Roman came to his feet, then sat on the bed. What the hell? Sex? He'd considered it for a nanosecond, but decided against it. Why? Wasn't like he hadn't been toying with the same idea. Even in the last hour he'd wrestled with the notion, so why didn't he invite her in and get to it? She had left in no particular hurry, a bit resigned, but otherwise seemingly unaffected by his rejection. Sometimes he thought he was the only one in Arcadia who understood her, and the other half of the time he had no fucking clue what was going through her head.

Okay, she was horny. And so was he. Shit. He had to give her credit. It was the most straightforward seduction he'd had. He ran his hand over his face.

What was wrong with him? When had he ever refused to get laid? She was an adult. He was a grown ass man. He had never had any qualms about sleeping with other people, but this was Zoya. It would be different with her; she wasn't like the other girls he brought home from the bar, or anyone for that matter. It wouldn't be a mutual meaningless tryst with her, and he wasn't going to fuck that up.

He shouldn't. It'd be wrong. God, her parents would spin in their graves if their little princess screwed a guy like him. She was upper crust; he, a convicted felon. Didn't matter he'd been cleared. Ex-con would always be a part of his title because he'd done the time.

To hell with it.

He stood and grabbed a pair of boxers from his chest of drawers. Might not be a good idea to go to her room buck naked. Besides, she might have changed her mind. Within three seconds he was at her bedside.

Curled up and facing the wall, she turned upon hearing his approach and looked up at him. "What?"

"Why do you want to have sex with me?" He scrubbed his palm over his face, exasperated and incredulous that this girl - Zoya - would actually want him.

"Because those women you've brought home sounded like you're good at it."

"Sometimes people fake that," he countered, before shoving that idea away. Get to the point. He sat on the edge of the bed. "I wasn't being serious about what I said when I first got here. You don't have to sleep with me to live here. I'm not going to take advantage of you." He murmured, willing her to understand.  The fact that may be the case horrified him.

He thought back to the night he was worried she'd call the police on him after his violent nightmare and cringed. They were past that; he hoped. She hadn't held that against him. But he needed to know, to make sure she knew that he didn't expect anything from her.

She frowned, and he found it fucking endearing. "I don't think that at all."

"That's not a good answer at all, Zoya. Sex involves..." he scrubbed an exasperated hand over his face, "... I don't know, feelings and shit. It should involve someone you actually like."

"I like you." She said it so matter-of-the-fact that it really shouldn't have surprised him—that was how she was, but it did. Ruffling the covers, she moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to him.

He stood up and paced the room. "That's... I don't date, Zoya. Those women that I bring home, they're hot, but there's no strings attached. I don't... I'm not looking for that. Feelings." He stopped where he was, gauging her reaction as she sat on the edge of the bed, wringing her hands together, head turned away. He pulled up, kneeling on the floor between her legs, palms on her knees, urging her to look  at him. When she kept her gaze resolutely on the lamp on the nightstand, he gently palmed her jaw, angling her face toward him. He felt like he was going about this all wrong, always doomed to saying the wrong thing. "You're great, Zoya. You deserve more than this. Me. I can't offer you anything." In more ways than one, he added silently. "You deserve the feelings. I'm not..." Good for you. "I'm not good at that."

He looked so earnest, as if he really believed the things he said. He did, she knew, or he wouldn't have said them. It was unfathomable for her to think that he didn't realize his own worth, or how she saw him. How he was so much more than he realized. He was good; how couldn't he see that? He let her stay, even when he didn't particularly like her at the time. He was protective over the people he cared about. Even if she hadn't met Ophelia, she knew that his sister was the most important thing in the world to him, even above himself. "You really don't see yourself, do you?" she hadn't meant to say it aloud, hadn't even known what to say to him, where to begin. "Even if you don't believe it, you're good. You always take care of other people, your sister, Flynn, even me. That's who you are."

He stared at her, expressionless, and she wondered if she had said too much. He opened his mouth as if to argue, but closed it again. Unabashed, she slid her fingers into his hair, and he leaned into the touch as she gripped the curls at the nape of his neck. 

His hand left her knee, took residence on her chin, slid to cup her cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin. She reciprocated, leaned into his touch, her eyes falling shut on its own accord.

He leaned down to kiss her, but she drew back.

"I thought you said it was a bad idea."

"It is."

He leaned low again, and she placed her hand on his chest. "Would you brush your teeth first?"

He grinned. "Sure. Be right back."

He chuckled on the way to his bathroom. Any other time if someone had asked him to do that, it would have him befuddled, but not Zoya. That was typical. When he got back to her room, she'd turned the cover back for him to crawl in next to her. Her hair spilled out behind her, all golden curls on her pillow, but in the moonlight shining through the window behind her, she looked like some ethereal fire haired goddess in the shadows from the mythology books he'd read to Ophelia as a kid. He could feel a smile tug at the corner of his lips as he turned to face her, tucking a errant curl behind her ear, caressing the soft skin of her jaw with his thumb.

"I used mouthwash, too."

"Thank you."

She could feel the heat resonating from his body - he was so close; she swallowed a lump that formed in her throat. His eyes blazed with an intensity - of what, she didn't know. His hands ran the length of her arms to her shoulders, sending shivers down her spine. Mutely, he brought his hands beneath her jaw and pulled her forward and kissed her intensely. She didn't have much experience because she kept her lips tight. He forced them apart with his tongue and she made a little sound. He deepened the kiss and then pulled back. "This okay?"

They gazed at each other, jaws trembling slightly. His eyes sparkled in a million different emotions that churned and combined into something both dazed and charged. He continued to stare at her so intently that she felt he could see her soul. And in fact, he probably could.

She stared at him for a few seconds before she launched herself in for another kiss. Their mouths crashed into each other, teeth clacking loudly in the quiet. Not an inch of space was between them. Still, his arms snaked behind her lower back, pulling her tighter against him. She gripped his shoulders, in an attempt to ground herself, as if she'd float away without the pillar of him around her. Zoya moaned against his mouth and her fingers yanked at his hair, pulling him closer.

He slowed, easing her back into gentle, small kisses, forcing her to relax the hurricane in her head. Taking his time, as if he had all the time in the world to kiss her.

He broke the kiss to trail his lips across her cheek, before running his tongue along the shell of her ear; he bit the lobe gently and Zoya instinctively ground her hips against him with a moan of pleasure. He nibbled his way down the side of her neck, pausing to trace his tongue across her fluttering pulse point. She pulled him closer to her still, but it didn't feel close enough.

She pulled away to breathe. She could feel the sweet sensations swirling within her, her breathing still heavy and labored - her heart beating at a vastly increasing pace. The nerves returned full force and her cheeks heated beneath his gaze.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asked finally, his voice deep and husky, and his lips were red and swollen, his eyes a bit glazed.

"No," she said, her own voice sounding different to her ears, hoarse and a bit breathy. Roman knew he should stop here, but he wanted more, and looking at Zoya now - pink lips swollen, eyes dilated with hunger, he didn't think he'd have it in him to stop unless she asked him too.

He smiled this time, the type of smile that reached the eyes. Stella would've called it hundred-watt, she thought, as he pressed his chapped lips to hers again, carding his hands through her hair, his short nails lightly scraping against her scalp. His lips dipped and pressed against her jaw, collarbone, sternum. "Still sure?" his breath fanned against her chest.

She nodded. "Yes."

"Let's go to my room and break in those sheets."

"Okay."

He scooped her into his arms and carried her while she planted quick kisses on his face like she was playing a game of connect the dots with her lips. Damn, she was eager. He liked that. Back in his room, he put her down, then lifted the nightshirt over her head. He thought she might ask to keep it on, but then remembered the first time he saw her. She'd not been modest.

He let the garment drop to the floor happy she didn't ask to stop and fold it. Then he sat on the bed and pulled her to stand between his legs. "Jesus. You're beautiful," he marveled, and his voice was low and rich and the sound fired off into her nerve endings as she clutched his hair, scratching at his scalp.

He ran his hands up her spine, her skin softer than anything he'd ever experienced, his hands moved back to her neck, bringing her head down kissing her again. The strong rush of desire surprised him. He'd not expected to be so turned on by her, not just physically, but emotionally. He didn't know what to do with that realization. He cared about her, even felt protective of her, but in a different way than he felt protective of Ophelia, or anyone else in his life. She was nothing like anyone he ever met.

When Roman appeared in her room, her mouth went dry. With moonlight falling across his body, he looked like a god. A chiseled, tatted, divinity with a hard on. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. She'd aroused him. Imagine that. Weird, awkward, Zoya St. Clair, had excited a burly guy like Roman.

When he kissed her, her lips had stuck to her teeth, but he'd taken care of the problem. God, she loved having his tongue in her mouth. And it was so minty her taste buds tingled.

She never understood the simple act of kissing; even with Livvy it seemed a bit redundant and sloppy, like mudpies in a sandbox. She'd chalked it up to being young and neither of them really sure what they were doing.

Maybe it was Roman, because now she realized what she'd been missing and she wasn't sure much could top that, just the simple act of kissing Roman DeRoux. It opened up an entirely new ballpark of aches and tingles that made her toes curl.

She'd been surprised when he asked if she wanted to stop. That never happened in Stella's Harlequin and Mills, and she was sure Roman never had to ask that question to the women who came home from the bar with him.

Her heart beat a marathon when he picked her up, locking his hands around her thighs to straddle him as he moved through the hallway into his room. When his calloused fingers slid up her stomach, dragging her night shirt over her head, she didn't feel the need to cover herself, shy away from him. If she'd been more coherent, she might've protested to tossing her shirt on the floor - it'd be so wrinkly and dusty later, but sound thought seemed far away. He dropped her on the bed, pushing her back into the mattress, propping his weight on his forearms as he hovered above her.

MATURE THEMES AHEAD

She gasped as he trailed his kisses down her throat, then his hot breath hit her breast and when he closed his lips around her nipple, desire rushed through her veins. He moved from one hard tip to the other, licking, teasing, sucking until she thought she'd come apart.

"I want to touch you." Her voice sounded husky and wrecked to her own ears, and it wasn't far from the truth. Her heart beat so loudly that it felt like cannon-fire going off in her head and beneath her skin. He was so close she could map out constellations in his freckles. She hadn't expected that, a certain level of closeness.

He whispered a laugh. "God, I hope so." He took her hand, guided it inside his boxers.

Holy crap. She'd never touched a man before. Roman was hard. And big. Her heart hammered even louder. Now that she was holding it, what was she supposed to do? She didn't have to wait long for the answer; he moved against her slow and steady, reaching out to guide her hand along his length.

"Damn, Zoya. That feels so fucking good."

Her brows furrowed as she concentrated on the action, pleased that his voice sounded wild and a bit strangled, like she was able to make him feel as good as she felt, that she had the power to make him come undone.

That's what she wanted. Him inside her. All of him. She couldn't wait to find out how it felt.

He gently tugged her hand away. "Later. Later," he said huskily, pupils blown. He wasn't going to last that long at all if she kept touching him like that.  He leaned down and kissed her again. One wasn't enough. And when he tried to pull away, she raised up to follow his lips. She didn't want him to stop. Ever. Roman cradled her face and slowed the pace of their kiss when their teeth clacked. "I want to look at you," he told her, pushing her back into the mattress as he rose on his knees to hover over her. His eyes darkened as he gazed down on her. "Fucking beautiful," he told her softly, as his calloused fingers brushed the wisps of hair stuck to her face before his mouth was back on her, sucking at a spot on her collarbone, marking her with his teeth before laving it over with his tongue. 

"You want my mouth on you?"

"Yes," she panted, her fingers twisting and pulling at the hair at the nape of his neck.

He chuckled. A low, deep tone that got her hotter. He obliged and raked his fingers up the inside of her leg. She shivered as he caressed her thigh. His fingers were gentle, the heat from his hands giving her goosebumps as they slowly circled up her legs. Then his touch became more intimate, brushing the soft mound at the juncture of her thighs as he slipped a finger inside her. A new ache settled between her legs and grew stronger as he dipped and then withdrew.

"You're so fucking wet." Kneeling before her, he pulled down her underwear until they met her ankles. He nuzzled her stomach, kissing down, and it felt like kismet, him worshiping at the shrine of Zoya St. Clair. Zoya gasped and clutched at him, pulling at his hair as his lips met her mons, nipping gently at her before plunging his tongue into her. He thrust two fingers into her wet heat as he continued his ministrations on her wetness until he found that spongy path inside her, angling his fingers to speed her along. Her breath came in little pants, synchronizing with the speed of his tongue fucking into her as she writhed, panting small incoherent sounds and grasping at his hair. His thumb found her clit and rolled; Zoya arched off the bed with a strangled cry as his forearm gently pushed her back against the mattress, his fingers thrusting inside her with slow drags, angling and reaching. She fell back on the bed with a keening moan.

"C'mon baby," he murmured against her, and the gravel of his voice vibrated against her, making her toes curl. She couldn't even think, her mind blanked with the twisting pressure building inside her. "Come for me."

Pleasure swelled and exploded, centered directly where his mouth was fused to her clit, sending starlight across her vision and her body hummed. The liquid warmth that had been slowly building in her center spread itself to her limbs in a single burst. She flushed against him instinctively, her body flowing against his, her soft curves melting into the hardness of his muscles. She trembled weakly, unable to control the feelings flowing through her, washing over her. She was caught in a giant tidal wave of emotion and desire, something she had never encountered or had to deal with before.

His mouth kept working her until she cried out, pushing him away, too sensitive now.

Roman slid up next to her, looming over her, grinning smugly like a cat who caught the canary as she tried to even her breathing. That was... suddenly Zoya couldn't even remember any of her words-of-the-day. Maybe there wasn't even a word for it. He surged back on his knees suddenly, eyes glazed, and scooted to search through his bedside table.

Zoya propped herself on her elbows, a bit dazed. "What are you doing?"

After a moment of searching, he held up a packet. Oh.

She watched him roll it on with hooded eyes and shivered when Roman's fingers slid up her arm, her collarbone, cupping her jaw with one hand as he pressed a series of light kisses to her mouth, nose, eyelids, forehead. His free hand trailed down her side, gripping her hip, pulling her even closer as if he was trying to meld them into one.

He maneuvered his way to her entrance, coating himself in her arousal and her eyes squeezed shut. "Look at me."  Zoya's eyes snapped open and fixed her gaze on him propped on his elbows above her, his dark eyes gleaming with emotion, something she couldn't readily understand. He slid in slowly, being far gentler than she had anticipated. He took his time, moving his hips into her so slowly until her muscles burned and stretched to accommodate.

"Fuck," he groaned, stiffening over her. He knew she hadn't had much experience, but he hadn't anticipated this. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder and he had to stop himself from uttering a slew of obscenities, mostly at himself. "Tell me what's wrong."

"It burns. Give me a second."

"Jesus, Zoya, I didn't–fuck." He cursed and tried to pull out, but she clenched his hips with both hands and tightened her thighs around him. She held him in place. "Don't," she warned. "Just... do this."

"I don't think I should."

He attempted to pull away again, but she dug her nails into the flesh of those powerful hips. "Your penis is already in my vagina and I want you to finish!"

He wasn't convinced. "You're sure?" He didn't want to hurt her.

She lifted her hips up in response, gasping and arching beneath him as her sharp nails raked across his sternum.

Then she bucked hard against him. Once, twice, and the third time he thrust back involuntarily. He started a slow pace, his fingers likely bruising her hips, worried that he would hurt her if he let himself go. Stars rocketed past her vision again when he changed his angle, hitting some magic spot inside of her and she cried out, her head slamming into the pillow as her spine snapped against his hips.

Within seconds, he released, then slumped forward, his full weight on her.

MATURE THEMES OVER

He panted into her shoulder roughly for a long minute before he rolled off her. "Why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?"

"I didn't think I was."

He turned to face her, the callouses on his hands warm as he pushed smoothed back matted hair from her face. "What do you mean? You've either fucked or you haven't."

"I was fourteen. And it was a girl."

"Fourteen? How old was this girl?"

"The same age."

Roman sighed as if relieved and Zoya didn't know what to say. So she got up and crossed the hall to her bathroom where she turned the spigot to fill the tub. She'd feel better once she soaked in hot water.

Fifteen minutes later, Roman knocked on the door.

"Come in."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. I should have asked. But I saw the birth control pills and assumed..."

"They're to regulate my periods. It isn't your fault. There had to be a first time sometime. Right? It'll be better the next time."

"There won't be a next time."

Roman disgusted himself. He'd hurt her physically and emotionally, and that was the last thing he'd wanted to do. Her expression when he'd said there wouldn't be a next time filled him with regret. Like he told her - she deserved more than he could give her. She deserved more than an ex-con. Now what was he going to do? He hoped to hell she didn't want to talk about it. What was he thinking? She hated talking. No, tonight would never come up.

He lay awake for hours telling himself the best plan was to pretend it never happened. But he wasn't sure he could.

Shit, he didn't know what to do. He sat up on the edge of the bed and hung his head. He'd heard her come from the bathroom hours ago. She was probably asleep by now. Maybe he should go to her and just hold her. Women liked that sort of thing.  He even wanted to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and... no. He wasn't the cuddly type. It would only give her hope and he'd meant what he'd said. It wasn't happening again.

His urge for a smoke and drink hit him hard, but he'd given up the nicotine so he'd settle for whiskey. He pulled on his jeans and headed to the kitchen. Once he got the bottle and glass, he went outside to the back deck, collapsed onto the chaise and propped his feet on the railing.

Moonlight shimmered across the pond. An owl hooted in the distance. Humid air settled on his bare chest. A mixture of honeysuckle and pine floated to him. All the makings for a romantic evening.

He drained his glass and refilled it. His attraction to her confused the hell out of him. She was nothing like any of the women he'd been with, in looks or personality. But as quirky as she was, there was something about her he couldn't get past. She wasn't his regular type, but he loved the brown-red hair and her softness and curves.  He actually liked being around her, just the nearness of her, whether they were hanging out or sitting in comfortable silence.

He'd already suffered and lost more than most people his age. Finally, he had a second chance but there was still an emptiness inside him from the years behind bars where'd all he'd thought about was self-preservation. Concentrated on making one day at a time. Get through each twenty-four hours without getting raped, beaten, or killed.

She was like a splinter. Worked her way underneath his skin until he couldn't take it anymore. He knocked back another drink and mentally kicked himself. And damn if he didn't want to make it up to her. He'd been stupid to tell her no more sex because he wanted more. A lot more. He wanted to take his time and explore each other's bodies, wanted to find out more about what she liked and show her what he liked. He wanted to make her tremble beneath him and scream his name when she came. He didn't want a night with her; he wanted every night. And that bothered him.

Shit, he'd had too much alcohol. Wasn't thinking clearly. He held the bottle up to the light. Almost empty. He turned it up and swallowed the last slug, then staggered down the hall. He stopped at her door and considered talking to her, but he was drunk but sober enough to know it was a bad idea. He stepped into his room and crumbled onto the bed.

The next morning, after a sleepless night, Zoya rose early. She'd made a terrible mistake asking Roman for sex. They'd become friends and now she'd put that in jeopardy. She expected him to storm inside and tell her get her stuff and leave.  But he hadn't.

They had become sort of reluctant friends, and maybe she once thought, something more. She didn't think she had been reading into the gestures, the small touches, the way he talked to her. Maybe she had, though; maybe it was more fulfilling a physical need, and she had thought too much into it, that she had convinced herself of the idea of something more.

She tiptoed into the hallway. His door was ajar, so she peeked through the crack. Shirtless, but still wearing jeans, he sprawled across the bed. Easing the door closed, she slipped quietly to the kitchen. Out on the deck, an empty whiskey bottle and glass sat next to the lounge chair. He wasn't sleeping. He was passed out.

God, she'd been so bad at it, he'd gotten drunk to forget the ordeal. A sharp pain stabbed her chest. She couldn't stay in this house all day with him and see the anger in his eyes from last night. Even now, she was still stupidly attracted to him. She had watched him as his breathing had evened out, his hair curling around his face as he pressed his face into the pillow as if he was trying to smother himself to death in his sleep.

The rise and fall of his back, muscles rippling under his skin even as his fingers searched for her in his sleep, had wound around her possessively like a child with a stuffed lamb. She grabbed a bottle of water and headed to Mariana's, determined to remove thoughts of Roman from her mind.

Even at the early hour, the woods were alive. Birds chattered. Squirrels scampered. Crickets chirped.

Tears pricked her eyes. She'd ruined everything.

As she neared Mariana's place, Zoya knew her friend would be in the barn with the goats, so she went straight there. Sure enough, Mariana sat on a stool milking Millie, her oldest goat.

"Hey, Zoya. You're out early."

"Flynn and Ophelia are coming for the Arcadia Festival. I think they'll be here Thursday."

Mariana went almost as pale as the milk. "I was afraid of that. Would you be willing to take over milking duties? I'm going to visit my abuela. I've about convinced my parents to go with me, so if you don't want to stay at Charamel's, you can stay here."

"Is Flynn Tommy's dad?"

Mariana took a deep breath and spoke over her shoulder.  "Yes. But you can't tell anyone."

"I won't. But why haven't you told him?"

"Because I was stupid to think I meant something to him and I didn't. Besides, he had his life planned. So what would have been the point?"

"Don't you want Tommy to know his dad?"

Mariana went back to milking. "Yes. And it's time. But I need to find out what kind of woman Flynn is marrying before I tell him. Tommy will probably spend time with them and sharing him will be hard, but if his step-mother is a bitch, then I can't deal with that."

Zoya's stomach turned. She understood that scenario all too well. Marion had tricked Zoya's dad into thinking she was the perfect woman, but the minute she had the ring on her finger, she showed her true colors. She was a lying, conniving, self-centered gold digger, and wanted Zoya out of the picture permanently. Thank God Dad had only been blinded for a while. But once he learned what an awful person Marion was, he was too sick for the stress of a long divorce battle.

"I promise not to tell." Zoya bit her bottom lip, her gaze focused on Mariana's back, her ponytail swishing behind her. "I slept with Roman," she whispered so slightly that for a millisecond, she wondered if Mariana had even heard her.

Mariana whipped around so fast she almost knocked the bucket over. "What?"

"I had sex with Roman and he didn't like it."

Mariana set the pail aside. "Did he say that?"

"Not exactly. He said it wouldn't happen again and as much as he likes sex that's all it could be."

"I warned you."

"I'm the one who asked."

"What?"

"I asked him and he refused. I've messed up." Her voice dropped an octave, and she wouldn't meet Mariana's eye. "I bet he's going to ask me to leave."

Mariana studied her, folded in on herself. Embarrassed, or maybe a little overwhelmed. "Maybe not. Tell me everything,"  she prompted, gently. She wanted Zoya to be able to open up to her, to know she wouldn't judge her.

When Zoya finished the story, Mariana stood, took the milk to the cooler, then turned back. "Why did you ask him?"

"Because I think I'm in love with him."

"Oh, Zoya. You hardly know him. I understand the attraction. He's been nice to you recently, and that's confusing."

She shook her head. In that moment, Mariana was reminding her of Stella. For all the love stories and bodice rippers her old friend actively read, she always tried to downplay emotions, like a parent chiding a small child. "No. I'm not confused. I think about him all the time. When I'm at work, I can't wait to see him. I lie awake at night with dirty thoughts about him. I wish I'd been better, then he'd still want to be with me. Now he'll go back to bringing women home."

"Then it's settled. Starting tonight, you'll stay here until after his family comes and goes. That will give you time to sort things out. If you're right and he's not interested, then maybe you'll stop thinking about him so much."

Zoya frowned. She respected Mariana, but her dismissal of her emotions left her gritting her teeth. Maybe Mariana was right, but she wasn't entirely unbiased. She knew how the other girl felt about Roman and his family from the slew of comments she made over the last few months. Not to mention her closely guarded secret.

Zoya spent the rest of the morning making lists for taking care of the goats and how to store the milk. She'd stayed so busy; she'd barely thought of Roman, which made her think Mariana was right. Keeping her distance was the best idea.

Not wanting to intrude on Mariana's family, Zoya agreed to stay only if she slept in the barn. Mariana tried to convince her otherwise, but Zoya stuck to her plan. The workshop's small bathroom had a shower and that would do. She liked throwing a quilt on top of a clean pile of hay and snuggling into it.

After his family left, she supposed things could go back to the way they were when Roman first arrived. They'd avoid each other. Or, it was time for her to move on. Find a bigger city to get lost in. She had enough cash; she wouldn't have to work. Just concentrate on painting. Do pieces good enough to put in a gallery. Once she returned to Baton Rouge, her connections to the art scene would get her foot in the door.

Or maybe head to Austin. Their eclectic creative community was a place where she wouldn't be noticed. She pulled out her phone and searched facts about the city. Wow, they had so many events going on each weekend, she'd be able to blend in with no problem.

Next, she scrolled rental properties in the area. Plenty of places she could afford until she had to face Marion.

Zoya heaved a deep cleansing breath and the weight of her mistake lifted. As soon as the festival was over, and Mariana returned home, Zoya would hit the road. Come Monday, she'd turn in her notice at work.

She'd always have fond memories of this place. Charamel. Mariana. Lemon. Roman. No, not Roman. She couldn't allow any of him. At least not for a while. Someday, she'd look back on how he'd held her hand when she'd been frightened, the way he'd rescued her from Joshua, and let her keep Homer.  But not for a while. Maybe never. Leaving would help, and in ten more days, it'd be goodbye, Arcadia, hello, Austin.

This chapters a little long, unless you aren't into reading the mature themes, then it should be the right size.

Do you think she really intends to leave soon?

TEASER: "Because I've told them about you. We live together."

Wonder what is going on here?