I had Kate’s office filled with balloons.

A thousand of them.

Each printed with I’M SORRY.

Too much? I don’t think so either.

Then I had a little something delivered to her office. From Tiffany’s. A small blue box with a note:

You already own mine.

Drew

Inside the box, on a platinum chain, is a flawless two-carat diamond heart.

Sappy? Sure it is. But women love sappy shit like that. At least according to the films I stayed up until three o’clock in the goddamn morning watching they do.

I’m hoping it’ll knock Kate off her feet. Right onto her back—and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much I like her in that position.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

Besides, I get the feeling Kate isn’t used to getting presents, at least not of that caliber. And she should be. She deserves to be spoiled. To have nice things. Beautiful things. Things her dipshit ex-boyfriend couldn’t afford and probably wouldn’t have thought to give her.

Things I can. And will.

I wanted to be there when she opened it. To see the look on her face. But I have a meeting.

“Andrew Evans. Still as handsome as the devil himself. How are you, m’boy?”

See that woman hugging me in my office? Yes, the auburn-haired, blue-eyed lady who’s still a knockout, even in her fifties? She used to be my sixth grade teacher. Back then, her skin was as smooth and creamy as her Irish brogue. And she had a body that begged for sin. Lots and lots of sin.

She was my first crush. The first woman I ever masturbated about. My first Mrs. Robinson-like, older-woman fantasy.

Sister Mary Beatrice Dugan.

Yep, you heard me right—she’s a nun. But not just any nun, kiddies. Sister Beatrice was a NILF. I don’t need to spell that one out for you, do I?

In those days, she was the youngest nun any of us had ever laid eyes on—unlike the bitter, black-robed hags who looked like they were old enough to have actually been around when Jesus was alive. The fact that she was a woman of the cloth—forbidden—and in a position of power over us naughty Catholic boys just made it all that much more erotic.

She could’ve spanked me with a ruler anytime.

And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Just ask Matthew.

When we were thirteen, Estelle noticed Matthew was wincing when he walked. She dragged him bitching and moaning to the doctor’s, where he was promptly diagnosed with CPS.

Chafed Penis Syndrome.

The doc told Estelle the condition had been caused by leaving wet swim trunks on too long. And she believed him. Even though it was November. Matthew’s dick was raw all right, but it wasn’t because of a f**king bathing suit.

It was because of Sister Beatrice.

“You’re as stunning as ever, Sister B. You decide to leave the order yet?”

I don’t go to church. Not anymore. I’m a lot of things, but a hypocrite really isn’t one of them. If you’re not going to play by the rules, you don’t show up for team meetings. Over the years, however, I’ve kept in touch with Sister Beatrice. She’s the principle at St. Mary’s now, and my family has always donated generously.

She taps my face. “Cheeky boy.”

I wink. “Come on, Sister, be fair. God’s had you for, what? Thirty years? Don’t you think it’s time you gave the rest of us a shot?”

She shakes her head and grins. “Ah, Andrew, yer charms would tempt the virtue of a saint.”

I hand her a cup of tea, and we sit down on my unadulterated couch.

“I was surprised by yer phone call. And more ’an a bit curious. What hole ’ave you dug yerself into, m’boy?”

I called her yesterday. And told her I needed her help.

“I have a friend I’d like you to speak with.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Would this be a lady friend, now?”

I smile. “Yes. Katherine Brooks.”

“You always were the one kissin’ the lasses and makin’ ’em cry. And about what would you be liking me to talk to Miss Katherine about? You haven’t gotten her in the family way, have you?”

“Christ, no.”

She raises a stern brow at me.

“Sorry.”

She nods, and I go on. “I was hoping you could talk to her about…forgiveness. Second chances. Redemption.”

She takes a sip of tea and looks thoughtful. “‘To err is human; to forgive, divine.’”

Exactly. I thought about sending Matthew or Steven to plead my case. But they’re too biased. Kate would never buy it. And before you ask—no—I would never send The Bitch. Too risky. When it comes to persuasion, my sister’s kind of like a pet lion. Sweet and playful one minute, but if you make the wrong move? She’ll rip your frigging face off.

Sister Beatrice is a religious woman. Kind. Honest. If anyone can convince Kate that men—that I—am capable of changing, it’s her. The fact that she adores me almost as much as the woman who gave birth to me doesn’t hurt either.

“And who might the young lady be needing to forgive?”

I raise my hand. “That would be me.”

“Played the cad, did you?”

I shrug in the affirmative. “And I’ve been trying everything I can think of since to make up for it—short of tattooing her name on my ass and streaking across Yankee Stadium.”

I was saving that for next week.

“Men often want what they can no longer have, Andrew. I like to think that you are not that type of man. So if I speak to the young lady and convince her to trust you with her heart again, what are you intendin’ to do with it?”