I know exactly why I’m sad.

I’m sad because Connor will be spending the night with Roxy and not with me.

My toe injury caused me to forget to take my ibuprofen last night and just as I knew it would. My head is pounding and so is my toe. It is only when my kidneys feel like they’re about to burst that I force myself out of bed and fumble to the bathroom. The events of last night tumble through my head and I subconsciously kick myself. How could I let that happen? Obviously, I’ve developed an unhealthy attraction to Connor, one that is completely off limits. Add that to me being a somewhat young woman with, let’s face it, sexual needs, I made a horrible decision while under the influence. After I relieve myself, I clumsily make my way downstairs, lured by the aroma of bacon wafting in the air.

My stomach grumbles as I walk into my kitchen, rubbing my eyes as the sunlight beams through the kitchen window, when I hear, “Good morning.”

I nearly jump out of my skin when I look up to find a thin man covered, head to toe, in tattoos sitting at my kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee. His dark hair is longer in the front, than in the back and he has a well-trimmed goatee. Noting what I know must be the fear of God in my eyes at the sight of him, he places his cup down carefully and stands quickly, the chair screeching loudly as it slides back, holding his hands in the air. But the sudden movement only makes me panic more.

“Connor!” I scream as loud as I can. “Connor, help!”

“My name is Dusty. I’m a friend of Connor’s,” the man explains, as he moves toward me, his hands still in the air. I rush around the table and grab the butcher knife from the block and whip around on him.

“Stay where you are,” I yell. My head is pounding, and I still hadn’t quite managed to rub the sleep from my eyes this morning, but if he gets near me, I will whip this knife around wildly until I hit something. Hopefully an artery or something that will make him bleed out fast. “Connor!”

When I hear the screen door creak open, I almost collapse in relief. Connor rushes in and stops in the doorway taking in the scene.

“She just freaked out. I tried to tell her we’re friends, but she wouldn’t listen,” the man explains defensively.

I look at Connor, wide-eyed. “You really know this guy?”

“Demi, babe,” Connor says, softly, as he approaches me. “Can you put the knife down? Please.”

I’m so amped up on adrenaline I can’t seem to make my arm move. Connor grabs me by the wrist and wrenches the knife from my hand, tossing it in the sink, before pulling me in his arms. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you would be up for a while, and I was going to surprise you with breakfast.” He kisses the top of my head and continues petting my head, attempting to calm me. “This is my friend, Dusty. He’s the one that showed up on the bike last night.” I pull my head from his chest and look at Dusty as he runs a hand through his shaggy hair and smiles.

“I’m sorry I scared you. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he offers.

I back away from Connor until my back hits the corner where the two sides of the counter meet. I place a hand on my chest as I try to calm my racing heart. “I am way too hung over to be that scared,” I grumble. Then, looking up to Dusty, I try to give a friendly smile. “It’s nice to meet you, too. I apologize for flipping out.”

“No need. I reckon if I were you, and I’d walked in to find . . . well . . . me sitting at my kitchen table, I’d about have a heart attack myself.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Demi. I’ll make you some coffee.” Connor motions for me to take a seat at the table and after a moment I force myself away from the counter.

“So, Dusty,” I begin awkwardly. I feel bad for almost chopping him into bait and hoping I’d hit an artery so he’d die quicker. “Where are you from?”

He takes his seat beside me and sips his coffee before answering. “I was born in Texas, but I hail from Tennessee these days.” Now I know where his epic Southern accent comes from.

“And how do you and Connor know one another?” I ask as Connor sits a mug in front of me. I sip it without thinking, but can’t help looking at him after I do.

“Did I get it right?” Connor asks with a smirk.

“Yeah, you did.” He made my coffee just the way I like it. He’s never made it before, and I’ve never mentioned how I like it, which means he must have watched me make it several times. I stare up at him and despite my feelings of regret from the events that transpired between us the night before, I want so badly to stand up and kiss him. Then I remember myself.

Wasn’t Roxy here last night, too? Didn’t I see her?

“Thank you,” I say, my voice husky. “So how do you two know one another?” I turn my attention back to Dusty, hoping it’s not too obvious to Connor that I did so.

Dusty gives Connor a sideways look as if asking permission to tell me. Connor sighs and moves to the counter and starts cracking eggs over a bowl. “We were cell mates, Demi.” He doesn’t turn around, and I wonder if he thinks I’ll judge Dusty—or him.

“Ohhhh.”

“I got out three years before Connor,” Dusty notes. “If it hadn’t been for him, I would’ve never made it out.”

“How so?” I ask.

“It’s not important,” Connor interrupts. “All that matters is he made it out.”

My brows rise at Connor’s quick interruption. Dusty gives me an awkward smile and shrugs one shoulder in apology. “Go ahead and ask.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You want to know why I was in, right?”

Damn, I do. I really do. Am I sitting across from a murderer or a rapist? Who is this man that Connor shared a cell with? I mean, Connor was in prison for manslaughter which is basically a murder sentence. Did Dusty kill someone too? But even though this man is sitting in my house, I still feel rude asking.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” I respond before taking a large sip from my mug.

Dusty chuckles, a look that oddly, despite his tattoos and shaggy hair, is quite handsome and endearing. “She’s every bit a lady, just like you said, Connor.”

My brows rise again for the hundredth time this morning. Connor told his friend about me and called me a lady?

Connor doesn’t turn to acknowledge his statement, but from where I sit I can see his mouth quirk up a smile. “That she is,” he agrees.

“Well, seeing as I’m sitting in your kitchen, drinking your coffee, I feel like you should know. And, seeing as how Connor is a good buddy of mine, and I hope to hang out with him more since I just moved here, and to do that, I might want to be invited back to your house, with your permission, of course, I feel I should tell you.”

His proclamation surprises me. Is it ridiculous to think him volunteering the details of his conviction is gentlemanly? “Dusty,” I say, as I lean over the table and pat his hand where it sits. His head rears slightly as if he’s surprised by the gesture. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to. I trust Connor. I know he would have never brought you in my house had he not trusted you wholeheartedly. And since you’re his friend, I hope I can call you mine, too.”

I stand and push in my chair. Connor has turned, his eyes fixed on me, an expression of awe on his face. I return a soft smile, letting him know I meant every word. I do trust him—wholeheartedly.

“I know I must look awful,” I huff. “Do I have time to wash my face and dress before breakfast is ready?”

“Ten minutes,” Connor responds, watching me with mirth filled eyes.

“Be right back.”

As I exit the kitchen, I can’t help smiling to myself when I hear Dusty say, “One hundred percent lady.”