The room is dark, the sun having set sometime during the hour I spent in the bathroom. Out the window, San Francisco sparkles like a jewel across the black swath of the bay. I push open the French doors and the smell of fresh air and roasted vegetables wafts in on the gentle spring breeze.

My stomach gurgles like a drowning man, but I decide to skip dinner. There are definitely some things I need to figure out, and if I’m stuck here for months with Blake Montgomery, how I feel about him is one of the biggest. I can’t do that when I’m looking at him, because the memory of that body pressed against mine jumbles my thoughts.

I drift out the French doors, expecting it to be cold after the hot shower, but the air’s unseasonably warm tonight. A thin crescent of a moon hangs over the city, casting almost no light, and below it, a blanket of fog is rolling in off the water. The only thing that ruins the beauty of the scene is the country music wafting out the open French doors of the living room balcony.

“My eardrums are going to rupture,” I mutter.

“Give it time. It grows on you.”

I jump and look to my right. On the balcony off the living room, I see a dark silhouette, leaning on the rail. I pull my towel tighter and back a step toward my door. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

Blake pushes off the rail and moves to my side of his balcony. “You have everything you need?”

I nod, then realize he probably can’t see that gesture in the dark. “Yeah.”

“Good.” For several beats of my heart neither of us moves, but I feel the weight of his gaze traveling slowly over me. “How’s your arm?”

I roll my shoulder in a circle. “A little sore, but okay.”

“I’m glad it’s better.” He backs toward the open French doors behind him. “There’s dinner in the fridge if you want to warm some up. I’ll be downstairs . . . if you need anything.”

“I’m fine.”

He hesitates again at the door. “Good night, Sam.”

His smooth drawl roughens into something that says sex, even though those weren’t his actual words, and it turns the tingle in my tummy into an ache. “ ’Night.”

He slips through the doors and closes them behind him, and a minute later the music stops and I hear him on the stairs across the hall from my room. I step inside and move to my closet. There’s no way I’m going to wear the granny gown, but a tank and a pair of underwear will do. I reach into the drawer and pull out a pair of the white cotton panties, and that’s when the red strap of something deeper in the stack catches my attention. I dig to the bottom of the stack and pull out a strappy red thong, very similar to the one that peaked out from my black satin shorts the night I met Blake.

I drop my towel and slip it on, then pull a long white tank top over it. And as I pass my bedroom door on the way to my bed, there’s one thing I know for sure.

Nichols didn’t pick out all my new panties.

THE SMELL OF coffee and my empty stomach wake me. I tug on jeans and crack my door open. Blake’s in the kitchen, and I consider waiting him out, but I’m shaking from both caffeine withdrawal and starvation. I make a beeline to the cupboard I’m pretty sure I saw coffee mugs in last night and open it. Sure enough, there are several mismatched mugs from different tourist destinations. I choose the one from Alcatraz, huffing out a sardonic laugh at the symbolism.

Blake looks at me curiously as he peels a waffle out of the waffle iron with a fork. His short hair is damp, sticking up as if he toweled it dry, and for the first time, he’s in a T-shirt instead of his typical button-down. I see the black lines of the tattoo that covers the left side of his torso and chest extend down his arm to just above the elbow. His faded jeans fit him just . . . mmm. It’s taking some serious self-control to keep my eyes off him.

I concentrate on filling my mug from the pot, then start back to my room.

“Sam, I can’t let you starve to death.”

I look over my shoulder at him and see him holding up a plate with a waffle on it. I spin and give him my best smirk. “Would that look bad on your résumé?”

He flings the plate onto the counter, where it clatters for a few seconds before coming to rest dangerously close to the edge. “I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but not you . . .” His eyes narrow a little, as if he’s trying to see past my skin. “One second you’re . . .” He tosses a hand in the air. “. . . and the next you . . .” His jaw tightens again, and he shakes his head in dismay. “You’re the most frustrating individual I’ve ever met, and I’ve only known you for, like, five minutes.”

“If it’s any consolation, the feeling’s mutual,” I say, turning for my room.

“If you eat, I’ll let you call your mom.”

I stop. The thing is, I don’t really want to talk to Mom, so I could just keep walking. But I should talk to Mom. And I’m seriously starving. “Isn’t coercion against the Geneva Convention?”

“The Geneva Convention only applies to prisoners of war.”

I turn and give him my most cutting glare. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking this isn’t war.”

“Strawberries?” he asks with a tip of his head, picking up the waffle plate.

“Fine.”

“Whipped cream?”

I take a mental fly swatter to the image of what I’d really like to do with that whipped cream and start back across the living room. “Fine.”

Blake loads my waffle up and sets it on the table. “The maple syrup is hot.”

Yep. Now the fantasy’s complete.

We eat in silence, and when I’m done, Blake holds his cell phone toward me over my empty plate. “Go ahead and call your mom, but unless you want to put both you and her in danger, please don’t talk about what’s going on or tell her where you are.”

I reach for the phone. “Will you get in trouble for letting me use this?”

He pulls it back. “Only if you say something you shouldn’t.”

I stand and snatch it out of his hand. “I’ll think about it.”

He looks at me a moment before standing and clearing our plates. “You can take it to your room.”

I cross the living room and close my door behind me as I dial. It rings twice before she picks up. “Hello?”

My heart pounds in my throat. “Hi, Mom . . . It’s me.”

“Oh, thank God! I’ve been beside myself since your message. Are you in trouble, Sam?”

Of course. Not, Are you okay? or What happened? but, Are you in trouble? But I can’t give her too much shit, because I am, in fact, in trouble. “I’m okay.”

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“I can’t tell you. Sorry.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?” She sounds a little hysterical, but anything I could say to calm her would be a lie.

I toe the carpet, cringing. “Something happened and I’m sort of in protective custody. I’m not allowed to tell anyone where I am.”

“You’re in jail?” she screeches into the phone.

“No, Mom. I’m not in jail. But I’m somewhere where the police can keep me safe.”

“From who? Who do you need to be kept safe from?”

“It’s just . . . I was just sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Her voice is wary, some of the panic slipping away. “But you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

There’s a long pause, and in the background I hear my brothers fighting. The pang in my chest surprises me. It’s not like we’ve ever been close. They’re thirteen years younger than me. My golden half brothers, who can do no wrong. Offspring upgrade 2.0.

“This is . . . I just don’t know what to think. It’s all so cryptic,” she finally says.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’d tell you more if I could.” I swallow. “How are the boys?”

“They miss you.”

My chest clamps at her lie. They barely know I exist. “Tell them hi for me.”

Another long pause. “When will you be able to come home?”