Stella opened her mouth to deny that this was even in the realm of possibility, but her friend wasn’t finished.

“Maybe that seems extreme. But you don’t always get a tomorrow, Stella. Believe me I know.” Her eyes began to fill again. “Everything ends one way or another. Love, lust, life. And when it’s over, when it’s all said and done, it will be the things you didn’t say that will haunt you.”

Van’s face, those intense ocean-in-a-storm eyes of his, flashed in her mind. She wanted to see him. Right then. So damn badly. It was worse than want. It was need.

Both women were quiet as they drove back to SCR. When they parked in the designated employee area, Miranda turned to her, glancing down at the fingers Stella had knotted in her purse strap.

“Well this was fun. Sorry I’m such a bowl of sunshine. I’ll try to tamp it down next time.”

A nervous giggle escaped Stella’s throat. “Honestly, this was the most fun I’ve had…maybe ever. So I’m not sure what that says about me, but I bet you could have a hell of a time psychoanalyzing my dysfunction.”

“Nah, I’m off the clock,” her friend said with a wink. “Hey, Stella?”

Half out of Miranda’s car, she glanced back to see if she’d forgotten something.

“I can’t say much without risking my job—patient confidentiality and all that—but I’m pretty sure you’re going to risk yours, so I have to say something.”

“Okay.”

“What I said about struggling to overcome addiction being like fighting a battle? He’s fighting a bad one. Worse than most of the folks here. So…just know that if you’re going to stand in his corner, you need to commit to staying in it. You’re probably going to get a few bystander injuries if you get too close.”

Stella nodded to acknowledge that she’d heard the woman loud and clear.

She’d heard the warning. She had. But picturing Van fighting a battle with an invisible enemy he couldn’t see made her stomach turn. Because she was pretty sure he was fighting alone, the corner behind him heartbreakingly empty.

It went against everything she knew that made sense. But the knowledge that he needed her to be in that corner was soul deep.

Van was much more comfortable in his new living arrangement. Granted, his penthouse apartment in LA it wasn’t. And the fucking buffalo head above the fireplace wasn’t exactly his style, but he and Dave—that’s what he’d named the buffalo—weren’t doing too badly for themselves.

A small kitchenette, which he had no plans to cook in, took up one corner. A round wooden table and chairs separated that from the living area, which was really just a brown leather couch, a fireplace, and a flat screen. A decent-sized bed that was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the one in his initial room had been took up most of the floor space. A tiny bathroom with a stand-up shower stall was all that was beyond that.

It was only his second night alone in what tiny bit of privacy the facility allowed, but he felt like he could breathe. There was just the one thing. The bed.

It wasn’t built for one like his bed in the main facility. No, this one could easily fit two. Or more. In his past life, he’d have seen how many nurses he could fit in it at the same time. But in this life, it was the image of one woman writhing in that bed in all her naked glory that taunted the ever-loving shit out of him.

Since Vanessa had made her grand appearance, Stella Jo had barely looked at him. Her avoidance was affecting him in a way that no other woman had. He wanted her to look, wanted to see that ravenous need flash in those gorgeous eyes, ached to watch those luscious lips of hers part in surprise when he told her what he wanted to do to her.

So far he’d just watched TV, perused the Field & Stream magazines under the coffee table, and then lay in bed reenacting the one time she’d claimed his mouth like she was competing to become the world champion of tongue kissing. Fuck. Even thinking about her tongue sent him down the painful blue-ball spiral of doom.

After he’d showered and brushed his teeth, clear eyes stared back at him from mirror over the bathroom sink.

Swiping the condensation from the mirror so he could get a better look, he sighed. Sure, he’d been sober thirty days. And he was even doing his damnedest to behave during therapy sessions. But no matter what he did, that man in the mirror would remain the same. Damaged with a fucked-up past. The demons peeked over his shoulder, reminding him that Stella Jo Chandler was a hell of a lot better off without him.

Or is she? the demon of selfish destruction whispered in his ear.

Sometimes she looked so lost, so empty. Like maybe she needed him, needed someone rough and vehement like him who’d give it to her how she needed, who wouldn’t judge her no matter what, and who would always want and accept her.

He couldn’t imagine anything that could make him want her less. If anything, the closer they’d gotten, the more he wanted to know. She was the one drug he’d never get enough of. Never be able to force himself to detox out of his system.

The past few nights he’d been told by Jesse that things were handled and he wasn’t needed in the barn. He’d been sent to do other tasks, like clear out fallen tree branches on the riding trail and clean out a shed way out on the property.

He’d seen a stream with a small bridge over it, and the first thought in his head was, Stella Jo would love this.

What the fuck was that about? Really?

He wasn’t the kind of man who had those thoughts. His thoughts about women were limited to Yes, I’d like to fuck that one and No, I would not like to fuck that one. And usually, once he was free of his manacled mind via his usual cocktail of coke and bourbon, they all fell into the ‘free to suck his dick’ category.

He was pretty sure a line had formed once.

His mind danced around like a boxer in a ring. Corner to corner. Back and forth. Past and present.

He’d tried to come up with something, some way to get her to talk to him, to let him explain about Vanessa. He’d research and explain quantum physics if that’s what it would take to get her to listen. But explaining about Vanessa always led to explaining about Val, which would lead to explaining about himself, and shit on that shit. No way she was ready for all that.

If he told her everything, the dark memories that fueled his addictions, she’d probably jump on Shadowdancer and ride him as far away as the beast could run.

Just as he settled on the couch to watch whatever was on one of the nine channels he actually got, a gentle knock rapped lightly on his door. He hit the mute button on the remote and the time appeared on the flat screen. It was after ten. Who the hell would come knocking this late?

Dropping the remote and adjusting his boxer briefs, he contemplated putting on pajama pants. But hell, it was late by facility standards. Whoever would come around this time of night would just have to deal.

The more he thought about it though, the more he suspected it might be someone who would prefer him in less clothing. If it was one of the groupies he’d somehow amassed here, he just wouldn’t answer. Yanking on a pair of black pajama pants, he heard another knock. It was slightly firmer this time.

“Hold on a damn second,” he muttered under his breath. Thankfully his door had a peephole. As soon as he glanced out of it, he realized he must’ve already been asleep. Clearly he was dreaming.

Stella Jo Chandler stood on his small wooden porch looking like a wet dream come to life.

Van opened the door without a word. He just propped on it and waited for her to tell him what in the actual fuck she was doing there and why she wanted to kill him. Surely she knew how he felt. He’d thrust his rock-hard cock against her during one of their last encounters for God’s sake. So showing up like this, in a tight-ass dress with fuck-me heels on was obviously an attempt at his undoing. It was working.