I knew I was stubborn. Knew I had a short fuse—always had. But after waking up from the coma, that temper had mutated into something monstrous. Like everything else in me, it was unstable. Raw. Out of control.
Like my feelings for her.
That was the part that unnerved me.
Rose Floris had me swinging on a pendulum—lust, annoyance, disdain, respect, admiration… and whatever the hell happened in my stomach when she looked at me. A kind of heat. A kind of pull.
It was unsafe.
And around her,Iwas unsafe. Unpredictable. Charged. Like every part of me that I couldn’t control was drawn to every part of her that wouldn’t be controlled.
I didn’t like it. I needed tomanageit. I needed to put it in a box, on a shelf, behind lock and key.
Because above all else, someone needed to keep this fiercely independent, maddeningly stubborn, andinsanelybeautiful woman safe.
And that someone was going to be me.
I made a mental note of the single lock on her front door—not enough—and followed her inside.
I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’tthis.
Based on her designer wardrobe, luxury handbags, and sleek BMW, I imagined modern furniture, velvet throw pillows, and maybe a few pink-accented rugs tossed around a glossy white floor. Probably a shelf full of rom-coms and scented candles named after emotions.
What I got was… minimal. Earthy. Surprisingly masculine.
Everything was arranged with precision—angles sharp,spacing exact. The place was spotless. Not just clean—surgical. A plaid loveseat sat across from a structured leather couch, a red afghan folded neatly at one end. A woven beige rug anchored a cherry oak coffee table so polished it gleamed. In the center: a stack of coasters. Of course.
I almost laughed. If she saw where I slept—on hay, next to a horse—she’d break out in hives.
The fireplace was clearly the centerpiece, flanked by long-stemmed candles burned only to the tip. No random clutter. No half-finished mugs of tea.
No photos.
That part hit me harder than it should’ve. No framed family pictures. No shots from girls’ nights or birthday dinners. Nothing that gave away a history.
Just like that, the psychologist became the mystery.
From the kitchen, she flicked on the overhead light, eyeing me with that same cautious curiosity she used in session.
I lifted my foot to step forward?—
“Wipe your shoes,” she said without looking up.
I froze. Recoiled. Wiped.
“May I come in now?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
I stepped past the entryway, glancing at the black heels she’d kicked off beneath a painting—white horse, windswept mane, standing in a storm.
It lookedjustlike Spirit.
“You like horses?” I asked, surprised again.
She looked over her shoulder. “Why?”
“Painting looks like mine.”
