This novel exists because people believe in me. I thank everyone at St.

Martin's Press for their patience, especially Matthew Shear, Jennifer Enderlin, and my editor, Monique Patterson. I thank my agent, Irene Goodman, for cheering me on when I needed it most. I thank the many readers who said they couldn't wait for my next book, and, by the way, would it be coming sometime this /century/? Thanks for hanging in there, everybody.

I am honored to have friends and family who continue to walk with me on this journey, especially Steven and my best friend Arleen, along with Gran, Conor, Kathleen, Suzie, Marilyn, Shawn and Cameron, Paul, Kim, Catherine, Liz and John, Matt, and Sean and Diana. I thank the network of people who did something (or a lot) to get me to the settled place I am todayJehanne, Kathy, Lou, Matthew, Pam, Lisa, Ron, Dana, Bernice, Sharon, Sylvia, and Kenmo Trinlay Chodron and my fellow students at the TMC. Last, I thank the various plumbing and heating professionals, concrete and masonry workers, electricians, locksmiths, roofers, cabinet and flooring contractors, and landscapers who have helped me transform my little house into a home. I am abundantly blessed.

This book is a work of fiction. I took liberties with Baltimore street names and geography to suit my story. The town of Persuasion, West Virginia, and its residents exist only in my imagination. Thank you to Madeline Bowman's parents for placing the winning bid at the 2006 Potomac Classical Youth Ballet Silent Auction, allowing me to use their daughter's name for a fictional character.

Four shirtless construction workers posed on the roof like suspects in a police lineup. But because of the direction of the afternoon sunand the fuzziness of her twenty-year-old memoryKat couldn't tell which was the father of her child and the only man she'd ever loved.

She squinted, raising a hand to block the glare. /Him?/ No. The man on the far left was too short and stocky. Even at sixteen, Riley Bohland had been over six feet tall. /That one?/ No. Riley's hair had been curly and dark and his shoulders much broader, even as a kid.

Then recognition hit her with a thud, pinning her feet to the wet West Virginia clay. Her breath went shallow. She broke out in goose bumps from head to toe.

Is he up there? Nola's whisper was squeaky with excitement, and she gripped Kat's upper arm so hard it hurt. One of them is staring at you!

Is that Riley? Is that him? Holy shit, this is going to be pure, Grade-A drama!

As the man in question cocked his head and frowned down at them, a hammer hanging useless in his hand, Kat nodded her silent reply. /Oh yeah, that's Riley Bohland all rightthe bastardall grown up, filled out, and still walking around advertising the fact that God had Supersized his order of good looks, and it really pisses me off./ Nola put her lips to Kat's ear. You said he was cute, but seriously, hon, you could have gone into a little more detail.

Kat's homegrown heart pounded under her Parisian bra as she stared at him. This wasn't going to be as easy as she'd imagined. Why couldn't Riley have gone flabby over the years like a normal guy? Not that physical appearance was the measure of a man, but why did he have to be so well preserved? He was still long and lean, without an extra inch anywhere. His arms were corded with ropes of muscle. A pair of beat-up jeans hung low on his spare hips.

The instant he dropped the hammer and started down the ladder, Kat's whole world shifted. Suddenly, her righteous return felt all wrong. The glamorous Fifth Avenue makeover that had thrilled her yesterday seemed embarrassingly over-the-top up here in the Allegheny mountains. The three-inch stiletto boots that looked so sexy on the city sidewalk were sinking into the muck.

I think I might black out, Kat mumbled.

Man up, sister, Nola said. This is the moment you've been waiting for.

Do what you came here to do.

Riley's work boots left the last rung of the ladder and hit the mud with a /splat/. He turned. He took graceful, confident strides in Kat's direction. One step. Two. Spine straight. Chest rock-solid. Long arms relaxed.

Lips curled in a sneer.

I'll be in the car. Nola ran away faster than a scalded dog.

Three steps. Four. Five.

Kat fluffed her razor-precise hairstyle with her perfectly manicured fingers. This was it. Riley's face came into focus. She could see those impossibly blue eyes blaze with an intensity that made her stomach flip.

She'd practiced this a million times. She could do it. Sweet revenge was within arm's reach. Kat took a deep breath, steadied herself, and prepared to drop the bomb on the man whose selfishness had forever determined the course of her life.

Without warning, a big, black SUV drove right in front of Kat, splattering mud from her bangs to her Blahniks. She let out a yelp of shock, which was accented by muffled obscenities from inside the car.

As she tried to wipe some of the glop from her eyes, her brain seized with panic. Her makeup! Her hair! Her clothes! /This can not be happening/.

Riley walked right up to her. He moved so close that she could smell hima potent mixture of memories, sweat, and rage.

Where the /hell/ have you been?

Uh, Baltimore. Kat let go with a nervous laugh, still wiping her eyes.

She told herself that she must be having the mother of all bad dreams.

She'd be waking up any minute.

Riley leaned closer. Even through her gunked-up eyelashes, she could see every day of thirty-seven years of life on that chiseled face. She watched his nostrils flare. If this was a dream, it was a very detail-oriented one.

Riley bent down so that his nose nearly touched her own. From behind straight, white, clenched teeth he asked, /What in the name of God have you done with my son?/

Riley shouldn't know about her son. How could he? /No one/ from her past knew about Aidan, not even her own mother. There was something very wrong here.

Kat took a moment to regroup. According to her plan, she was, at this moment, supposed to be informing Riley Bohland of his paternity and watching him fall to his knees with the weight of his loutishness. And she was supposed to be doing that while looking hot enough to scorch the man's eyeballs.

But instead, she was covered in slime and had just been denied the right to utter the punch line she'd perfected with twenty years of practice in front of mirrors! And store windows. Every shiny surface she'd ever encountered, really. /I was pregnant the day you dumped me, you lying, selfish jerk/.

Construction noise had stopped. Kat realized she had an audience for what was shaping up to be the most completely fucked-up moment of her life, which was saying something.

The driver of the SUV slammed his door shut. Very sorry, ma'am, he said.

Tell me my son's name. Riley tightened his fists at his sides. His body trembled with tension. Is he healthy? Is he happy? What have you done with my goddam /boy/?

Kat closed her eyes, feeling the tears mix with the mud and mascara. She choked out an answer. His name is Aidan. He's twenty and in his second year at Johns Hopkins.

Riley said nothing. He gave a slow, disgusted shake of his head, then spat in the mud. You're the coldest bitch on the face of the earth and I will never forgive you for what you've done to me. His voice was flat.