I follow her directions, taking the staircase to the third floor, the lingering scent of industrial-grade cleaner trailing the entire way. I can’t help but notice the eerie quiet as I climb. It only amplifies the creaking steps. Aside from an occasional cough, I hear nothing. I see nothing. It’s as if the place is empty. My gut tells me it’s far from it.

Following the room numbers on the doors, I watch the progression until I reach my destination. The door is propped open. Okay, Dr. Stayner. What do you have for me now? With a deep inhale, I step hesitantly around the corner, expecting to find my graying psychiatrist.

A short, narrow hallway leads into a room that I can’t see fully from the doorway. All I can see is the corner ahead and a dark-haired, tanned, beautiful man hunched over in a chair—his elbows on his knees, his hands folded and pressed to his mouth as if he’s waiting with trepidation.

My breath hitches.

Ashton is on his feet immediately. His lips part as he stares at me, as if he wants to speak but doesn’t know where to begin. “Livie,” he finally manages, and then clears his throat. He’s never called me Livie before. Never. I don’t know how that makes me feel.

I’m too shocked to respond. I hadn’t expected to see him today. I hadn’t prepared myself.

I watch with wide eyes as Ashton takes five quick strides over and seizes my hand, his worried brown eyes locked on mine, a slight tremble in his grip. “Please don’t run,” he whispers, adding more quietly, more gruffly, “and please don’t hate me.”

That snaps me out of my initial shock but it sends me into another one. Did he honestly think I’d run from him the second I saw him? And how on earth could Ashton ever think that I’d hate him?

Whatever is going on, Ashton clearly doesn’t comprehend the depth of my feeling for him. Yes, I left two weeks ago. It was something I had to do. For me. But I’m here now and I don’t ever want to run or walk or anything away from Ashton again.

I just pray to God that I won’t have to.

What the hell is that damn psychiatrist of mine up to now?

Stepping backward, Ashton silently leads me farther into the room until I can see the entire space. It’s quaint, simple—with pale yellow paper adorning the walls, crown molding lining the ceiling, and several vine plants suspended before a bay window, soaking up the mid-afternoon sunshine. All of those details vanish, though, as my eyes land on the woman lying in the hospital bed.

A woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a faintly wrinkled face that surely would have been described as beautiful at one time, especially with those full lips. Lips as full as Ashton’s.

And it all just . . . clicks.

“This is your mother,” I whisper. It’s not a question because I know the answer with certainty. I just don’t know the mountain of “whys” behind it.

Ashton’s hand never slips from mine, his grip never weakens. “Yes.”

“She’s not dead.”

“No, she’s not.” There’s a long pause. “But she is gone.”

I appraise Ashton’s solemn expression for a moment before turning back to the woman. I don’t mean to stare, but I do anyway.

Her eyes flicker from my face to Ashton’s. “Who . . .” she begins to say, and I can tell she’s struggling to form her words, her mouth working the shapes but unable to make the sounds come out. And in her eyes . . . I see nothing but confusion.

“It’s Ashton, Mom. This is Livie. I told you about her. We call her Irish.”

The woman’s gaze roams Ashton’s face and then drops down as if to search her memory.

“Who . . .” She tries again. I take two steps forward, as far as Ashton’s death grip on my hand will allow me. It’s close enough to catch the faint smell of urine that I recognize from the seniors homes with patients who have lost all bladder control.

As if giving up on figuring either of us out, the woman’s head rolls to the side and she simply stares out the window.

“Let’s get some air,” Ashton whispers, pulling me with him as he walks to a little radio on the side table. He turns on an Etta James disc and adjusts the volume up a bit. I don’t say anything as he leads me out of her room, closing the door softly behind him. We head down the hallway and a different set of stairs in silence, one that leads out to the home’s backyard garden, a sizeable property with bare oak trees and small paths weaving through the flower beds, long since prepared for winter. I suspect this is a lovely respite for residents in warmer weather. Now, though, with the weak November sun and a bite in the air, I shudder.

Taking a seat on a bench, Ashton doesn’t hesitate to pull me onto his lap and wrap his arms around my body as if to shelter me from the cold. And I don’t hesitate to let him, because I crave his warmth for more than one reason. Even if I shouldn’t.

This is exactly what I was afraid of.

I don’t know what’s right anymore. All I know is that Ashton’s mother is alive and Dr. Stayner sent me here, no doubt to learn the truth. How Dr. Stayner knew . . . I’ll figure that out later.

I close my eyes and inhale, absorbing Ashton’s heavenly scent. Being so close to him after our night together is even harder than I imagined it would be. I feel as if I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and the storm of emotions threatens to push me off—pain and confusion and love and desire. I can feel that gravitational pull, that urge to curl into his body, to slide my hand over his chest, to kiss him, to make myself believe that he’s mine. He’s not mine, though. He’s not even his yet.

“Why, Ashton? Why lie about her death?” Why . . . everything?

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t correct you when you assumed she was dead.”

The word “Why” is on my lips again, but he speaks before I can say it. “It was easier than admitting my mother doesn’t remember who I am. That every day I woke up hoping that it was the day she died so I could be free of my screwed-up life. So I could be at peace.”

I close my eyes to stave off the tears. Peace. Now I understand what that strange look was, the night that Ashton found out about my parents’ death. He was wishing the same for himself. Heaving a deep breath, I whisper, “You need to tell me. Everything.”

“I’m going to, Irish. Everything.” Ashton’s head tips back as he pauses to collect his thoughts. His chest pushes out against mine as he takes a deep breath. I can almost see the weight lifting off of his shoulders as he lets himself speak freely for the first time. “My mother has late-stage Alzheimer’s. She developed it very early—earlier than most.”

An instant lump forms in my throat.

“She had me when she was in her early forties. Unplanned and highly unexpected. And unwanted by my father. He . . . isn’t one to share. That apparently included my mother’s affections.” He pauses to give me a sad smile. “My mother modeled for years in Europe before meeting my dad and moving to America. I have some of her magazine covers. I’ll show you them one day. She was stunning. I mean drop-dead gorgeous.”

I lift a hand to touch his jawline. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

He closes his eyes and leans into my fingers momentarily before continuing. “When she met my dad, she had no interest in having kids either, so it worked out well. They were married for fifteen years before I was born. Fifteen years of bliss before I ruined everything, according to my father.” He says that last part with an indifferent shrug, but I know he’s far from indifferent. I can see the pain thinly veiled in those brown irises.