Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Sneak Preview-Break Even

Acknowledgements

Copyright © 2015 by Lisa De Jong

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Edited by Chelsea Kuhel

Cover by Mae I Design

Formatting by Formatting By KassiCoop

THAT PICTURE BLAKE PAINTED me of my house at Christmas time—I set it in the corner of my room after he left. For the rest of that day—and the day after—I stayed curled in a ball staring at it as tears rolled down my cheeks.

I fucked up. I made too many assumptions and read too much into Pierce’s words.

Blake is not an angel, but he’s definitely not the person Pierce made him out to be. I can’t help but think about what this Christmas would have been like if I’d just waited at home for him. If he’d come in with the painting … how different that day would have been. Who does that for someone? Who spends all day painting a girl a picture of home when she can’t be there for Christmas?

It would have been a turn in our relationship. Instead, I took the curve too fast, not watching where I was going, missing the turn all together.

Somewhere along the way, the little game we liked to play turned into something more. Something a lot like love—a better love than I’ve ever felt before. And now it’s gone.

I won’t get a chance to kiss him every morning.

I won’t get to tell him I love him before bed.

And I think what hurts the most is that I won’t get a chance to help him through the suffering. He needs someone, but it won’t be me—not after everything that has happened.

Everything he told me about Alyssa plays over and over in my head. To think about what it must have been like for him to watch Alyssa change over the years. To watch her fall into such a dark hole that he couldn’t even see her anymore … at least not as the same person she used to be.

And to have been the one who found her …

I can’t imagine the weight of the guilt he feels every day that he wakes up without her. I wonder if certain places or things remind him of her. I wonder if he sees any of her in me.

Are we different? Are we the same? And if we are, would he still feel the same way about me if I wasn’t.

It’s not his fault … it’s not hers either.

I brought back all the emotions he’s been trying to bury. Not only that, but I threw them in his face in the worst way possible. He was doing the best he could for me, and all I did was doubt him.

He ran because of me, and now all I have left is a picture of home. It’s beautiful—it’s a memory to keep for years, but he missed something when he painted it: he’s my home.

I want to go home.

“ARE YOU DONE WITH THE MOOD board for the 5th Avenue project?”

I jump, not having heard him coming up behind me. He’s good at that. Too good.

“Almost. I just need to decide what color to pull from the window coverings for the walls. Any suggestions?”

His strong hand squeezes my shoulder. It might faze me if he hadn’t done it hundreds of times before. “Gray would be the safe choice, but if it were me, I’d cover the walls with wood planks. A rustic, aged gray that will balance the bold furnishings.”

Ideas like that are how he got to where he is. “Do you think Wade will go for that?” I ask, remembering how hard the man is to please.

“He might balk at first, but it’ll grow on him, especially when he realizes no other hotel in New York has anything like it.”

I nod, picking a gray colored pencil from the table to make the idea come to life. That’s what my job is after all—turning a blank white board into something people will stare at … something so detailed they actually envision themselves in the space. It’s also a distraction from the proximity of Pierce’s body and his strong masculine scent.

Even though it’s been a few months, I still can’t get the thoughts of the one night we spent in New York out of my head. It’s further complicated because I’m working on the New York boutique hotel—the same one Pierce didn’t want any part of.

“How’s this?” I ask, shading between the dark gray lines.

He leans in closer, his chest brushing against my shoulder. I shut my eyes on instinct but quickly recover. “What if we give it an illusion? Make the planks appear woven.”

I hate and admire his ability to visualize what I can’t. Some day I hope that I’m half as good as he is at this. “I like it.”

For a couple minutes, he just stands there watching me. It used to make me uncomfortable, but even this seems normal now. I try to pretend he’s not there, but his warm breath tickles the back of my neck. High buns may be in, but on days like this, they aren’t a good idea—not when your powerful, sexy boss is literally breathing down your neck. The one you kissed—almost slept with.

“Did you have lunch?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.” Unless Reece kidnaps me from my desk, I usually grab a protein bar from my drawer. Attacking the cafeteria alone is like wandering aimlessly into a high school dance without a date.

“Come with me.”

I don’t answer right away. I can’t. My mind is in a constant tug-of-war with my heart. I just … I want him still. After the pain, the months of silence … I want him. As long as I remember him, he’ll always be a part of me.

“Don’t let him take you down with him. You’re better than that … you’re better than him,” he says softly, his warm breath hitting the back of my neck yet again.

“It’s not about him. It’s—”

“Then have lunch with me.”

My teeth grind together in an angry rhythm to keep my emotions at bay. Pierce painted Blake as a monster when he’s not even close, and a part of me hasn’t forgiven him for that. “I need to finish this.”

He pulls the pencil from between my fingers. “If it makes you feel better, we’ll discuss the project over a sandwich.”