He brought her hand to his chest, laid it over his wildly pumping heart. "I can't catch my breath."

She smiled and stretched, pleased. Satisfied beyond measure. "Mmm…good."

They fell silent. Moments ticked past as they gazed at one another, hearts slowing, bodies cooling.

Everything about him was familiar, she realized. The cut of his strong jaw, the brilliant blue of his eyes, the way his thick dark hair liked to fall across his forehead.

And everything was foreign as well. The boy she had known and liked had grown into a man she desired but didn't know at all.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "About this morning. I acted like an ass. Another one of my problems."

She trailed a finger over his bottom lip. "What happened, Hunter? In New Orleans? Why'd you come home?"

"Home?" he repeated. "After all these years, you still call Cypress Springs home?"

"Don't you?"

He was silent a moment. "No. It ceased being home the day I walked away."

"But you've returned."

"To write a book."

"But why here?" He didn't reply. After a moment she answered for him. "Maybe because you felt safe here? Or felt you had nowhere else to go? Both could be called definitions of home."

He laughed scornfully. Humorless. "More like returning to the scene of the crime. The place my life began to go wrong."

She propped herself on an elbow and gazed down at him. He met her gaze; the expression in his bleak. "Talk to me," she said quietly. "Make me understand."

He looked as if he might balk again, then began instead. "New Orleans, my time at Jackson, Thompson and Witherspoon, passed in a blur. I was good at what I did. Too good, maybe. I moved up too fast, made too much money. I didn't have to work hard enough."

So he didn 't respect it. Or himself.

"I became counsel of choice for New Orleans's young movers and shakers. Not the old guard, but their offspring. Life was a party. Drugs, sex and rock 'n' roll."

Avery cringed at the thought. She certainly wasn't naive. Her years in journalism had been…illuminating. But she had been lucky enough-strong enough-to resist falling into that particular pit.

"The drugs were everywhere, Avery. When you're dealing with the rich and famous, everything's available. Anything. Alcohol remained my drug of choice, though I didn't turn down much of anything."

He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling. Retreating from her, she knew. And into the past. "At first, the firm looked the other way. I was a hot commodity. Staying on top of my cases and clients despite my after-hours excesses. Substance abuse is not unheard of in lawyers. A by-product of the stresses of the job and the opportunity for abuse.

"Then the line blurred. I started using during the day. Started screwing up at work. A missed court date here and forgotten deadline there. The firm made excuses for me. After all, if word got out that one of their junior partners was a drunk, their exposure would have been huge. When I showed up drunk for a meeting with an important client, they'd had enough. They fired me.

"Of course, I was in denial. It was everybody's problem but mine. I could handle the alcohol. The drugs. I was a god."

Avery hurt for him. If was difficult to reconcile the man he described with the one she had known as a teenager-or the one she lay beside now.

"I went on a binge. My friends deserted me. The woman I was living with left. I had no more restraints, no one and nothing to hold me back."

He fell silent a moment, still deeply in the past. Struggling, Avery suspected, with dark, painful memories.

When he resumed, his voice shook slightly. "One morning I lost control of my vehicle by an elementary school. The kids were at recess. My car windows were open, I heard their laughter, squeals of joy. And then their screams of terror.

"I was speeding. Under the influence, big time. I crashed through the playground fence. There was nothing I could do but watch in horror. The children scattered. But one boy just stood there…I couldn't react."

He covered his eyes with his hands as if wanting to block out the memory. "A teacher threw herself at him, knocking him out of the way.

"I hit her. She bounced onto the hood, then windshield. The thud, it-" He squeezed his eyes shut, expression twisted with pain. "Miraculously, she wasn't killed. Just a couple broken ribs, lacerations…I thank God every day for that.

"The fence and the tree I clipped had slowed my forward momentum. Still, if I'd hit that boy, I would have killed him."

He looked at her then, eyes wet. "She came to see me. Me, the man who- She forgave me, she said. She begged me to see the miracle I had been offered. To use it to change my life."

Avery silently studied him. He had, she knew, without his saying so. The novel was part of that change. Coming back to Cypress Springs. Going back to move forward.

"That boy, I wonder if he finds joy in the playground now. I wonder if any of them can. Do they wake up screaming? Do they relive the terror? I do. Not a day goes by I don't remember. That I don't see their faces, hear their screams."

"I'm sorry, Hunter," she said softly. "I'm so sorry."

"So you see, I'm both cliche and a cautionary tale. The drunk driver barreling into a schoolyard full of children, the one lawyers like me argue don't exist."

He said the last with sarcasm, then continued, "I was charged with driving under the influence and reckless endangerment. The judge ordered me into a court-monitored detox program. Took away my license for two weeks. Slapped me with a ridiculously low fine and ordered me to serve a hundred hours of community service."

If someone had been killed he would have been charged with vehicular homicide. He would have served time.

Hunter was already serving time.

"I haven't had a drink since," he finished. "I pray I never will again."

She found his hand, curled her fingers around his.

Moments ticked past.

"Matt's still in love with you."

She started to deny it, he stopped her. "It's true. He never stopped."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I goaded him into losing control today, into throwing the first punch. The sick thing is, I took so much pleasure in doing it. In being able to do it. Perverse SOB, aren't I?"

"You're not so bad." Her lips lifted slightly. "Not as bad as you think you are, not by a long shot."

He turned his head, met her eyes. "Run, Avery. Go as fast as you can. I'm no good for you."

"Maybe I should be the judge of that."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "That'd be risky. We both know you've never been that great a judge of character."

"Is that so?" She sat up, feigning indignation. "Actually, I'm a pretty damn good judge of-You're bleeding again."

"Where?" He sat up, craning to see over his shoulder.

"Here." She twisted to grab a couple of tissues from the box on her bed stand, then dabbed at the trickle of blood seeping from the bandage under his left shoulder blade. She remembered it had been the ugliest of the gashes.

Avery climbed out of bed, dragging the sheet with her. Wrapping it around her, toga style. "I'll bet there are some heavy-duty bandages in Dad's bathroom." She wagged a finger at him. "Stay put."

"Yes, Nurse Chauvin."

Avery padded into the hallway, heading toward her parents' bed-room. The door stood open, giving her a clear view of the bed. She should make it, she thought. Or strip it. Seeing it like that, day after day, reminded her of the last night of her father's life. And in doing so, it reminded her of his death.

The last night of his life.

The unmade bed.

Avery brought a hand to her mouth. Her dad had been in his pajamas. He had taken sleep medication. Obviously, he had either been asleep or had climbed into bed. Why put on his pj's if he meant to kill himself? Why climb into bed, under the covers? Only to get out, step into his slippers and head to the garage to kill himself?