes are wide and glassy. Her gorgeous hair has been pulled on top of her head, but half of it has escaped out the back and is falling down her shoulders. She’s in a skintight, black tank top and yoga shorts. No shoes.

“Are you sick?” I ask, instantly concerned.

“What?” She scratches her head and frowns. “No, I’m working.”

“Working?” I ask incredulously. I had no idea she worked. I assumed she lived off her trust fund.

“Yeah.” She nods and steps back, giving me room to enter. I move past her, into her home. The house, the oldest one in town, is massive. The inside is lushly furnished, in warm tones and inviting furniture. I look back to Lauren, to find her rubbing her forehead and blinking rapidly.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure you’re not sick? When was the last time you had a shower, sweetheart?” I smile gently at her as she winces and her cheeks warm.

“I don’t know.” She scrunches up her nose in thought. “What day is it?”

“What day is it?” What the hell is going on here? “Lauren, what kind of work have you been doing?”

“I’m a writer,” she responds immediately, then scowls. “Really, what day is it?”

“Friday,” I say, and watch as her mind clears. It’s fascinating. “How long have you been working?”

“Since Tuesday night.”

“Since Tuesday?” I’m pissed off all over again. “Jesus, Lo, have you even eaten?”