She definitely hadn’t been prepared to have those intense, blue green eyes focused on her again. His eyes could be classified as a weapon of mass devastation. Sleepy, heavily lashed and the kind of blue green you’d expect to find down in the tropics. Trey had the kind of eyes that could put woman into a swoon if he put his mind to it.

Would Farrah absolutely hate her if she gave into this crazy heat that grew hotter and hotter every second she was around him?

She was debating that very thing, had even decided that Farrah would understand. It was just one of those fantasy crushes, and besides, her best friend was crazy in love, and engaged. Besides, this was just a . . . thing. Some sort of fluke and once it was done and he was out of her system, she could go back to thinking straight.

Decision made, she cocked her head and turned to look at Trey as he was reaching for the glass in front of him.

That was when she saw the glint of gold on his finger.

His ring finger.

On his left hand.

Hands that had always been covered by the gloves he wore—the gloves made sense now. Therapeutic gloves, she imagined. The kind worn by writers to help with their wrists.

And they’d hidden that ring.

An ice-cold bucket of water splashing in her face wouldn’t have been more effective. Abruptly, she shoved back from the table. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

Okay, Farrah had rambled on and on about how private the man was, even more so over the past few years. And Ressa knew—obviously—that there had been a woman in his life. But nobody ever came to the library. Clayton never talked about his mother.

It was like she just . . . didn’t exist.

And how he’d given her that little paperweight for Mother’s Day.

She’d assumed . . .

That’s it, you assumed.

Feeling the weight of their combined gazes on her, she sought out the restroom. Once inside, she moved to the sink and braced her hands on it.

She’d almost made a move on a married man.

“You’ve done gone and lost it, honey.”

All because a man had a beautiful pair of eyes and a slow, sexy smile.

Of course, she’d always been a sucker for a man with a beautiful pair of eyes and a slow, sexy smile.

Beautiful eyes, a slow sexy smile had damn near ruined her before and she’d fought long and hard to rebuild the mess that bastard had made of her life.

Her heart hammered and she sucked in a breath.

That man—she’d been right. She really had been better off getting away from him months ago.

He was dangerous.

“Just get through the weekend and you’ll never have to see him again.” The thought caused a hollow ache to settle inside her chest, though.

And instead of making her feel any better at all, it only made her feel worse.

*   *   *

Trey spent the next ninety minutes trying to puzzle out just what had happened.

One minute, she’d been easy and relaxed—oh, Baron—the prick—had gotten under her skin, but she’d handled him, and unless Trey had forgotten how to read people, she’d enjoyed knocking him down a peg, too.

She’d been warm, easy, relaxed.

And then, within the span of a heartbeat, something had changed.

He couldn’t even put his finger on it, try as he might. And he wanted to know what it was. Part of him had kept thinking that maybe he should . . . should . . .

Should what?

Travis’s voice seemed to nag him—a brotherly earworm—

Are you just going to bite the bullet and ask her out?

He’d almost done it. That last day, before Clayton had gotten so upset.

There was nothing in the way now.

Nothing except for that one thing. The one that made his brain shut down, panic crowding out everything. That, combined with the humiliation that had happened the one time he’d even tried . . .

So maybe it was better.

Maybe it was better that the air around them seemed to drop by about thirty degrees and she’d gone from sliding him those quick little glances, to barely looking at him at all.

None of that kept him sitting there next to her, thankful that the table was a barrier that kept anybody from seeing the evidence of just how much Ressa Bliss affected him.

Yeah. Maybe this was better . . .

But damned if he could really get himself to believe that.

*   *   *

“You really do need to think about taking that off,” Max said as they headed down the hall to their rooms.

Since he didn’t, at all, want to talk about it, Trey played dumb. “Take what off?” Inside his pocket, he rubbed his thumb across his wedding ring.

“Son, you know damn good and well what. That ring. The one you use like a shield to keep women from getting too close. The one you wear to pretend that maybe Aliesha isn’t really dead, isn’t really gone.” Max stopped outside his door and looked back at him. “It’s like as long as you wear that ring, you don’t have to let her go. You can keep that part of her. But, Trey, she is gone. It’s time you let go . . . and start living again.”

Jaw clenched, he looked away. Max couldn’t be any more off base if he tried, but Trey wasn’t about to go into the real reasons. But abruptly, he had a sickening realization.

Had Ressa seen his ring?

Son of a bitch—

The news of Aliesha’s death had gone national—hell, global—but not everybody followed some of the things the media chose to sensationalize. Maybe she didn’t know . . . ?

“Did I ever tell you that I was married before Maude and I got together?”

Frowning, Trey shot Max a look.

But Max had a far-off expression on his face as he stared down the hall. “Amelia. We met in high school. Married the day after we graduated . . . man, I loved her so much.” That distant look cleared. “We were together for four years. Four of the best years I ever had . . . and then, one night while I was working, a man broke into our home, raped her, killed her. I thought I’d die, too. The man I had been, he did die. She’d been gone a year when I sat down to write my first book—the purest shit I’d ever seen. It took me three years to finish. The day I finished, I went into our room and sat. Then I started to cry. I hadn’t cried. Not until that day.” He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath, held it for a long moment. Then he looked up, met Trey’s eyes once more. “That much time had to pass before I let myself cry enough to let her go. It wasn’t until then that I realized I wasn’t honoring her memory by keeping her so close. She wouldn’t have wanted that.” He clapped Trey on the shoulder and unlocked his room. “You should think about that ring, son. Think hard.”

As he slid inside, Trey found himself standing in the hall, staring down at the gold band on his hand.

Maybe Max hadn’t been as far off as Trey had assumed.

No, he wasn’t still clinging to Aliesha’s memory. He’d accepted her death. Let her go. But the ring was still a barrier. It was his shield, and sometimes a reminder.

And tonight, when he had actually thought about trying to reach out?

It had been the barrier he’d planned for it to be—only this time, he hadn’t really wanted that.

Chapter Eight

Leaning against the door that opened out onto the balcony, Trey rubbed his thumb over the well-worn script of his notebook. Normally, the thing would be filled with notes by now and he might have even replaced it. And he actually had replaced it—in a way. But instead of just carrying one, he carried two. This one, with the to-do list he’d never finished and then another one that he used for more lists, more notes, the odd and random doodle. That one was on the table with his wallet, his change, his keycard, and phone.