Someday, when I thought back on this moment, I’d immediately recall how I felt as if my heart had stopped, how we both seemed to be made of glass as his words flitted between us.

“Gemma,” he repeated, creating the first chink in my fragile armor.

I dug my fingernails into my skin. “Another ex-girlfriend, Oliver?”

“I know who you are. Gemma.” His words caused another crack, this one larger than the last, and I squared my shoulders.

“You should leave. It’s fucked up to come in here calling me another woman’s name.” But my voice faltered, and I had to fight every instinct in my body not to turn and go myself. “Leave!”

He drew himself to his full height. The closer he came to where I stood in the hallway, the harder my pulse throbbed, the clearer it was to see his grin was only a façade. The corners of his lips trembled. When he reached for me, pulling me to him so hard I couldn’t breathe, the rest of that glass encasing me shattered.

Suddenly, I felt my heart again, and I swore it was seconds from exploding.

Oliver knew, and everything was ending right now.

“We’re going to talk,” he said, his light blue eyes stabbing into mine. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

But I said it anyway. I said it, and I shook my head in denial. “No.”

With one swift motion, he scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing. A second later, I was on the couch. My stomach tightened as he knelt in front of me, trapping my legs with his upper body. I could feel his heart beating fitfully against my knees.

I clutched my hand over my own chest.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to hurt you,” he growled, dragging his hand over his tan face. “That’s not my intention.”

“Oliver—”

“And don’t open your mouth with lies.” Hauling his phone from his pocket, he typed in the security code before shoving the device in my direction. I looked down. And what I saw sent another tumultuous wave of emotion through me.

On the screen was a copy of my driver’s license and everything was there—my real date of birth, the address to my Vegas apartment, my name.

“I have everything else on you, if you need more convincing.”

From the way he said that, I knew he was aware of the phone sex and the escorting, but did he know why I was in L.A.? Because I didn’t know what would happen if I opened my mouth to ask, I chose silence, glaring at his phone as the waves of nausea held me under.

“I knew there was something about you, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.” His rough voice was the softest I’d ever heard it, and it terrified me.

“Even after you told me about that scar on your chest, and I remembered Greg mentioning his kid having to go to the hospital after something similar happened. Even after I heard some motherfucker propositioning you, calling you Alice in the middle of our date—I was still too stubborn to let myself believe you might be deceiving me.”

I finally discovered my voice, but when I murmured his name he shook his head.

“But the other night when Finley mentioned what your father used to tell you, I knew for sure. He said the same thing to me when I told him I was sorry for getting into his liquor stash when I was fourteen.” He touched his chest, fisting a handful of fabric. “I told you I wouldn’t have Easton look into you, but I couldn’t sleep beside you not knowing.”

“How long did it take him?”

“Two hours. In two hours he had everything, and I have no fucking clue how you’ve managed to fool Margaret this long.”

“You’ve already told her?” Raking my hands through my wet hair, I released a strangled noise. “You told her, and—”

“I haven’t.” When my head whipped up to look at him, he sneered. “I wanted to know why you were doing this before I said a word to anyone. Is it more money? Is it—”

Before I could stop myself, my fingers were on his shoulders. I tugged him closer to me, my world spinning uncontrollably. “What do you mean more money?”

“The money you’ve asked Margaret for over the years.”

I laughed, but it hurt. Everything about this moment hurt. “I’ve never taken anything from your mother other than the paycheck I earned from working.” Loosening my grip from his broad shoulders, I jabbed my finger to my chest. “I’ve never taken anything. She’s the one who’s taken everything from me!”

His nostrils flared, but his expression faltered. “What do you mean?” At my muteness, he held my chin in his hand and made me look at him. “I’m not going to let you say something like that just to back down.”

“Get out, Oliver.”

Even though he moved away from my body and stood, he didn’t head for the door like I hoped. Instead, he followed right behind me when I stumbled by him and into the foyer.

“Get out!” I repeated, pointing at the exit.

Planting his palm firmly against the door, he swallowed hard. “Not until you tell me what you have to gain from all this.”

It was all too much.

It had always been too much—I just hadn’t realized that before now.

Fury beating against my chest, I shouted, “Answers!” Lowering my head to the floor, I watched as the first tear fell to the laminate between our feet. “I don’t want any money that belongs to your mother, I just want answers. I wanted to know why I felt abandoned by my father for fourteen years and why the woman he married hated me so much to turn me away. I wanted all that.”

He sucked in a breath before he implored, “Then give me answers.”

When he framed my face with his large hands, it was to force my gaze to his. Staring up at the anger and disappointment in his blue irises, the tears started to run freely down my cheeks.

“Dammit.” As he backed away from me, dragging his hands through his light brown hair, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. “Why did you come here?”

“When are you telling Margaret?”

Realizing I wasn’t going to tell him why I came to L.A., he hunched forward and exhaled raggedly. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m giving you two weeks, Gemma—two weeks—to tell me everything.”

When he jerked my door open and stepped into the hall, I heard myself wheeze, “Why wouldn’t you do it now? Why two weeks?”

“Because if you’re here for answers, you’re not going anywhere.” He didn’t turn around, but I was glad he didn’t. Glad he couldn’t see the harsh emotions tearing through me. “Because the last two weeks have been the best of my fucking life.”

*

The next week floated by almost too quickly—a combination of working for a woman I couldn’t stand to even look at, and agonizing over the parting words of a man my chest ached for. Lies had backed me into a corner I wasn’t sure I could wiggle out of, and it was hell. With every day that passed, I knew I was drawing closer to the rest of my world crumbling around me.

I needed to help myself—finish what I started to stop that from happening.

“I didn’t want to give this to you yesterday because it was Thanksgiving,” Pen started ten minutes after we took a seat at a bar downtown on Friday night. “But I have a theory I thought you might want to hear.”

When she’d talked me into going out with her, I’d assumed she only wanted to get some alcohol in me to take my mind off Margaret and Oliver. Once she slid a piece of paper next to my beer, I realized she was mixing pleasure with business—business that probably wouldn’t have me dancing in excitement on the bar counter.

“What is it?” Running my tongue over my lips, I grabbed the printout and unfolded it carefully to reveal a photo of my father. He was with a blonde I didn’t recognize—no surprise there—and on the other side of them stood Michael Scott and a brunette woman. They were all grinning and holding champagne flutes. “Where’d you get this?”

“Old newspaper clippings.” Pen tapped her finger on the picture. “I’m not sure who the woman with your father is, but the lovely brunette hanging on Michael Scott’s douchebag arm is his ex-wife, Robin.”