The elevator tolled. We rode up and Matt carried me to our room. His strides were smooth. How long had it been since someone had taken care of me like this? I felt like a child—in the best possible way.

And this was the man who wanted to marry me, to care for me for the rest of his life.

The man I wanted to take care of for the rest of my life.

He laid me on the bed and drew a thin quilt over me, and then he settled behind me, fully clothed. His chest to my back. His groin against my bottom. One long leg draped over mine and a hand cupping my breast.

“I love you, Hannah.” His words whispered through my hair. “I love you so much … I love you…”

*   *   *

I woke with a headache.

The sheets were cool, the AC thrumming.

No Matt.

Two Tylenol and a glass of water stood on the bedside table. I smiled and swallowed the pills. Sweet night owl.

Again, a giddy surge of delight bubbled in my chest. Matt … taking care of me. Who knew he could be so tender?

I tiptoed to the doorway and peered into the sitting area.

He sat in a deep red armchair, leaning over his lap and scribbling in a notebook. A look of consternation crossed his face. He tousled his hair, hesitated, and continued writing. And fuck, he looked hot in nothing but low lounge pants.

I savored the vision of sunlight in his golden hair and on his toned, bare torso.

Until he saw me.

His eyes flickered to mine and he snapped the notebook shut.

“Bird, you’re up.”

“Yeah.” I smiled hesitantly. What was that expression on his face? Alarm?

“I didn’t hear you. How do you feel?” He came to me and half-hugged me, kissing the top of my head.

“Little headache. Thanks for the Tylenol. How long have you been awake?”

“Not long. Watched you sleep for a while.”

I ran my fingers through his hair—he smiled—and flattened my palms on his chest. Sometimes, touching Matt made me feel so shy—especially when he watched me.

I swallowed and trailed my fingers down his abs.

Okay … okay. Too early to get him turned on.

My hands swerved away from his waist. I tapped the notebook he held.

“Working on Last Light?”

He yanked the book from my touch.

“Yeah. Last Light.” He turned to the desk and slipped the notebook into his laptop case, zipped the case, and clicked a tiny padlock through the zippers. I frowned and jiggled the lock. He ruffled my hair. “Old habits, little bird.”

We drank coffee together at the kitchenette. Matt said it was our day and he scooted his chair close to mine.

In the shower, he pressed me against the tiles and slid into me. His cock was rigid, insistent. “I’ve wanted you all morning,” he hissed. “I got hard just watching you sleep.”

Tender Matt was gone, demanding Matt taking his place.

I moaned long and low as he enjoyed me. He asked me how I liked it, and how much harder I thought I could take it, and then he gave it to me. When I was on the cusp of release, he pinched my clit and twisted. I came in a shaking rush.

He refused to give me our itinerary that day. Each time I asked, he flashed a smile at me. “Places. We’re going places.”

He plugged in his iPhone and let me pick music. I played “From Finner” and patted my thigh to the beat. Far from home … so happy.

Matt barely looked at the GPS as he drove.

He skirted the interstate highways, choosing winding country roads instead. We cruised through one small town after another. I lowered the window and smelled sweet grass and summer, and he held my hand.

What I’d seen of New Jersey—Newark and the area around Trenton where Nate lived—looked nothing like this. “So many trees,” I said. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Isn’t it? A well-kept secret, this state.”

Something stole over Matt as he drove. He released my hand and gripped the wheel. The levity faded from his expression. He grew quiet.

I monitored his mood without comment. Were we going to see his aunt and uncle? Doubtful, with Matt in a T-shirt and jeans. Maybe a cousin? Some unsavory relative?

We entered another town.

A roadside plaque read, WELCOME TO HUNTERDON COUNTY.

“This is Flemington,” he said. He stared ahead, eyes dark, arms braced. We swung around a circle and passed a large white barn with a gray roof, and a sign: DVOOR BROS. STOCK FARM, DAIRY COWS, HORSES.

He slowed the car almost to a stop as we crossed an old stone bridge.

MINE STREET.

I blinked rapidly, trying to take in everything.

“It’s really … cute here,” I whispered. Then I clamped my mouth shut. He glanced at the creek below the bridge—flashing water, flat brown rock. He swallowed and I watched the powerful play of emotion on his face.

Half a block from the bridge, he turned into a neighborhood across from a sprawling sandstone church.

“Saint Magdalene’s,” he said.

We passed several small homes and stopped at the curb beside a blue house with a red door. An oak loomed in the backyard, a flowering tree on the small front lawn. The grass looked neatly kept, as did the shrubs around the stairs, but a pile of trash clustered near the garage door: crates, beams, a garbage can, a sack of cement.

Despite the sunlight, I felt sad and unmoored. Why were we here?

I looked at Matt.

Pale-faced, he stared intently at the house.

“I grew up here,” he said.