“I’m saying I’d like those abs on any man, so I guess I’m lucky they’re yours.”

His eyes narrow at my words. “Any man?”

His tone is quiet and even more intimidating than normal. I have only that tone as the slightest warning before he rolls and reaches for me. My squeak of surprise fills the room as he draws me closer and pins me beneath him, one forearm on either side of my head.

“There are no other men when it comes to you, do you understand me, Holly? None. You belong to me.”

Whoa. Holy possessive alpha-male alert, Batman.

I push up on my elbows, bringing my lips within a breath of his. “As long as that means there aren’t any other women for you, then we have a deal.”

“You think you can bargain with me?” Every movement of his lips brushes them across mine.

“I’m sure going to try,” I reply, my daring knowing no limits this morning.

“Sassy girl. You know that just makes me want to teach you a lesson, right?” His tone is a low growl, and his lips continue to tease mine with the hint of a kiss.

Untangling one of my arms from beneath me, I reach up and bury my fingers in his dark hair. “Then what are you waiting for?”

His lips crash down against mine, and words cease to be necessary.

Creighton leaves the penthouse to head to work around ten a.m., and when he promises that he’ll be back to get me by seven, I actually believe him. Maybe it’s the look in his eye when he left the bed that clearly said he didn’t want to leave me there alone. It’s like something finally clicked, and like a train, we’ve shifted onto a different track. One where maybe we can figure out how to coexist peacefully.

When I finally drag myself out of bed, I shower and breeze through my morning routine, dressing in some of the most casual of the new clothes in my closet. Glancing at the TV, I think about turning it on, but really don’t want to know if my marriage to this complicated man is still the top story.

Creighton promised days ago that if I just trust him, he’ll take care of the press side of things, and I shouldn’t worry because it’s a pointless waste of energy. I decided he was right and just buried my head in the sand. If a billionaire can’t stop them from saying what they’re going to say, how can I? It’s wasted effort.

A voice calls out from the entryway, distracting me from my thoughts.

“Mrs. Karas? We have a delivery for you at the request of Mr. Karas.”

Mrs. Karas? It sounds so foreign that it takes a moment before I realize whoever is here is looking for me. I look down at my gray long-sleeved thermal and black leggings, and wonder if I should run back into the bathroom and lock the door.

Screw it. I am what I am, and that’s all I’m going to be.

I leave the bedroom and head into the living room. Whoever it is didn’t come in and make himself at home, so I continue into the entryway. A uniformed doorman stands just inside the door, looking slightly uncomfortable as he holds a large rectangular box.

“Oh, excellent, I was afraid I might have entered at an inopportune time,” he says, holding out the box in my direction. “Mr. Karas specifically requested that I bring this inside when it arrived. Where would you like me to put it?”

What in the world?

“What is it?” The question pops out before I have a chance to think.

He smiles kindly, but with a lopsided tilt that you’d give a clumsy puppy or small child. “I don’t know, ma’am. You’ll have to open it and see. Where would you like me to put it?”

Duh. Of course he doesn’t know.

“On the . . . coffee table is fine.” I point to the living room as I stammer over my words. I almost said dining room table, but even the thought of it reminds me of what we did on that table last night, and it seems obscene.

I realize too late that maybe I should have tipped the doorman, but he’s already out the door and I’m left alone with the box.

Cautiously, I study it like it might contain human body parts, because that’s how I think in terms of measurement.

Trunks of cars? How many bodies can you fit in there?

Chest freezers? Same thing.

Creepy, right? Maybe I was a serial killer in another life, but I’m hoping not. Hopefully it’s just a country thing.

I use my fingernails to peel back the tape and tear the cardboard flaps open. When I see the black guitar case, I freeze, and my mouth goes dry.

He didn’t. Oh, but he did.

Like I’m opening a jewelry box containing diamonds the size of my fist, I flip the latches and lift the lid. My chest tightens as the breath I was holding whooshes out.

I reach down, almost afraid to trail my fingers along the pearlescent turquoise surface of the most beautiful guitar I’ve ever seen. With one fingertip, I trace the edge until I run up to the word Gibson. It’s similar to the one I played at Rudy’s the other night, but instead of black and bottom of the line, it’s the top-of-the-line model and my favorite color, which Creighton couldn’t have known.

As the iridescent flecks of paint glitter in the light, I can only picture how amazing it’s going to look onstage.

I have to hear how she sounds, and instantly names start spinning in my head, because she has to have a name. Something feminine and kick-ass all at the same time. Eliza Belle. Okay, it’s got a little country twang to it, but since that’s what I’m going to be rocking out with on her, I think it’s perfect.

I lift Eliza Belle out of her deep purple velvet-lined case and hold her out in front of me. Perfection. Absolute perfection. How did he know?

My surprise rockets up a dozen more notches when I pull out the strap tucked in the case and take in the hand-tooled leather. My name is part of an intricate design of stars, guitars, and flowers. It’s . . . I’m speechless.

Holy shit. I’m in trouble.

But I push that thought away to hook the strap on and carry Eliza Belle to the living room where my notebook rests on a side table. It’s time to perfect some tunes.

All the while I’m strumming the chords, I’m thinking about Creighton and how I’m going to find the words to thank him for this gift.

I open the door to my penthouse at six forty-five that night, and have the strangest urge to yell out something like Honey, I’m home. Although after yesterday, I now know there’s no guarantee that Holly will actually be here, despite my threats.