Freaking perfect.

I grabbed it and my glasses, took them to the bathroom and did my nighttime gig, contacts out, face washed, teeth brushed and flossed then I changed clothes, slid my glasses on and walked out.

I heard Brock’s rumble when I did.

And this was what it said, “No shit, Calhoun.”

I pressed my lips together at that name, scurried into the bedroom, dropped my clothes in the hamper then scurried out.

I knew he wanted to protect me but I was forty-three years old. I was in a situation. This situation was unlike the last. Now people knew. People who cared about me. People who had my back and people willing to take my front and act as a shield.

But it was high time I got my head out of the sand.

Somehow, I’d managed to be a survivor. But I was thinking that was pure luck and it only had to happen because I’d left my head in the sand too long with a husband who was no good for me from the start and I knew it, I just didn’t do a thing about it.

I needed to get my shit together.

So I stopped in the kitchen doorway and leaned against it, doing this with my eyes on a Brock Lucas who had his fist to his waist and his eyes on me.

Then he did something beautiful.

He trusted in me and the strength I was building inside enough to keep talking.

“You call the DA and you tell him to tell that ass**le’s attorneys that if he doesn’t desist in harassing Tess, his boatload of legal problems will become a shitload. He already forged her f**king signature on bank documents. And we already got taped testimony and phone records that show for six months he’s been dicking with her. So, when the DA talks to his legal team, he needs to use the words stalking, harassment, assault and sexual assault.”

I felt my chest rise with my indrawn breath and I knew Brock saw it but he kept trusting me and thus talking.

“Statute of limitations is not out on that. No way in f**k that Tessa O’Hara who runs a bakery and sprinkles f**kin’ confetti on her cakes will take the stand, describe her nightmare and he won’t go down, I don’t give a f**k if we have no physical evidence. She’ll have any jury eating out of her hand. His lawyers will know that. Now, I smell that guy’s f**kin’

cologne, Calhoun, she’s pressing charges. This ends for her tonight. Make the f**kin’ call.”

He listened for about two seconds then grunted, “Yeah,” and flipped his phone shut.

I waited for him to shove it back in his pocket before I asked softly, “Are you okay?”

“No,” he answered harshly. “I had my tongue in my woman’s mouth and my hand on her ass for the first time in three months. I like your ass. For three months, I spent a good deal of time thinkin’ about havin’ my hand back on your ass. What I didn’t spend time thinkin’ about is havin’ my hand on your ass and someone knockin’ on the front door and that someone being your slimeball motherfucking ex.”

Well, there you go.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Kentucky is becoming more attractive.”

He stared at me.

Then he grinned.

Then his eyes swept the length of me and back again before he said low, “Great nightie, babe.”

“Thanks,” I replied, tipping my head to the side then, to shift the mood and probably breaking all the rules of the game by doing something that would get me kicked out of the sisterhood, I shared, “If I’d have known you were spending the night I would have carved out some time to take a trip to the mall to buy a silky, sexy nightie that shouted, occasion, ” with this, I lifted up my hands and shook them then dropped them and continued, “though it would be carefully selected so when you saw me in it you’d think that was what I wore to bed every night when it isn’t . But since I didn’t know, I had to make do and this is what you get.” To that, I flicked my hand to my cotton candy nightie.

“I’m thinkin’ you did all right in a pinch,” he noted.

“I’m glad,” I said on a smile.

“So what do you wear to bed every night?” he asked.

“Well…” I thought about it then finished, “various versions of this. Though, I will warn you so you don’t get your hopes up, some of them don’t have ruffles.”

To that, he burst out laughing and he did it while walking to me. He stopped laughing and walking a half a foot away.

Then with his head tipped down to me, he said quietly, “Call your girl, sweetness, and then let’s hit the sack, yeah?”

I nodded but asked, “I’m sensing our earlier activities have been scheduled to recommence at a later date.”

He lifted a hand and curled it around the side of my neck as he dipped his face close to mine.

Then he said, “It sucks but yeah.” His hand gave me a squeeze while he went on, “You’re right, this is an occasion, it’s important and that douchebag showing marred it. When that happens between us again it’s gonna be just you and me without the ghost of that guy tarnishing it.”

I liked that. I liked that he wanted to give me that. I liked knowing us connecting in that way was as important to him as it was to me. And I liked holding the knowledge that he wanted to make it special.

I liked it so much, my hand came up, my fingers curled around his wrist at my neck, I got up on my toes and touched my mouth to his.

When I rocked back, I whispered, “Okay. I’ll call Martha and meet you in bed.”

He bent forward an inch, touched his forehead to mine then pulled back and dropped his hand. I released his wrist and he moved around me and toward the bedroom.

I went to my purse and dug out my phone. Then I called Martha. She was home. She wasn’t fine but she’d just opened a bottle of red wine in an attempt to get that way or at least put herself to sleep. We chatted until I heard the tremble go out of her voice. Then I hung up.

Then I walked to my bedroom to find a bare-chested Brock “Slim” Lucas in it, on his back, sheets to waist but hands to his face rubbing.

Those hands dropped when I hit the room but not before I remembered the last time he was in my bed, pressing the butts of his palms to his forehead, his manner conflicted and his expression would provide further evidence of that when he’d turned it to me.

This made a curl of apprehension writhe in my belly.

He rolled to his side and got up on a forearm while asking, “Babe, you gonna sleep on your feet or get in bed?”