“What are you waiting for?” Mrs. Weaton asked, tapping her pencil.

“Thank you!” I yelled out over my shoulder as I jogged outside into the bright sunshine and jumped into the truck. To Mrs. Weaton or Nana, I wasn’t sure. Joey’s car was gone, and I was relieved.

I’d moved through a full spectrum of emotions as I read those pages—from happiness, to sadness, to anger—and realized at one point I had dried tears on my cheeks. It was impossible to tell if every page was there, but I had to believe if he was willing to share the part about almost doing something with that girl, that he was telling me everything. Everything he needed to anyway.

He’d come here afraid to face me, afraid I’d reject him, and I’d done just that. He thought I was dating Colt, and yet he still put himself out there for me.

My heart squeezed.

Winding back through what I’d read as I drove, I felt so proud of him getting involved in the writing and directing. Making a name for himself. Showing people he was capable of more. Man, and I was so sad for him when he talked about his father, proud he’d been trying to find out more, and understand more, in what I knew were difficult memories.

I came to a stop at the light on Atlantic and Palmetto and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. The window was still down in my truck from last night, and the cool spring sea breeze helped calm by impatience. How long could this traffic light possibly be?

And his mother? I wanted to hug her for understanding him so much and getting him to open up the only way she knew how. I laughed through my tears. A message in a bottle. That’s exactly what he was. He’d tried to open up to me and I’d been the one too afraid.

He’d hurt me. Nothing could be undone, but how I chose to move past it would change the rest of my life. I was still nervous about who he was, and what that meant for me. Especially now that I really understood how much he loved the craft of it. But I wondered if we could find a way to try and have a relationship separate from the celebrity-ness. We had to try.

Pulling into the driveway of Devon’s gorgeous beach house, I saw the silver Jeep pulled in under the house. That didn’t mean Jack was here, though. That thought sat menacingly in the back of my mind. What if he’d left?

I jogged up the stairs to the periwinkle blue front door, holding the white painted cottage bannister and knocked, my heart literally pounding in my ears.

Why was blood so hard to move when you were nervous?

After a few moments of thinking my head would explode or I’d get sick, the door opened.

Devon.

I tried not to let my deflating shoulders be too obvious.

“Hi,” I said as he stood there expressionlessly. Very different from the Devon I’d met previously who’d seemed to be on my, or at least “our” side. The side of us getting back together. I’d be pissed off at me, too. I hated to think what they’d talked about after I kicked Jack out of my truck. Now that I really understood how Jack felt …

I shifted my weight. “Uh, is—”

“He’s not here.”

Stones formed in my chest, their weight pressing down on my stomach that was already churning with nerves and regret. I held onto the doorframe. Please let him not have left.

I must have looked like I was going to pass out.

“Ah, Christ,” Devon said finally, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous. You two are ridiculous. He’s under the house, beating the shit out of something. Just go past the Jeep. Could you do me a favor, though?”

I nodded.

“Give him the benefit of the doubt this time?”

I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. Relief and a new jolt of nerves flooded my system, making me weak-legged as I turned and went back down the stairs.

Devon closed the door behind me.

I paused to gather myself, having no idea what to say to Jack, and heard the sounds of grunts and thwacks I hadn’t noticed when I’d first arrived. Tilting my head to the sky, I filled my lungs deeply. Nana, if you’re out there, I hope you knew what you were doing when you brought me Jack Eversea.

It was dark under the house. The space, which obviously reflected the entire footprint of the home, was huge. I paused as I entered, then passed the Jeep, letting my eyes adjust to the cool dimness. A faint mildewy smell that characterized life in the humid coastal South, wafted through the space. I trained my gaze on the direction of the sounds and could make out a figure, Jack, in the far corner through the concrete support columns sparring against a large black punching bag that hung from above.

The shadows were perforated with beams of sunlight slanting through the lattice-work covering all sides of the house. They landed like mini spotlights all over his muscled form, the rays bouncing off his wet skin. He wore only black gym shorts that clung with dampness.

He grunted and panted as his fists flew, his dark hair wet and brow furrowed. Sweat beaded and dripped to the concrete floor.

I continued moving forward, but stopped when I was about ten feet away from him, trying to force my dry mouth to take a swallow. He was so beautiful it was heartbreaking.

And he seemed so lost.

My eyes skated down his perfect form.

His bare feet glided back and forth on the dusty cement as he shifted his weight easily into every punch his upper body threw. He had a new tattoo on his foot. It made me uneasy to see it, to know there was so much of his life I didn’t yet know or understand. But I wanted to. So badly.

His back was still to me when he stopped his current combinations and grabbed and hugged the bag, dropping his forehead against it. After a few moments I expected him to be done, to catch his breath and stand up, but he suddenly released one arm from around the bag and proceeded to pound out right hooks over and over again, letting out a loud grunt with each one. Sounds of frustration or satisfaction at landing the perfect hit, I couldn’t tell.

He finally stopped, his torso heaving as he clung to the bag. His breathing was loud and labored.

“What do you want, Keri-Ann?” he croaked.

I started.

He didn’t raise his head from where it rested against the bag, just stayed frozen, panting with exertion.

A weird sizzle arced through my churning belly. God, I was so attracted to him. To every part of him. The strong arrogant side of him the world saw. And yes, to this visual and visceral display of maleness. But especially to the vulnerable part he’d had the courage to show me.

I reached behind me and drew the folded pages out of the back pocket of my cargoes, trying to keep my hand steady. “Are these real?” I asked, in a whisper.

His shoulders slumped. “Seriously?”

“It’s just a question.”

“Yes, they’re real.” He sighed.

“No, I believe you … I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked like that.” My voice was breathy with nerves. “Will you … will you look at me,” I managed.

He didn’t move for a moment. Then he tilted his face to the side and looked at me over his arm. His eyes were dark as they met mine. He blinked slowly then dropped his gaze to the pages I was holding. “I wanted to figure out a way to get those back before you read them …”

“I’m glad you didn’t. Is this everything?”

He closed his eyes. “It’s everything that matters. There’s some stuff about my father you probably didn’t need to see and … well, I also didn’t explain what happened with Audrey.” He sliced his eyes back up to mine, as he finally pulled back from where he was clutching the bag. “I slept with her the day I found out she cheated on me.”