She was groggy, lying limp and tired against him. He kissed her on the lips, and she shuddered. Her hand clenched on the back of his neck, locking herself to him.
He’d held her before, like this. They hadn’t been sweaty and sated. They hadn’t been slick with their juices and tired from their lovemaking. But it was just as easy, just as right, as ever.
* * *
She dreamed of them again.
Always that same dream, always of that day.
“Promise me you will never, ever, give any man your heart, Monica, like I did. You keep it to yourself. Give your virginity away—that doesn’t matter—but you never, ever, give anyone the power to hurt you. You have to promise me no matter what happens to me.”
She looked wild, her mother. Her hair undone as it had been for the past months, her eyes bloodshot. “But Father loves you,” Monica said, trying to soothe her.
“He never did, never!” She was packing up his things, having Monica help her. “Come, help me pack this. We’re not leaving, but he sure as hell won’t be staying here with us anymore. We’re getting this house, we’re getting Davenport’s, we’re getting the last penny—see how much his little woman likes him then—otherwise I’m not even signing the divorce!”
Monica folded her father’s sweater to perfection. It smelled of cologne, and it made her chest constrict, and all she could do was fold up that sweater. Her family was falling apart and she was folding the sweater, making sure all the buttons were buttoned to the top.
“You should always be with someone who loves you more than you do him. Always.” Her mother kissed her forehead. “You’re a smart girl, you’re smarter than both of us. You won’t ever fall for a man after knowing this is in store for you. You will choose a partner with your head, not your heart, Monica.”
Monica thought of Daniel Lexington, and his twinkling green eyes and that wickedly sexy smile, and the way he’d looked months ago in the Pacific Ocean when he’d traipsed off the Lexington’s yacht and into the deep blue water. He’d come up behind her like a shark, and she made a squeal, thinking she was drowning because his hands had been on her waist. Instead he propped her up on the stairs and then followed her up, slicking his head back.
She thought later that day of the way he’d called her princess, of all the ways he smiled and paid even more attention to her than he had to his own sister. Her mother suddenly seemed to read her mind. “That boy’s not for you. These rich men, they’re born pampered. They think they deserve it all: the wife, the mistress, the groupies. Don’t ever love any of them. Not any man, much less one like him!”
Monica nodded, shocked at the change in her mother.
“Baby, I know you wanted to go to college, but maybe you’ll stay here with me?” Her mother’s chin trembled, and she started crying. “Oh, Monica, Monica, sometimes I don’t even want to live.…”
That night, her father had appeared at the house to see his suitcases by the entry. He tossed them open in a rage and shoved everything back into his closet, slamming the door behind him.
But no door could contain their screams.
“You’re not making me leave, this is my house, you fucking whore! You vindictive whore … what have you been telling my daughter about me? She won’t even look at me, won’t even let me touch her anymore! Am I the only one who erred here? I know you slept with him to spite me, I know it!”
“Yes, yes, I did. You have no say in the matter anymore! You son of a bitch, you’re not getting the house, you’re not getting Monica, you’re not getting shit, you womanizing asshole … I’m not signing the divorce so you can marry that snot-faced whore!”
Monica sat in her room for a long time, staring at the wall, until she grabbed a headset, turned on the music as loud as she could, and pretended that Pink could take it all away.
Sometime during the night, Monica pulled off her headphones to find the house silent. She turned off the music and went out to the hall; everything was dark save for the light still on in her parents’ bedroom. She was going to go downstairs for dinner, having not eaten anything the entire day, but saw a strange wetness from under the door of the master bedroom.
“Mom?” She couldn’t even say her dad’s name. He’d started it all. He’d been with another woman, broke her mother’s heart—she could barely touch him without wanting to vomit. And she’d opened that door …
She awakened in bed with a soft cry, dazed and frantic at the sound—the same soft cry she always made, when she had this very dream. She shuddered on the bed as she scanned her surroundings, immediately recognizing that for the first time in too many years, she was not in her bed.
Panic began to well until she saw Daniel was sprawled beside her, face down, his blond head angled toward her, an arm over her stomach, and before she thought better of it, she grabbed his arm and put its heavy deadweight more firmly around her, and slipped into his arms until her heart calmed down.
But sleep eluded her.
She stared at his face in the dark, the shadows still allowing her to see the rises of his cheekbones, his perfect nose, his full mouth, his every male feature. She cared so much about this man, he could hurt her without even trying to. She was genuinely so connected to him, that to sever it as horrifically as her parents had might feel like a death to her, too.
Growing up, she had absorbed every detail about this man. By the time she’d moved in with his family, she knew that Daniel was grumpy in the morning until coffee. She knew when he was tired, and how women looked at him so much that he’d grown used to it and never looked back. She knew he thought it annoying when he ventured out and occasionally found a fan who screamed “I love you! Marry me, Daniel!”
She knew his favorite drinks and foods, knew his greatest friends, his different smiles. He’d been her hero and confidant and when the press had gone on and on about the “Ice Maiden and the Prince” being an item, she’d in part yearned that someday it could be true.
But she’d been wounded and alone, and she’d needed him so powerfully it had frightened her. She’d needed a nest, and he’d given it to her, allowing her to slowly build her walls and to grow numb. She’d become stronger, slowly but surely, and even at nineteen, she’d known she had to depend on nobody if she wanted to survive. And Monica had not aimed to survive. She had wanted to thrive, and nobody would stop her.