I close the book I’m reading, wiping the mist from my eyes. Three times and counting. I have read this book three times—and probably will do so again—and every time, it touches my heart differently.

Grabbing my brush from the nightstand, I thread it gently through my wet, tangled hair. After my run with Aleck—which, if I’m honest, was surprisingly pleasant even though he could run circles around me faster than Marie Kondo declutters—we retired into our own spaces to shower and get ready for the day.

We have a cake tasting in about an hour with the resort’s pastry chef.

“Hell, Grimm. Hell happened. And hell is no place for a child. Or ice cream.”

It’s been repeating over and over in my head ever since Aleck said it. He cut our conversation short last night, so I knew that was all he was willing to say about his childhood. What did he mean by that? What had little child Aleck Fox been through? One thing is for sure, I don’t know dick about him or his life. So I won’t make any more assumptions about it.

He’s a tyrant. A monster with a rigorous cardiovascular conditioning routine and a diet that awards him with close to zero percent body fat, Venus dimples, and a body I want to climb like a rock wall, but a monster with a guarded heart I assumed he didn’t possess. I’m not too proud to admit I was wrong. Aleck Fox has a heart, and it’s secretly bleeding.

The more time I spend with him, the more I realize how mortal he truly is.

My door swings open, and Aleck ambles in like he owns the place—and me.

His black tailored dress pants hang low on his hips, showcasing his delicious V-shaped muscles, and he’s shirtless as always.

It’s the storms that darken the skies in an instant, rain down on you without warning, and light up the sky with veins of electricity that remind you how powerless you are to fate, chance, and circumstance.

Aleck Fox is a quickly approaching storm if I’ve ever felt one.

“Your legs Jell-O yet?” A devilish smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not the last time I’ll make your legs shake, Winter.” His taunting tone pricks at my nerves as it’s intended to. He plops down on the bed next to me and lies back, crossing one leg over the other, folding his arms behind his head.

“I’m not that out of shape. I can go on a run without going comatose.”

“You run like Phoebe Buffay in Friends.”

“One, I don’t. You’re only trying to get a rise out of me. And two, I’m more amused that you know who Phoebe Buffay is.”

“Everybody watched Friends, Grimm.”

“You’re not everybody, Fox.”

“Whatcha readin’?” Before I’m able to process what’s happening, Aleck reaches across me. His bare chest brushes my thighs, creating a wave of hormone induced flutters to swarm my insides.

Jane Austen’s ghost…