With a sigh that actually causes me pain, the man stalks into the gallery, lifts the painting off the easel and carries it into the back. If I was Noah, I’d drop the f-bomb right now, but I’m not, so a simple crap will suffice. I broke a cardinal rule: keep your mouth shut until you know who the gallery owner and the artist are because they can be hiding in the Trojan horse of a tourist with reusable shopping bags.

So much for the idea of making connections in Vail.

I stand there, staring at the empty slot, wondering if there’s any way to salvage this, like: “I didn’t mean it” or “I smoked crack before I traipsed over here” or “I’ve been kidnapped and a bomb’s been strapped to my chest, and if I don’t trash other people’s paintings, a bus on the highway will explode.”

Yeah, I don’t think he’ll buy it.

I turn and begin the long walk of shame back to the hotel. My cell vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and frown the moment I spot the name of my therapist, Mrs. Collins. It’s like the woman is hardwired to me.

Her: What are your thoughts on moving our Skype visit to tomorrow?

I stop dead in the middle of the cobblestone street, and I rush out an apology when a couple has to separate their hands to move around me. Me: My father told you, didn’t he?

Her: Told me what? :)

Me: That my mom called! And the drill sergeant control freak finally returns. My father lasted two months longer than I thought he would before interfering with my therapy. Me: I thought he was giving me space!

Time. Too much time. Maybe she’s moved on with her life instead of stalking mine. Right as I slip my phone into my pocket, it vibrates again. Her: He wasn’t the one to tell me.

My chin drops to my throat. Noah is a dead man.

* * *

Sitting on the floor of the hotel room, I stare at a blank pad of drawing paper and rub my temples. Oh, God, what have I done? It seemed like a great idea at the time. In fact, it seemed like the most brilliant idea in the course of human history, but I was mad. So mad and Noah is going to freak.

Freak.

Noah’s never been truly angry at me. Aggravated? Yes. Ticked at me? Yep. Strongly annoyed? Heck, yeah. Infuriated? No.

The handle on the door rattles, and a half second later there’s a click when Noah’s key card unlocks the door. I press my hand to my stomach, hoping it will prevent the contents of lunch from making a reappearance.

He steps in and smiles the moment he spots me. It’s a horrible, horrible, sweet smile. The type that says he loves me beyond belief. His hair partly covers his dark eyes, and when his face widens with the grin, I can spot the sexy, rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.

Oh, hot Hades in a snowstorm, he’s happy. I wish I could crawl under the bed and die.

“You okay?” he asks as he heads to his suitcase on the extra double bed. He’s a foot from me, and he’s going to want fifty football fields between us when he opens that bag.

When I don’t answer, he continues, “We’re going to splurge tonight and eat at a restaurant. I meant to take you out in Denver after the showing, but...”

But Denver was the fifth level of hell.

He begins to unzip his suitcase, and I blow out air to stop a dry heave. “Noah,” I say to try to interrupt him, but he doesn’t hear my quiet declaration because he realized he had opened the wrong part.

“A nice restaurant. I know my shirt from last night needs to be washed, but I’ve got another nice shirt in here somewhere. Your choice of where to eat and don’t worry about the money. You deserve something nice.”

“No, I don’t.” I really, really don’t.

His hands pause on the zipper as he glances at me, and my heart thrashes once against my rib cage. He is going to go nuclear with a hundred percent chance of radiation fallout.

“I want to do this,” he says. “Besides, we need to talk.”

The crackling of the zipper starts again. I jump to my feet and charge Noah like a linebacker in the Super Bowl, only I weigh a hundred and twenty and barely cause Noah’s hair to blow in the breeze. “Stop!”

I wrench his hands off his suitcase, and Noah grabs on to my fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I am so sorry.” My foot taps against the floor, and I shiver because this is so freaking bad. “I’m sorry. But you texted Mrs. Collins, and you told her that my mom called and then she texted me and I was so angry because that’s something my dad would have done, and I don’t want to be dating my dad. I mean, he’s a control freak and you’re not, so why would you contact her? And I was so angry that I did this and now I wish I didn’t do this, and I’m sorry.”

His dark eyes dart around my face. “Mrs. Collins told you that I texted her?”

“She told me that you told her.” A flash of anger and hurt strikes me like a lightning bolt, and I yank my hands away, remembering why I’ve done this. “How could you? It’s my decision if I want to talk to Mrs. Collins about my mom. Not yours.”

“I didn’t tell her,” he says.

“But if you didn’t...” Blood rushes out of my head, leaving me light-headed. I suck in a breath of air, but it stays in my mouth. “...and my dad didn’t...”

“Baby, you need to sit down.”

Little lights appear in my vision, and for a second, I think they’re pretty. A high-pitched ringing drowns out all other sounds...all other sounds but one.

“Fuck!”

Noah

With my knuckles, I rub the back of my head and when I inhale, the air contains a full dose of chlorine. I chuckle because what the fuck else is there to do?

“I am so sorry.” Echo stands beside me with her arms wrapped tight around her waist and stares at me with the most pathetic puppy dog eyes. After she realized that her mother, not me, had contacted Mrs. Collins, Echo hyperventilated. Scared the shit out of me, but after I sat her down and gave her some water, she returned to breathing normally.

Can’t exactly be mad at someone when you’re happy they’re okay, plus this...well...Echo’s got balls. “My boxer shorts are in the filter.”

She slams her eyes shut, and I extend an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer to me. “It’s all good, baby. No harm, no foul...assuming management hasn’t figured it out, otherwise we’ll be staying in the tent tonight.”

Every article of clothing I own is floating at the top of or has sunk to the bottom of a small indoor rectangular pool. Our voices carry in the closed-in room, and because one thing today is going right, it’s completely empty except for us.