She looks at me blankly. “That is so offensive.”

I raise one hand. “Just trying to be helpful.”

Riley turns to stare out the window. After a few minutes her chin quivers and her shoulders tremble.

Here’s the thing—I don’t have a lot of experience with crying females. I’ve made a concentrated effort to avoid any situation that involves me, women, and tears. In case you haven’t noticed, empathy isn’t my strong point. And crying teenagers? This feels kind of like a bigfoot encounter—I’ve heard about it on TV, read about it in the papers . . . but this is the first time I’ve actually seen one close-up.

She wipes her face on the sleeve of her sweater. “I miss my parents.”

And my chest feels weighted. Heavy. For her.

“I know you do.”

“I wish they were here.” She sniffles.

“What would you say to them if they were?” I pull up the McQuaid driveway and put the car in park.

Riley thinks about my question and then the corner of her mouth tugs. “I would ask them how come Matthew doesn’t like me. They were always really honest with us, you know? They would tell me the truth.”

I look at her face. She’s a pretty girl, even tired and grieving. But there’s a fire in her, a fierceness, that will serve her well when she’s grown. I’ve seen it in women I’ve worked with—women like Sofia. One day, Riley McQuaid will be a force to be reckoned with.

“I can tell you the truth about that,” I say with a shrug.

She turns to me.

Gently, I wipe a tear from her cheek. “It’s because Matthew is an idiot.”

• • •

Chelsea opens the door before we knock. Looking just-fucked gorgeous with bed-mussed wavy hair and her do-me glasses on her face. She’s wearing a black tank top and silky red pajama pants. My dick is still pretty pissed, but the sight of her breasts peeking above the top of her shirt makes him consider speaking to me again. Eventually.

“We really need to stop meeting like this,” she says, her plump lips sliding into a familiar smile.

Riley hugs her aunt forcefully. “I’m sorry, Aunt Chelsea.”

She runs her hand down the back of Riley’s hair. “I know.” Then she turns her head in disgust. “Did you vomit in your hair?”

“Yeah,” Riley groans, sounding miserable.

Chelsea holds her cheek. “Let’s get you into bed—we’ll talk about this tomorrow. There will be grounding in your future.”

She tilts her head toward the family room. “Come on in, Jake. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

And she doesn’t have to tell me twice.

About twenty minutes later, Chelsea walks back into the living room.

“It was kind of cold, so I started a fire.” I gesture to the flickering flames that glow inside the brick fireplace. Heat seeps into the room like a mist, the crackle and scent of live fire comforting. “Hope you don’t mind.”

She gazes at the fire like a woman staring at a chocolate cake the day after she got off her diet. “I don’t mind at all—thank you. You’ll have to show me what you have up your sleeve . . .”

Up my sleeve, down my pants. I’ll show her anything she wants to see.

“. . . I haven’t been able to get it going—the logs smolder but don’t really burn for me.” The orange flames dance in her eyes as she turns to me, teasing. “I was a terrible Girl Scout.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I indicate the bottle of Merlot resting on the corner stone-top table.

She looks confused. “Robbie and Rachel didn’t keep any alcohol in the house.”

“I had it in my car.”

A smile tickles her lips. “Wow. Wine, a fire—you’re like seduction on wheels. Do you keep candles in the trunk?”

“I just figured you might enjoy a drink, maybe a little conversation.”

I get the feeling Chelsea hasn’t had a conversation with an adult in a long time.

“I’ll enjoy that more than I can say.” She sighs. “I’ll go grab the glasses.” Chelsea walks toward the door that leads into the kitchen but stops before exiting. Looking over her shoulder back at me, her reddish hair glowing like gold in the firelight, she raises an eyebrow. “So . . . you’re not trying to seduce me?”

I meet her gaze head-on. And wink. “I didn’t say that.”

“Good to know.”

Then she turns back around with a flip of her hair and walks into the kitchen with an extra swivel of that fine ass.

• • •

Later, I add another log to the fire and we’re both working our way through glass number two. Chelsea’s long legs are tucked snugly beneath her; one hand holds her glass and the other elbow is propped against the back of the couch, her head resting in her hand. The position exposes the smooth expanse of her neck, and I’m fascinated by the pulse that thrums beneath her skin. It makes me feel like a vampire—I want to put my mouth right there, I want to taste her and feel that spot throbbing against my tongue.

I asked her about what she was getting her master’s in, and the fucking crazy thing is, I’m actually interested in what’s coming out of her mouth—not just fantasizing about what I’d like to put in there.

“I’m an art history major.”

I snort. “So you paid thousands of dollars in tuition to look at pretty pictures?”

“No, Mr. Cynical. There’s so much more to it than that. Art tells us about culture, what was important to the people of that time. The things they valued, the things they hated or feared—their image of what was beautiful.”