She let the wave of sadness take over and drag her under, knowing there was no way she could drive home until she got it out. Grief was like a fever. When it came on, you had to sweat it out and break it before you could feel better. Tears fell warm and wet down her cheeks and splashed onto the pavement. One. Two. Three. She watched them bleed into larger spots beneath her on the ground.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there when a hand touched her shoulder. “Hey.”

She startled and looked up. Ash stood there on the sidewalk in black sweats and a gray T-shirt. When he saw her face, his expression creased in concern, and he dropped down to squat next to her.

“KC, what’s wrong?” He scanned her face. “Did something happen?” He looked down the road, his jaw clenching. “Did Marco do something?”

She shook her head, trying to get her hysterical self under control. What the hell was wrong with her? Stop crying. Stop crying. The internal chant did nothing but make the sobbing worse. “No, Marco was…great. He’s great. So great!”

Ash frowned as if she’d spoken in another language. “Then what are you doing out here bawling your eyes out?”

“I don’t know.” The answer came out as a cross between a sob and a hiccup.

“KC,” he said, voice gentle. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She shook her head again, embarrassment welling up in her, but words started spilling out anyway. “There were barn owls. And he was just…so nice. And the owls die—and then I just felt—” More choked tears came. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Maybe it’s PMS. I need to go home. I’ll be fine. Just leave me be.”

He looked unmoved. “Don’t try to scare me away with hormonal excuses. You’re not driving home like this. Come upstairs. I’ll make you tea or something.”

She sniffed loudly, the sound coming out like a goose’s honk, but there was no helping it. “You have tea?”

He stood and put his hand out to help her. “Of course I do. Green tea. Remember, I’m fancy?”

Despite the weird grief attack she was having, that made her smile a little. She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “I need a tissue.”

“You’re not kidding. You look like you’ve been in a fight with a bottle of mascara, and your nose is running.”

“Hey.” She swatted his arm with her purse. “A gentleman would pretend I was a pretty crier.”

He gave her a solemn look. “It’s not nice to lie to your friends.”

She huffed. “Some friend you are—”

But before she could finish, he reached back and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He handed it to her. “Use this.”

She took the warm cotton from him, too taken aback by his now half-naked state not to stare a little. How the hell did a guy who spent his days writing books get so fit? She hoped he really worked for it and wasn’t one of those horrible people who could just eat and do whatever and look great. Those people unbalanced the universe. “Aren’t you being a little too literal? Giving your friend the shirt off your back.”