Cover

Dedication

For Wylie

You are missed like you were loved—beyond words. XO

Playlist

“Bonfire Heart” – James Blunt

“Naked” – James Arthur

“Pony” – Ginuwine

“Build Me Up From Bones” – Sarah Jarosz

“If You Ever Wanna Be In Love” – James Bay

“I Can’t Keep From Loving You” – Andrew James

“Awake My Soul” – Mumford & Sons

“Give Me Love” – Ed Sheeran

“Little Things” – One Direction

Chapter One

“You’ve ruined my life.” The break of the ocean waves outside of my apartment does nothing to soothe my anger.

His head cants to the side like he doesn’t understand. Blue-gray eyes make a weak case for his behavior. I used to fall for that puppy dog look. Not anymore.

“That’s it? You have nothing to say about ruining my life? You have nothing to say about your completely inexcusable, animalistic behavior?”

He shifts his large frame and scratches behind his ear before returning his focus to me.

Emotion tingles my nose as more tears fill my eyes.

“I worked so hard for this. My life was finally on track, and you’ve derailed it!”

Satan saunters off to the patio doors, leaving his back to me thinking he can ignore me.

“I hope you’re cursed with an eternity of anal itching, and I will make it my life’s purpose to ensure you never find anything to hump again. Do you understand me?” I hug my mangled hand to my chest. “Eternal anal itching. NO humping!”

He paws at the door.

“AND STOP SCRATCHING MY DOOR!”

Swarley whines. Why? I don’t know. Nobody broke his paw today.

Not all dogs go to Heaven, and when I murder my sister’s dog, he will not cross over any rainbow bridge. His human-hating soul will burn in Hell, but his body will live forever—with incurable anal itching.

Swarley whines again. Apparently his need to piss his name in the sand is more important than my need to hate him for chasing that stupid cat while the leash tangled around my hand.

I hate cats!

And dogs.

Dogs may be the worst. They disguise themselves as man’s best friend, but I know better. The last thing I need is one more friend with no self-control.

Pain slices along my hand, shooting up my arm, as a cold sweat breaks out along my brow from the nausea settling into the pit of my stomach. I admit it—if only to myself—I, Avery Montgomery, am a wuss.

I’ve cancelled clients because of an irritated hangnail. Menstrual cramps leave me bedridden for twenty-four hours. And I’m one of those patients who require nitrous oxide just to get my teeth cleaned. It’s genetic. There has to be a low pain tolerance gene.