My first stop when I leave the office is to swing by Franci’s Flower Shop and pick up the arrangement Caroline ordered for me. From there, I drive the long route to my parent’s Malibu home, mentally preparing myself for the endless questions my mom is going to throw at me about my injuries, the bodyguard, and, of course, about why I fired Emerson. By the time I pull up into the driveway, I’ve decided lying is the best game plan. About all of it.

Two and a half hours later, I’ve successfully managed to convince my parents that a four-wheeling accident is the reason for my battered face and wrapped ribcage, that Lance is a friend from college who’s staying with me for the weekend, and that I let Emerson go, because I caught her embezzling money to support her cocaine addiction, but I promised not to tell her parents or the authorities if she returned the money and entered a rehab program. I know it’s a bit of a stretch, but fuck her. I’ve got a feeling that what she’s actually done is way worse than the story I made up, and if it turns out I’m right, I’ll tell my parents the truth about everything.

By the time I get home, my head is pounding and my torso feels as if someone’s hitting it over and over again with a baseball bat. I need a pain pill, a shower, and a nap. But first, I have a text to send.

Me: Hey, Emerson. Are you free tomorrow night? I’d like to apologize to you in person. Dinner at my place, 7:00?

The response is almost immediate.

Emerson: Absolutely. I’ll see you then. XXX

THE HOUR BEFORE EMERSON IS to arrive, I check, double-check, and even triple-check that everything is exactly where it needs to be. I’ve only got one shot in pulling this off. After tonight, I should know exactly who has my sweet girl. Then, all I’ll need to do is figure out how to get her back.

Opening the front door, I stride across the front lawn to where Lance patrols my house from his black, late-model Tahoe. I thought he would’ve been briefed on other people close to me or those associated with the case, but after he nearly attacked my brother last night when he stopped by, and Sarah again this morning when she showed up for work, I assume I need to give him a heads up about visitors.

“Hey,” I force a polite smile as he rolls down the window, “I just wanted to let you know my friend Emerson is coming over for dinner tonight. I’m not sure what the protocol is, if you have to check her ID or whatever, but I’d be happy if you could stay as far out of sight as possible. Nothing says romantic dinner like knowing you have a babysitter watching from outside.”

His face remains impassive as he glances down at some papers in the passenger seat. “I need a physical description, as well as the color, make, and model of her car.”

“Tall . . . thin . . . long, curly red hair. She drives a new, silver C-class Mercedes,” I spout off the top of my head.

Nodding once, he jots down something on the paper. “Got it. I won’t approach her.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I reply, tapping my fist on the hood of his car before disappearing back into my house. God, I want this all to be over. I just want my Blake back.

At five minutes until seven, Emerson’s car pulls into my driveway, and for once, I’m thankful for the fact she thinks she’s important enough to pull up to the garage and come in through the backdoor like she fucking lives here. All I care about is that she didn’t notice Lance’s presence.

The second she steps through the backdoor—without knocking, naturally—and sees my face, she drops her purse and rushes over to where I’m waiting for her on a barstool, sipping a glass of wine.

“Oh, my God, Madden! What happened to you?” she screeches, the concern in her voice sincere. “Who did this? I’ll kill whoever it is!”

Sliding off the stool, I stand to greet her with a fake grin plastered on my face. My stomach turns with disgust at the sight of her, and I have to keep reminding myself of the end game to this night.

“Hey, Em!” I open my arms, inviting her into a hug. “Don’t worry; it looks much worse than it feels. I went out with a friend of mine on a four-wheeling excursion, and I misjudged a jump. It’ll all heal soon. I already got everything checked out.”

Hesitantly, she steps into my embrace, but as soon as I wrap my arms around her, pressing our chests together, she relaxes and sags into me. “Oh, Madden,” she whispers. “I’ve missed the way you smell.”

I nearly vomit in her hair. I hope she likes the smell of a prison cell.

“I’ve missed you too. So much,” I lie, kissing her forehead as we break apart. “Can I pour you a glass of wine? I picked up a couple of different Pinot Noirs today. I know that’s your favorite.”

She beams up at me like I just asked her if she wanted to get married. Stupid whore. “Yes, definitely! I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.”

Padding my bare feet across the tiled floor, I reach up to grab another wine goblet from the cabinet, making sure to get one from the top shelf so my shirt rises up. Her eyes follow my every move, and when I feel the cool air kiss the exposed skin of my stomach, directly above where my worn jeans hang loosely on my hips, she hisses like the conniving snake she is.

I pour the wine slowly, still with my back to her, as I count backward to keep my cool. Then, with a cocky smirk on my face, I turn around and close the gap between us. “I think you’re really gonna like this.”

Licking her lips, she ogles me shamelessly, too self-absorbed to realize how bizarre it is that my attitude toward her has suddenly done a complete one-eighty. Of course, she doesn’t question it. She probably wonders why it took me a week to come crawling back to her.

“I already know I’ll like it,” she replies, making it clear she’s not talking about the wine as she takes the glass from my hand.

She’s making this way too easy. I’ll have her eating out of my hand by dessert. “Are you hungry now? I had Sarah prepare us beef tenderloin with garlic risotto. It’s warm in the oven.”

Her eyes light up as she sips the wine, nodding excitedly. “Sounds delicious.”

Over the next hour, after I apologize for the mistake of her being fired, we reminisce about our childhood over dinner and two bottles of wine, most of it being poured in her glass. I’m careful not to bring up Blake or the events of the last week in any way, purposely reminding Emerson of her and my long history together and why she should trust me. I do it, because I know I have to do it, but throughout the meal, the rage inside me begins to grow until I literally have to bite my tongue to not ask her what I really want to. Patience is not a virtue I’ve been blessed with.

By the time we stand up to clear our dishes off the table, she’s giggly and giddy, definitely feeling the effects of the wine. She nearly trips over her own feet on the short trip to the sink, grabbing onto my arm to keep her balance. I flinch at her touch, but luckily she’s too busy hiccupping and laughing about her misstep to notice.

I rinse the plates and silverware while she continues to hang on my left side, rubbing her boobs back and forth against my bicep. “How much longer are you gonna make me wait?”

“Wait for what?” I ask as I turn the faucet off and twist to face her, a sly smile curling up only one corner of my mouth.

Lifting up on her toes, she brings her lips up to my ear, nipping at the lobe. “That apology fuck you promised me,” she rasps.

“I only remember the apology part of that promise,” I tease, playing the game.

She leans back slightly and peers up at me through her eyelashes. “Are you telling me you didn’t invite me over to fuck?” she asks, emphasizing the last word by cupping my flaccid dick through my jeans.