I started actively retreating as Chace started actively advancing and I said, “I think I told you that’s none of your business.”

“Faye, why were you crying?”

I hit the foot stand of my bed and was forced to stop.

Chace didn’t stop until he was toe to toe with me, neck bent, eyes locked to mine.

“I’ll ask one more time, honey,” he said gently. “Why were you crying?”

I felt it prudent, considering his proximity, to answer.

So I did.

“I was listening to a song that made me cry.”

His brows went up. “A song that made you cry, leave your house in the dead of night and walk to the elementary school playground?”

To this, I offered lamely, “It’s a good song.”

His eyes moved over my face as his lips whispered, “It’s a good song.”

I held my breath unsure what was happening but I was sure what was happening to my heartbeat. It was escalating. And my skin, it was tingling. And my blood, it was firing.

I stopped holding my breath and pulled in a needed one.

Then I straightened my shoulders and said quietly, “I’m home safe now, Chace. You can go.”

His eyes came back to mine and he didn’t go.

Instead, he asked, “What song was it?”

No way in heck I was sharing that.

“Dobie Gray’s, ‘Drift Away’.”

There it was again. Another fraking lie!

His eyes lit and his mouth twitched before he asked, “The song that moved you to tears and drove you into the cold night was a song about a man who gets through by listening to rock ‘n’ roll?”

I was realizing I really needed to pay more attention to lyrics when I answered with another lie, “Yes.” Then to add validity to something that was nowhere near valid, I added, “My favorite part is when he sings while people clap.”

And right then, in my apartment, I watched Chace Keaton throw back his handsome head and burst out laughing.

Seeing it, hearing the deep richness of it, my hands went behind me and curled into the iron of my foot stand so they could assist my legs in keeping me standing.

I was prepared to ask him to leave when he stopped laughing (not that I wanted him to stop laughing, ever) but he got there before me by tipping his eyes back to mine and ordering through his laughter, “Put it on.”

I blinked and my chest seized.

Therefore I had to force out my, “What?”

His eyes scanned my apartment, spied my stereo then came back to me.

He tilted his head to my stereo and repeated, “Put it on.”

“Put what on?” I asked stupidly.

“‘Drift Away’.”

Oh God!

“Um… I’m kind of tired,” I informed him.

“Faye, honey, you just ran through a very cold night chasing an abused, terrified kid. You’re not tired.”

There it was, him reading me again.

“Um…”

“But I bet that song will help you relax and unwind.”

He was right. It would. It was on my unwind playlist for that very purpose.

“Uh…”

“Put it on.”

“Chace, I don’t –”

“You don’t, I find your iPod and I’ll do it.”

That got me moving for two reasons. One, this would require a body search and my iPod was at my bottom. I didn’t want Chace Keaton’s hands anywhere near my bottom. Second, the song it was set at was “Holding Out for a Hero” which meant if he had my iPod, he’d catch me out in the lie and know, possibly, what really was making me cry.

So I slid out from in front of him, unbuttoned my coat, shrugged it off and threw it on my armchair. Then I unwound my scarf and did the same with that. Finally, I dug into my back pocket, pulled out my iPod and set up the song.

The strains of the guitar hit the space as I turned back to see Chace had taken off his coat, thrown it on my bed and he was leaning a hip against the foot stand.

He looked good standing anywhere.

But he never looked better than standing right there.

Really, seriously, how was this happening?

“Forgot how much I like this song,” he said through the music.

“Told you it was good,” I muttered.

At my words, he suddenly pushed away from the bed and came at me.

I had to make a split second decision. Run from the apartment (and I’d just taken off my coat), race to the bathroom and lock myself in, retreat again even though I had nowhere to go or hold my ground.

I took longer than the split second to make my decision and thus ended up doing the last and therefore was an available target when he reached down and grabbed my hand.

He yanked it firm but gentle and I flew toward him.

His other arm slid around me and suddenly I found myself, after midnight, in my apartment, dancing with Chace Keaton.

It wasn’t just a close to each other, h*ps swaying dance. He swung me out, twirled me around, threw me wide and wound me back in. He was sure in his moves, strong, confident and my body just moved how he wanted me to move. It didn’t feel stilted, I wasn’t nervous.

I just moved where he guided me like we’d danced together countless times. It felt natural. It felt right. It felt great.

So great, the song was so awesome, I got into it and started grinning, aiming this at him whenever my eyes caught his which were always on me.

The slow bits, he held me close and swayed. The faster bits, he moved me around and when the clapping came, he pulled me close, his neck bending, his lips finding my ear and he whispered, “You’re right, honey, this is definitely the best part.”

My hand was resting on the hard wall of his chest, my head tipped back, his came up and we locked eyes.

Then I whispered, “See?”

He smiled.

I drowned.

Then he twirled me out when the tempo shifted up but we finished close, h*ps swaying. His arm was around me, his hand in mine holding it to his chest. My other hand was resting lightly on his shoulder. His jaw was pressed to the side of my hair and my eyes trained to the strong column of his throat.

The song faded away, our h*ps stopped swaying, but he didn’t let me go.

I had no idea what was happening, how it came about but that didn’t mean I didn’t close my eyes and commit every nuance of that moment to memory.

Then he said quietly in my ear, “For a long time, a long f**kin’ time, Faye, nearly six years, I thought it was certain I’d never have anything as beautiful as the last three minutes. Thank you, honey, for giving that to me.”