"That's not true."

"Isn't it?"

The evening quiet that had seemed so charming-so gentle and calming-suddenly felt oppressive, the air sticking in his lungs with each and every breath.

But it the beats of her silence in the face of his question that delivered the real chokehold.

"It's not. Not exactly. But I'm not going to lie to you. I want to know who you are. What made you. What you've experienced. I want in, Landon. My whole life has been about being shut out. Diminished, somehow, because I'm not my brothers. Because I haven't followed the right path. Because I have ambition or interests, or because I simply don't want to follow some dumb set of expectations laid out for me at birth.

"I don't want to be left out on this. I want to know you. All of you."

Like he could give that to her, even if he'd wanted to.

He stared down at his feet, their length and the long, lean body that went with it a mystery. He didn't know his father. Was literally missing half his life. And the other half had abandoned him.

And she somehow wanted in on that? Wanted him to talk about it and hash it out and explain it, like some fucking waltz down memory lane?

Unwilling to go there, he cocooned himself inside the same argument he'd already started. "Amber has nothing to do with this. I've told you that from the start, yet you've pushed and prodded and stabbed at that fucking wound every chance you had."

"You say that like I've enjoyed it. You can't mean that. More, you can't actually believe that."

"You tell me. You're the one who just asked what we're doing here. Was that a genuine question or residual guilt from today's little interview session?"

"It's neither."

"Then what are we doing here? Is this some random fuck before we both go on our merry way? We want each other. Yesterday morning proved it. The fucking hard-on I've had for a solid week has proved it. Am I an itch you're suddenly feeling guilty about?"

The words flowed, a river of anger and anguish, all diverting around the boulder of his own actions earlier. Hell, he'd nearly felt guilty about going to see Harlow Reynolds, but that personal omission felt like a hollow victory in the face of Daphne's confession.

He didn't owe her an explanation. And he sure as hell didn't owe one for having his brother's back.

"Don't be crude."

"Then what should I be? We're sitting here having a quiet moment and you drag out my fucking mother? The one who wanted nothing to do with me? Great mood killer, Daphne."

The words were as petty as he felt, and a bleak departure from the quiet, satisfied air that had hummed between them only minutes before.

What had happened? Was it further proof of what she'd suggested? Did they need to tread carefully?

"I don't want to fight with you," Daphne said.

"And I'm not trying to deliberately insult you." With the heated moments past, his comments already felt hollow and crass. "What I said was disrespectful, and I'm sorry. But what do you want? What do you want from me?"

"You. No matter how badly I fumble it or stumble over myself, that part doesn't change. I want you." She extended her hand across the postage stamp of a front yard. "I want you, Landon."

He stared at her outstretched hand for the briefest moment before he captured it in his own.

"Let's just take this, okay? Just for us."

He could only nod and follow her into the house.

Fender closed the door to his studio apartment, the heavy wood making a decided thud at his back before he leaned against it and pulled the card out of his pocket. He turned the rich paper over in his hands, his eyes tracing the details laid out in black calligraphy script.

Harlow Reynolds.

The cream colored paper had heft, yet was as delicate as a heartbeat in his fingers. As powerful as one, too.

Just like the woman who'd given it to him.

Harlow Reynolds had been a surprise. Where he'd expected a tight-assed blue blood he'd gotten instead an interesting woman with a clearly defined sense of right and wrong.

And a gorgeously tight ass to boot.

Damn, the woman was a package. Cool elegance overlaid with a compelling fire. He hadn't been able to shake the image of her-that very first moment when she'd stepped out from the back of the gallery-in a green dress that made his hands itch.

And the heels. Well-crafted, top-of-the-line, elegant, fuck-me pumps. Hot damn, the woman had absolutely slayed him.

Fender flipped the card over to where she'd jotted her cell number on the back. The firm scrawl of script from a fountain pen-the woman had used an honest-to-God fountain pen-was soaked into the richness of the paper. He'd pulled the card out intermittently throughout the evening, deciding if he'd call or not, and it was getting late enough he was close to missing his window.

And there was no way he was texting.

Texting was a fucking cop-out anyway. You wanted to see someone, they had a right to hear you ask. You didn't want to see someone, they had a right to hear it from you, too. He knew what it was to be ignored and discarded, and he'd be damned if he was going to treat another human being that way.

Sick of thinking about it, he dragged out his phone, tapped in the numbers she'd provided, and hit the dial icon before he could stop himself. He nearly hung up on the fourth ring, but midway through the fifth she answered, breathless.

"Hello."

"Harlow? Fender Blackstone. We met earlier."

"Of course." She cleared her throat and he heard another heavy breath.

"Are you alright?"

"You caught me near the end of a run. Sorry."

Although it wasn't 3 AM it wasn't middle of the afternoon, either. "You're out running now?"

"Treadmill. All the benefits of home and none of the trials of nature." She took one more breath before jumping in. "Look, I really am sorry about my mother. I swear to you I had no idea what she was doing. I will put a stop to this."

"Great. Thanks."

"Oh. Okay then."

Silence stretched between them, the tenuous thread of zeroes and ones that held them together seeming to stretch out with nowhere to go.

Sort of like him.

He knew he couldn't ask her out, even as that was the real reason he'd called her. So he went with plan B and asked what he'd nearly said in her office.

"You sure you didn't know what your mother was doing? Weren't supporting her in some way?"

"I said I wasn't."

"Sure. Right. But it was your father my mother had the affair with. You don't have some vendetta, like your mother?"

The silence stretched once more, but the tenor of her breathing had changed. Out of breath had shifted to the hard rush of frustration.

"My father was a lot of things, but faithful wasn't one of them. He cheated on my mother and, by extension, my brother and me. I came to accept that a long time ago."

A neat, well-prepared speech that had nothing to do with the feelings everyone buried way down deep.

"Why accept it?"

"Because my parents won't define me or my perception of the world. They made their own choices, I make mine."

"Nice thought. Putting it into practice isn't quite so easy."

"That's where you're wrong. I practice it every day."

Since he wasn't one to cop out, Fender asked the question that had been simmering in the back of his mind since taking in that green dress and the woman who wore it like a second skin. "Maybe you can tell me about it sometime over a glass of wine."

"Let's make it whiskey, and I'll tell you when I think you're ready to believe me." She waited the barest pause for that to sink in. "Goodnight, Fender Blackstone."

Before he could respond, his phone winked out.

Daphne kept one hand in Landon's while she fumbled the door open with the other. The tense words-she refused to call it a fight-out on the lawn had her riled, but even the concern that they were on an out-of-control roller coaster couldn't assuage the need she had for him.

If they could just get to the together part-just forget everything in each other's arms-they could get past this broken record of an argument.

His case wouldn't stay open forever. And if they could just see their way through that, they could get to the other side. Come out at the point where most couples usually start a relationship-in the hazy glow of something new and powerful and all-consuming.

In the meantime, they'd just have to plow through what was.

She didn't need to apologize for her actions today. She did what she had to do, and she had a right to do it. And she'd be damned if she was going to apologize for her curiosity about his past. He might not want to explore it, but she wasn't going to deny her desire to understand.

The door swung open and she walked through, tossing her keys as she went, before turning into his arms the moment the door closed behind them. Lifting up on her toes, she captured his mouth with hers. She felt the eager response of his body-the way that long, solid form pressed against her-but sensed he held back as her mouth moved over his.

"Landon?"

"Hmmm?"

"You're supposed to kiss me back."

He lifted his head. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're thinking."

"No, I'm not-"

"Yes you are. Way too much, as a matter of fact."

He sighed against her lips. "I shouldn't have said those things outside. You're not an object, and I was crude. Crass."

"It'll be our secret."

"Daphne-" He broke off when her lips met his again. Reaching up, she framed his face in her hands, her gaze capturing his. "I accept your apology. And if we're being honest, I've been pretty strung out over you myself. It's kind of nice to know you feel the same."

"There are kinder ways to say it."

"Shh. Don't tell the bad girl inside who is absurdly flattered by the weeklong hard-on."

The tease had its desired effect, the heat behind his gaze flaring to life, overriding the chivalrous streak he was trying so diligently to hang onto.

"We're going to make mistakes, Landon. I know that. But we are too important to me to let that keep me from being honest with you." She pressed another kiss to his lips, pleased when she felt him open for her.

Even more pleased when she felt him respond to the kiss, a willing partner, fully in the moment.

"Are you with me now?"

"Is that bad girl around anywhere?"

"Of course."

"Then let's take her out for a spin." Before she could respond, he had an arm around her back and the other under her legs.

"Landon! You can't carry me."

"Looks like I just did."

"I weigh too-" His mouth came down over hers, effectively ending the argument. Even with her weight and the lack of air, he wasn't even winded when he laid her down on her bed.

"She doth protest too much." He had his shirt over his head and off before coming down on top of her, his mouth finding hers once more. His clever hands made quick work of the button-down blouse she'd worn for work, the material falling to the sides as he ran his index finger over the skin above her belly button.

"So pretty." He continued to trace his finger over her skin, sparks igniting everywhere he touched. Long, lazy lines streaked across her stomach before he moved up, tracing a path over the silky underside of her breast.

Daphne felt the sensation even as she watched his movements, anticipating where he'd go next. The feel of him against her skin was erotic and oh-so-wicked as multiple senses took in the pleasure he was so determined to give.

Summer heat coated the bedroom, the old air-conditioner unit perched in her window doing its level best to cool the room. She felt the determined bursts of cold air but knew they were no match for the heat that emanated off of Landon's bare torso, or the fire that burned inside both of them.

God, how she wanted this man.

How was it possible she could want someone this way? A week ago she'd been blissfully unaware he even existed, and now, today, he was as necessary as the air she breathed or the food she ate.

How did that happen?

And how had she lived without it for so very long?

The hands that played over her breasts shifted course, and he pulled her forward just enough to unhook her bra. He used the leverage to drag off her blouse and then pulled her bra straps down her arms. When they were skin to skin once more, he levered up on his forearms and took her mouth.