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ribcage, and tears pricked the backs of her eyelids. Repeatedly jabbing the button for the elevator, she wanted nothing more in the world than to be locked, alone, inside her apartment. There, she could really let go, let the tears fall, let the shame and pain take over.
    Finally, the metal doors slid open and she stepped inside the car. Selecting her floor, she squeezed her eyes closed, pulled in breaths through her nose, releasing them from her mouth. The calming measure had usually worked in the past, and she needed it to work now. At least until she could get to her loft.
    After what felt like a decade, she reached her floor, scurried along the corridor and barged into her apartment. Headache? No. Heartache, yes.
    Headache or heartache, it fucking hurt . Chest tight, she struggled to breathe, her palms clammy. It frightened her, not unlike a panic attack. Fortunately, she had the presence of mind to put her camera bag down before she dropped it.
    Slumping onto the sofa, Melodie basked in her pathetic state and wanted to tell herself to get the fuck over it. So what if she was falling in love with her dead fiancé’s brother? God, she wished she could feel so blasé about the whole thing. Can’t . She’d always known one day she’d be ready for a relationship, ready to let the pain of losing Sean recede. She’d never forget him of course, but she’d promised him if anything did happen to him, she’d find someone else.
    She hadn’t been willing to contemplate the possibility anything would happen to him in Iraq. Sean had pressed the issue though, insisted she promise not to be alone if he didn’t come back. To keep the peace, to keep him happy, she’d agreed then immediately and forcefully pushed the thoughts away. It wouldn’t happen to him. Wouldn’t happen to her.
    He’d done two tours of duty and returned safely home to her, and she’d forgotten all about it, all about the silly promise she’d made. They’d be together forever, happy and in love.
    Unfortunately, it had been third time unlucky, and she’d ended up like so many other women—and men—having lost their partners. Knowing her situation mirrored others across the country, across the world, didn’t do a damn thing to help. Nor did knowing that others grieved for Sean, too. Parents, brother, friends, the rest of his family, his colleagues; they’d all had him ripped from their lives, cruelly, wrongfully. But she couldn’t concentrate on that. Consumed by grief, she’d barely made it through the funeral, but afterward, she’d broken down. Nothing and nobody could help her.
    The pain of seeing Patrick threatened to take over again, but in a different way. Raw, powerful grief had transformed to guilt. Not so much guilt that her heart had healed, allowing her to move on, but her heart had set itself on his brother . The man who had stood by her side at the funeral, his hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze every now and again. The man who’d pulled her into his arms, held her tightly, and let her sob until it hurt. As she grieved over his sibling.
    She shook her head. This is totally messed up. How on earth has this even happened? One minute I’m living my lonely life, and the next Patrick waltzes in and somehow captures my damn heart .
    It’s not even as if he and his brother looked alike, and she might pretend Patrick was Sean. They were both tall, but if not for their startling blue eyes and similar mannerisms, it would have been easy to forget they were related at all.
    Perhaps that was it—their eyes. They were supposed to be the windows to the soul. Maybe she wanted to stare into Patrick’s eyes and see his brother peering back. Christ, that didn’t even make any sense. Rationalizing the situation couldn’t work.
    Perhaps she should stop resisting, stop ignoring what went on in her head. In her heart. Maybe the sooner she admitted it, both to herself and to Patrick, she could come to terms with it.
    The gnawing sensation in