“Tell me, Ariana, what is the one thing that makes you angry?” Elouise asks.

Ariana frowns as she contemplates her answer, and we sit in silence as we wait. All of our questions are different, based on our psychological testing. Elouise, the psychologist who is running this part of the workshop, has tailored the session to what we did yesterday morning. We’ve broken up into small groups of fifteen and are sitting and listening to everyone in our group.

Once again, I zone out into space.

I’m flat today.

Down on myself, for many reasons.

I hate that I’m physically attracted to someone I don’t like. I hate that I let him get under my skin. I hate that I wanted him, and, most of all, I hate that the opportunity to have a wild and carefree night with him is gone. He’s gone back to New York now.

Tristan fucking Miles.

The reason I haven’t slept, the reason I had to get myself off while watching YouPorn last night.

And the reason I feel so fucking sexless today that I just want to cry.

It was nice being hit on . . . being made to feel desirable.

To feel like a woman again.

And it’s not him; it’s not about him. It’s what he represents.

A carefree time in my life that’s gone.

I’ve been thinking about it . . . long and hard—all night, actually. And if there was ever a man whom I should have slept with as a get-back-into-the-dating-game kind of thing, it should have been Tristan Miles.

He is uncomplicated and unavailable, the kind of man you have thoughtless sex with. I was physically attracted to him, and yet there was absolutely no chance that I could have developed feelings for him. He’s not the kind of man I could ever fall in love with.

It was the perfect opportunity . . . and I let it go.

Fucking great.

“Claire?” a voice asks.

I look up, dazed. “I beg your pardon?” I ask.

“Let’s talk about the hardest thing in your life,” Elouise says.

I frown.

“What is the hardest thing that you have had to do?”

I stare at her for a moment. “Little League.”

Elouise’s face falls, and everyone listens intently.

“Explain that to me.”

“Um.” I take a nervous, deep breath. “My husband . . . um . . .” I pause midsentence.

“Start at the beginning.” Elouise smiles.

“Five years ago, my husband was riding a bike early one morning.” I smile as I remember Wade in his full riding kit. “He was training for a triathlon.” I pause.

“Go on.”

“He was . . . hit by a drunk driver at five fifty-two a.m.”

Everyone watches me.

“He died at the scene. He was thirty-six.” I twist my fingers together on my lap. “And I thought that was going to be my worst day.” I smile as I try to make sense of what I’m about to say. “But I was wrong.” I stay silent for a moment.

After a while, she prompts me, “Go on, Claire.”

“Watching my three sons grow up without a father, day in and day out, is far worse.” My eyes fill with tears. “Every Saturday,” I whisper, hardly able to push the words past my lips. “Every Saturday . . . we go to their games. And when they do something good, they look up into the stands to see me.” I stare straight ahead as I pause.

“Take your time, dear.”

“They’re so proud, and then I watch their little faces fall when they remember that their dad’s not here to see it.”

Elouise nods quietly.

“So yeah . . .” I shrug. “Little League is the hardest thing about my life.”

The group remains silent, and I glance up to see Tristan standing to the side of the circle. His hands are in his pockets, and his haunted eyes hold mine.

I drop my head, wishing I could take the personal words back.

I don’t want Tristan Miles to know me, to know anything about me or my children and our daily struggles.

I’m keeping my distance. My attraction to him is just that—a physical attraction.

It means nothing.

“Okay, moving along. Richard. Tell me about your childhood.”

It’s just around ten o’clock at night when we are walking back from the restaurant.

The group is sleepy and subdued. Unlike last night, everyone is tired.

Today was a hard day and—I hate to admit it—a little cathartic. I had a lot of soul-searching moments and listened to a lot of the others have them too.

An unexpected bond has formed between me and my little group. I’m feeling deep and emotional and somewhat raw. It was unexpected, if I’m honest.

Tristan was at dinner but was sitting at another table with the other lecturers. He was chatting and talking and deep in conversation with another man.

He hasn’t been annoying me today, or flirting. In fact, he hasn’t come near me since he heard my little truth bomb this morning. It’s all a bit real for him, I think.

Even for me, sometimes.

We arrive at the hotel, and I see a convenience store up ahead. I might get some chocolate. A cup of tea and something sweet will end the day on a high. “I’m just going to grab something from the store. See you all in the morning,” I say.

“See you,” my group calls as they disappear into the hotel.

I cross the street and grab my chocolate and look through the books they have. Hmm. What can I read? I don’t read romance anymore, and horror is scary when my kids are on the other side of the world.

Nope . . . nothing interests me. Oh well, it was a nice thought.

I pay the cashier and head back over to the hotel. “Claire!” I hear from the side street next to the hotel.

I glance over and see Tristan standing in the dark. “Hi.” I clutch my chocolate tightly in my hand.

“I just wanted to see how you were,” he says.

See how I am . . . like a victim?

My face falls, and an unexpected surge of anger rises in my stomach. I hate that he heard my admission of weakness this morning. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to go and get some granny tea?” He gestures up the street to a café. He’s not using it as a code for sex; he really means tea tonight.

Suddenly, I’m angry at his change of direction with me. I can handle flirty and fun.

This . . . I cannot.

“No,” I snap. “I do not.” Infuriated, I storm off, and then, unable to help it, I turn back to him. “You know what? Fuck you,” I say.

“What?”

“Don’t you give me that look, Tristan Miles.”

“What look?” he gasps.

“That pathetic look of sympathy,” I sneer. “You can look at me sexy; you can look at me with distaste. But don’t you fucking dare feel sorry for me.”

He stares at me.

“The one person in the world that I don’t want pity from is you.”

He steps forward. “What do you want?”

“I just want to be treated normal,” I snap. “Not like poor Claire Anderson the widow.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Like a normal woman who you don’t know.”

I feel like I’m about to explode, and I suck in deep breaths to try to calm myself down. My eyes search his. “At least when you’re an asshole, I know what to expect.”

He rushes me and grabs my face in his hands and kisses me. His tongue swipes through my lips, and he pushes me up against the wall.

“Believe me, Claire Anderson . . . the last thing I feel when I look at you . . . is pity.”

His tongue dances against mine, and his grip on my face is near painful.

I’m forced forward as he pulls me onto his cock. I can feel it as it hardens.

My insides begin to liquefy . . . oh God.

Something snaps inside of me, and I begin to kiss him back.

I kiss him with everything I have, and God it feels good. Deep, erotic . . . and so long awaited.

He pulls back and looks at me as he holds my face in his hands. His breathing is labored. “What is that kiss, Anderson?”

I stare up at him as my chest rises and falls.

“That’s not a granny-tea kiss.” His hands grip my face harder, and he licks my open lips. My insides clench at the dominance of his action. “That’s a hungry kiss,” he whispers darkly and then licks my lips again. The way he’s licking my open lips with no regard for what my tongue is doing is making me want him to lick me somewhere else. Every muscle deep inside of me clenches as I imagine his head between my legs.

“Are you hungry, Claire?” he breathes.

Fucking starving.