She looked vulnerable.

It wasn’t something I could handle.

I just wasn’t expecting it.

She was a fighter.

Or so I had thought.

I had to avert my gaze. I knew then that I couldn’t see her after tonight. There were only two categories of women for me—the just fuck and the never fuck. Somehow, she didn’t seem to fit in either and that was dangerous. As if the situation she was in weren’t already dangerous enough, she didn’t need my involvement in her life fucking her up more.

Patrick Flannigan was a heartless, greedy bastard and O’Shea was on his shit list. Add me to the mix and she was in real danger. Many years ago, my grandfather, Killian McPherson, had ordered me to keep my distance from Patrick and ordered Patrick to keep his hands off me. Since I hated Patrick, I dutifully obliged. Since my grandfather was in charge at the time, Patrick was forced to obey. But Gramps was in a home now and no longer here to act as a buffer between Patrick and me. I was on my own. For that reason and so many more, I knew better than to get too close to Patrick.

My father’s well-being was one of the many reasons.

But for her, I’d have to take a risk.

I’d have to step closer.

My own consequences be damned. I was going to make sure she wasn’t a part of O’Shea’s issues. But I had to be smart about it. I had to figure things out first. For my father’s sake.

What did she know?

I was getting ahead of myself. I had to ease into the information. I stopped thinking and started the car. “Where to?” I asked. My voice sounded low and I hated the weakness I was allowing to bleed through my words.

She, on the other hand, seemed to gather strength in the silence and spoke strongly. “A small boutique on Charles, just past Revere.”

I pulled out into the traffic and turned the radio on. The Sex Pistols blared loudly. “Sorry,” I said, quickly turning the volume down.

“You don’t have to turn it down. I like it.”

Unabashedly crude, intensely emotional, and meant to exhilarate and offend at the same time, I guess it was the perfect sound for the mood we were both in.

We rode in silence and I hummed along to the lyrics until I couldn’t stand the quiet any longer. She was staring out the window and I could tell she was somewhere back in time in her mind.

I wanted to get her out of that dark place. I considered how. I thumped the steering wheel, trying to decide what to say. The car in front of me stopped and I skidded to a halt. “Sorry,” I said.

The rain was falling and she was watching it, seemingly unfazed by my sudden stop, but then she looked over. “What?” she asked.

Out of nowhere, I started blurting out things about myself I never told anyone. “When I was growing up, I hated my parents. My mother was controlling; my father was docile, always caving in to her every whim to keep her happy. Even through all the fighting, they stayed together. I was fifteen when they finally divorced and it was because of my actions. That was a dose of reality and it not only forced me to grow up fast, but it forced me to get over the hatred even faster. Everything changed for me that year. The guilt I felt over what I’d done, what I caused, was a bitch to handle, and I didn’t handle it well for a long time. It was so many years later when a friend told me that everything happens for a reason, and the more I thought about it, the more I had to agree. My parents needed to separate. They were both so unhappy together and so much happier apart.”

“So you ended up making amends with your parents?”

My laugh was dry. “I guess you could say that. Now, I avoid my mother. I can’t stand her pretentiousness and she can’t stand my unwillingness to concede to the haughty lifestyle she lives. So we’ve both agreed it’s better if we limit our conversations. “

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s for the best. And besides, my father and I have a closer relationship than I ever thought we would, so things aren’t all that bad.”

What the hell was wrong with me? Why was I spouting useless information about myself to her that I was certain made no sense?

“What happened when you were fifteen?” Her eyes were focused and sharp when she spoke this time.

I shook my head, not willing to dare go there. “It was a long time ago. It’s not something I want to talk about.”

She cleared her throat. “I get it. I want you to know, I wasn’t really honest before. I didn’t really hate my mother. I felt sorry for her but I didn’t hate her. Not when she was alive, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Like you said, it was a long time ago.”

I stopped at another light and reached across the console. I thought about grabbing her hand, but that seemed too much like pity. So instead of taking her hand, I removed her hat and tossed it on the floor behind me. “It’s all wet. You’ll get sick if you keep it on your head.”

She smirked at me. “I like that hat.”

“I know,” I said, smirking back.

The doubtful look on her face was so cute. “And how do you know that?”

“You keep putting it on. It’s obvious you’re attached to it.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m attached to it.”

I raised a brow.

“Well, maybe a little,” she said with a laugh.

The fact that I’d made her smile made me smile.

As soon as I resumed driving, I took a left onto Arlington, and she went back to staring out the window.

The brick row houses with fancy doors, decorative ironwork, brick sidewalks, narrow streets, and gas lamps told me we’d crossed into Beacon Hill. I have to say, of all the areas in Boston, I really liked this neighborhood the most. I grew up here but never spent much time here. I was always shuffling between Manhattan’s Upper East Side and Dorchester Heights.

Finally, she spoke. “It’s up here on the left.”

I pulled into the open space just outside the boutique at the base of the hill. “The House of Sterling,” I read aloud. “Is this the place?”

“Yes, it’s mine. It opens tomorrow.”

“It’s yours?”

Her smile was bright. “It is.”

“What do you sell?”

Excitement was all around her. “Imports from all the countries I’ve been to.”

The rain was coming down in buckets. “Nice. I can’t read what the window says.”

Her spine seemed to straighten in pride. “It says, ‘The finest things life has to offer.’”

“Well, Elle,” I glanced to the sign and back to her, “Sterling, I have to assume, show me the finest things life has to offer.”

She threw me a small smile and instantly, the mood had lightened. “You assume correct, Logan McPherson.”

I liked the way she said my name. I wanted to ask her to say it again and then wanted to punch myself for thinking that.

Lame.

What was I—twelve?

And a girl?

When she reached behind me and grabbed her hat, I just shook my head.

That red hat.

It was late, and everything was closed, the street empty. Still, I moved fast, but funny, she moved even faster. As soon as I’d opened her door, she bolted around the car to a small overhang just next to the sign. She fumbled for her keys and I squeezed under the overhang behind her. I was close. Really close. Close enough that I could feel the curves of her body brushing against mine.

I couldn’t help but be turned on.

I peered over her shoulder like she might need help, in an attempt to move even closer. It was a dick move and even though I knew it was, I couldn’t help myself. It was a case of body taking over mind. Mentally slapping myself, I glanced down and noticed her hands were shaking and that she couldn’t get the key in the lock.

“Here, let me.” I could be a gentleman.

Elle turned her head and her warm breath gusted across my neck. That’s how close she was. She turned back but didn’t hand me the key, so I reached out with my hand and covered hers as I guided her fingers toward the lock. With my hand squeezing hers, I turned the key and as I did, an overwhelming desire to take her right there overwhelmed me.