He bit back a curse. “Tell me who hurt you.” He would find the guy. The girl. Whoever. What happened after that, happened.

The anger drained from her, and she wrapped her arms around her middle. “My mom and I went shopping in Dallas. I always wanted to shop back then. Had to keep up appearances, you know.” She gave a bitter laugh. “If I wasn’t the best, I wasn’t happy. But I wasn’t happy, anyway. I was rude to everyone that day, as usual. The salesgirls. Our waiter when we had lunch. Even my mom. It was as we were walking back to our car. The sidewalk was so crowded. People were everywhere, and someone bumped into me, knocking me back. I felt a splash of something wet, then a searing pain on my stomach. I fell backward and rammed into someone else and was pushed farther back, getting lost in the crowd, the burning only growing worse. Then people started shouting and running all around me. My mom tried to get to me, but there were too many in the way. I fell, and people ran over me, crushing me, but they put out the flames, at least.”

“Did you see who did it?”

“No, but I can guess. Someone I’d wronged that day.”

Not good enough. He wanted a name, and if it took him the rest of his life, he’d get one. There were ways. “Tell me what happened next.”

“The crowd cleared and my mom finally reached me. She had worked with Dr. Vargus for years, Strawberry Valley’s only doctor up until two years ago when Dr. Chastain came along. The two got me patched up as best they could and set me up with a specialist to do the skin grafts. We decided not to talk to the police because Mom feared I would be crucified, told I deserved it. Because I did.”

“No,” he said, furious on her behalf. “You didn’t.”

Maybe she suspected just how close he was to yanking her against him, because she moved to the door, twisted the knob. “Now you know my secret. You can go.”

“Harlow—”

“I won’t be going into work today. I’m taking the day off.”

“Fine, but you’re not quitting.” They weren’t together, but he still couldn’t stand the thought of losing her. Not yet.

Not ever.

“I didn’t say I was quitting, just that I was taking a day off.”

“Okay. All right.” He owed her that much, at least. “But I want you to carry your phone everywhere you go. Before you argue, don’t. You may not be at the office, but you’ll still be on call.”

“Fine.”

“And we are going to finish this conversation.”

“You mean the one where you tell me you’ll be setting me up with other guys?” Her voice held a thousand notes of bitterness, one of fury and countless of hurt.

He ground his teeth, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

“Great. I can’t wait. Now get the hell out.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HARLOW GATHERED HER paints and trudged the short distance to her childhood home. With Beck and West at the office, and Jase off somewhere with Brook Lynn, the place was empty. She was certain her key would fail, that she’d have resort to tossing a rock through a window, but she decided to give it a try anyway. Click.

Shocked, some of her anger draining—this had to mean something, right?—she headed straight to her old room, which was saturated with a scent she now recognized as Beck’s. An-n-nd back came her anger. Her emotions were clearly in turmoil, and she desperately needed an outlet. The few canvases she had in the RV weren’t enough. Nor was the RV itself.

She covered the floor and all the furniture with plastic, dragged in the stepladder she found in the hall closet and squeezed the desired paints onto her palette.

Shaking with the need to create, she worked her brush furiously over the walls.

Whatever the dark slashing lines ended up becoming, Beck would surely hate it, just because it was different. Not that she cared. The alternative to painting was staking him to an anthill. Before staking herself! She’d abandoned her rules for one night—one hour—in his arms. And yes, he’d pleasured her in ways she hadn’t known were possible. His kiss, expert. His touch, masterful. His body, tailor-made for hers. She’d been lost, adrift, and he’d been her only anchor. Breathing had mattered only because she’d shared his breath.

And then, the ecstasy and agony she’d experienced when he’d kissed her scars... He’d been so reverent, so adoring, had even called her a treasure. But all along he’d planned to gift wrap her for another man.

With a screech, she threw a glob of black paint at the wall.

He’d said, If I could commit, it would be with you. I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you. But I’m just not hardwired that way.

Then and now, the words popped the balloon of her fury, leaving only confusion. Why did he believe he couldn’t commit? Did he not realize he had already committed to her? At least in part. He could have ditched her at any time, but again and again he’d cared for her. And hadn’t he admitted to missing her when she wasn’t with him?

Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be with her for more than a night. Maybe he was just afraid to put a label on it. He had attachment issues in spades, after all. And why not? Throughout the course of his life, he’d lost everyone and everything he’d ever loved. Except for West and Jase, of course, but he might not realize just how deeply his commitment to them ran. Might only disdain commitment in the romantic sense.

Tears welled in her eyes, a sense of hopelessness driving her to throw another glob of paint. Stability still mattered to her, would always matter to her, and she wasn’t going to get it from Beck. But what he’d said was true. Pride wouldn’t comfort her. Pride wouldn’t keep her warm at night, or pleasure her so sweetly.