Once we’ve turned onto my street, the first thing I spot is a familiar convertible, and Arsen and the boys who live with him in the grass playing catch.

So, the second I get home, I head for my room, change into a simple dress, and head for the safe hidden in the back of my closet.

My dad’s dad was apparently a craftsman. He built custom safes, like the one disguised to look like my wall.

Like the one-of-a-kind lockbox hidden inside my father’s headstone.

It’s a bit outlandish, and completely undervalued since all that’s in here is a small stack of cash and emergency credit cards.

I grab the one my mother advised I use and slip back outside, and straight down the street.

With a small scowl and slightly hurried steps, Arsen meets me halfway.

“You almost done?”

His shoulders ease as if he was concerned. He glances behind him, seeing the young boys pick up their water bottles and heading back inside the house.

He turns back with a nod.

“Want to help me pick out a new car?”

His smile is slow, and when he wraps an arm around my shoulder, steering me toward his Camaro, I hold in an entirely different kind of sigh, pretending his low chuckle isn’t a settling sound.

But when our first stop is at a mechanic shop a few blocks away, the boys stepping from the door the moment we pause in front of it, I’m no longer capable of holding it in, not with all three of them here now.

My sigh slips.

Chapter 13

“Why can’t you valet like normal people?” Monti whines, one hand lifting to cover her yawn, the other gripping her coffee cup for dear life.

I put my car in park and push my door open. Swinging my legs out, I reach inside to grab my own drink, meeting her puffy, hungover eyes. “And have them go through my things and pretend they didn’t? No.”

I get out and the click of her heels matches mine as she drops her head back dramatically, looking up at the parking garage ceiling. “It’s a brand-new car, J, there’s nothing in it.”

I laugh and we start forward. “You act like we’re not within twenty feet of the entrance.”

“You act like you don’t know what it feels like to put on six-inch heels the day after a formal gala!”

I spin, walking backward, scowling at her as my mother would—tight-lipped, nostrils tucked, and head tipped, disapproving glint in my eye—and recite one of her lessons with her motherly tone of choice: annoyance.

“A smart woman follows up a six-inch with a four. Trick your body into thinking it’s getting a break, Monti, and tell your mind to fuck off.”

Monti laughs, flipping me off. “And don’t forget—”