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overzealous reporters had tried to sneak in questions, he’d cut the interviews short, leaving them staring at their cameras and his empty seat. She was off-limits.
    So why he’d broached the subject, even peripherally, with Neveah, a woman he’d known for days? Hell, he didn’t know, couldn’t explain it to his damn self. But whenever he studied her pretty face, the vulnerable curve of her lips and the liquid darkness of her eyes where shadows and old—and not-so-old—hurts seemed to linger, he trusted her. Trusted her to not betray his confidence. Trusted her to not judge him by his demons.
    The past had taught him confiding his secrets, cares and pain in the wrong person wounded the soul worse than a lethal gunshot or knife wound. Living with the scars of betrayal, disillusionment, bitterness and lack of belief in his own judgment lasted much longer than the brutal abruptness and finality of death.
    Yet, here he stood, ready to risk stepping off the shaky ledge called Faith and expose himself to a woman he barely knew. Earlier in the kitchen, he’d asked her to share her past hurt with him. As if he could squeeze into a suit of armor and fight the monster responsible for inflicting the pain reflected so clearly in her eyes. But she’d just stared at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted fur, dagger-sharp teeth and claws, and had threatened to huff, puff and blow down the protective shields she’d erected.
    He knew a little something about those shields. His kept him safe and others out.
    If he wanted her to permit him inside, he would have to lower his own walls.
    Why he craved to be allowed past her defenses…he’d analyze that enigma later. Maybe. “This time of year is…difficult.”
    “Ari.” Neveah shook her head, gaze soft and too understanding. “You don’t have to explain.”
    He shoved off the wall and slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Getting fucked up has been my way of getting through. And this year,” he clenched his jaw before forcibly relaxing it, “has been especially rough.”
    Because Everett Graves, the long-haul truck driver who’d fallen asleep at the wheel and plowed into Caro’s car, killing her instantly, was up for parole next week. Ari balled his fingers into fists, squeezing, squeezing until his bones protested. The dull ache helped center him.
    “Thank you.” Lashes lowered, Neveah rubbed her gloved palms over the dark blue denim molded to her long, lovely legs. “You must really love her.”
    He nodded, the gesture short, abrupt. Yeah, he had. With all the passion and fire of a boy’s first love. And, as a man, he’d tenaciously clung to that teenage love even when the gilded edges of it had started to tarnish and flake. Even when the cracks under the surface refused to remain hidden. Even when the path they’d started together forked, leaving them to travel different roads.
    Even then.
    Now, remnants of his devotion remained, but it’d become so tangled and snarled with guilt, shame and anger, he could no longer remember what he and Caro had shared without tormenting himself over how they’d lost it.
    How he’d lost her.
    “Where are you headed?” Desperation to change the subject clawed at his throat, roughening his voice.
    After not talking about Caro for so long, even this small conversation almost proved to be too much. He jerked his chin at Neveah’s heavy coat and fur-trimmed, knee-high boots. Though the outerwear covered her from head to foot, he didn’t have to wonder about the sexy curves hidden underneath. Not as of this morning. She might be petite, but breasts capable of fitting his palms pushed against a black turtleneck. Hips perfect for gripping, along with an ass that should be worshipped as a religion, filled out a tight pair of jeans. He wouldn’t have to worry about leaving bruises or holding back or going easy on her. She had a body created for fucking. The kind of fucking he loved. No holds barred, dirty, rough.
    Christ