Knowing Tomasetti has enriched my life in ways I never imagined. In ways I never believed possible. I’m a better person because of him. I try harder because I know he will judge me, and I can’t bear the thought of not measuring up. In a world that’s stingy with friendship and trust, I’ve found a deep well of both with the most unlikely of sources.

I’ve never been in love, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found that with Tomasetti. I love him every way a woman can love a man. I love the part of him that is damaged and complex and difficult.

Does he love me? He’s never said the words. He’s never given me any indication as to the seriousness of his feelings for me. But is that proclamation some kind of unspoken prerequisite to shacking up? I don’t know the answer to that, either.

What I do know is that three years ago, Tomasetti went through a horrific ordeal when his wife and children were murdered. He’s come a long way since. He’s recovered as much as a man can after something like that. But is he ready to love another woman?

“You’re thinking awfully hard,” he says.

“I’m trying not to screw this up.”

“Nothing to screw up,” he tells me. “Either you want to live with me or you don’t.”

“It’s not quite that black and white,” I tell him. “We’re in a good place right now. I don’t want to ruin that.”

Leaning close, he brushes his mouth against my cheek and slides from the bed. “You don’t have to decide in the next ten seconds. I have to go.”

I watch as he steps into his trousers, jams his arms into the same shirt he wore the night before. “Tomasetti—”

“I left the rental parked in your driveway.” He doesn’t look at me as he buttons the shirt and cuffs. “I’m going to need the Tahoe.”

“Keys are on the counter by the fridge.” I sit up, find my robe at the foot of the bed, and slip it on.

“Go back to sleep.” He starts toward the hall.

“Tomasetti.” I follow him, barefoot, knotting the belt as I go. “We need to talk about this.”

I catch him in the kitchen just as he snags the keys off the counter. “I get it, Kate. It’s okay.”

“I’m terrible at this,” I blurt. “I’m a coward.”

“No you’re not.” He opens the door, pauses with his back to me. “On both counts. I have to go.”

“I need to know if we’re okay,” I say.

“We are,” he tells me, and closes the door behind him.

CHAPTER 17