I step even closer and stand on my toes to reach his eye. My thumb strokes the bruising and he winces from the soft touch.

"What happened, Jace?"

Sensing my determination to change the subject, he capitulates with a sigh. "Ethan got in my face today in the locker room, said some stuff I didn't appreciate, and we got into it. Coach fined me, Ethan got stitches, and it's over. Now tell me why you're ignoring me."

"What did he say to you?"

"Christ, Hollyn." Frustration rolls through him with every clench of his jaw. "I don't care what happened earlier, what I care about is you. Let me ask you something, do you care about me?"

"Of course," I say, acutely aware of my pinched brow. How could I not care about him?

"Then stop avoiding the question; what is going on? Are you scared? Are you regretting what we did? Are you thinking I'm not the kind of guy you want to hang out with? Because excuse me for being fucking paranoid, but it seemed like we were really clicking, we were able to lean on each other, until we had sex." He looks around my hallway and notices the close proximity of my neighbors' doors. "Can we do this inside please?"

Inside. He's never been inside my place. He's come here to pick me up a time or two, but never inside. Inviting him inside, into my world, now that's terrifying. Beyond the threshold is a world of haunting memories from the pictures on the wall, to the clothes in the closet, to the sports memorabilia placed appropriately around the apartment. It's a deep reminder of everything Eric, and I don't know if I want Jace to see it. I'm not quite ready.

"Actually, want to grab a drink? There is a bar right around the corner we can go to. Do you mind driving?"

"Don't want me to see your place yet?" he asks, seeing right through me. "That's okay, we can just talk in my car. This won't take long."

This won't take long? What does that mean? I don't get much time to think about it as Jace guides me down the stairs and straight to his vehicle. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for me, and while I wait for him to walk around to his side, I fidget in my seat, a quiver in my stomach of what's to come.

The door slams shut behind him and instead of turning to me, he rests his elbow on the side of his door and looks out the front window.

"Last year was one of the best years of my life," he starts, his voice low, gruff. "I finally made it to the majors. I had no one to share it with, but hell, I was damn proud of myself. Not just because I killed the season, but because I'd faced adversity to get to where I was. I overcame challenge after challenge. As a foster kid, despite being placed with fairly decent families, I didn't have parents to buy me the latest and greatest equipment, nor did I have a dad to practice with me in the backyard. I had a brick wall, a glove from the thrift store, and one baseball. But it was my life, my dream. I didn't give up because I wanted something better for myself. I wanted to pull myself out of the dark, and make something for my life." He turns to me, the scruff on his jaw making him look menacing in the moonlight. "Don't you want that, Hollyn? Don't you want something better for yourself?"

Tears well up in my eyes. I really do want something better. I want to be able to walk down the street and not be reminded of all the times Eric and I took strolls late at night. I want to be able to watch a sports game without needing to crawl into a fetal position, and I want to be able to fall asleep without having to listen to Eric's voice.

But I don't know how to get there. I feel like I've made leaps toward living, but there is still a roadblock in my way, stopping me from finally making that last push.

Fear.

I'm terrified to let go and not have memories of Eric in my mind anymore. I don't want to forget him because he's a part of me.

"I want more, Jace. But losing him, it was so heartbreaking." I take a deep breath. "You would have liked him. You would have been friends. He was my life: vivacious, instilled confidence in me, and one of the most selfless men I've ever known. He became my best friend overnight, but we fit as if we'd known each other our whole lives. I'm terrified I'll forget all of that, that I'll forget the memories of what we shared. That I'll forget him. I'm so scared I'll forget him.

"And that night, our night, you and me," I sigh, reaching deep down to find a way to communicate my feelings, "that night was perfect. From the way you caressed me, to the raw need we had for each other, to the way you held me after. It was everything I could have ever asked for, and yet, I left feeling so damn guilty. Do I have the right to feel like that with another man?" Tears stream down my face. "My life has been silent for so long and then you came along and brought music, lightness, and a brief glimpse of happiness into it."

His hand links with mine, his broad body now turned toward me. "It's going to take time, Hollyn. It's understandable to feel guilty. It's not like you chose to end your relationship with Eric, it was taken away from you. But the memories you have with and of him are his legacy, his gift to you. It's not an easy task to move on from such a loss. But you are allowed to be happy again. You are allowed to move on."

"I want to move on."

From the corner of my eye, I see him nod. "Then move on with me, Hollyn. Fast or slow, I don't care. Just don't cut me out. Let me be there for you. With you."

Finally giving him my attention, I see the compassion, the sincerity in his face and I wonder, is Jace a gift from Eric? Did he send Jace along to help me move on? From that viewpoint, it seems that way. Or am I just reaching for some type of justification to pursue something with Jace? I don't want to be alone forever. He is the only one who has somehow breached my wall of grief, the only one who has reached me. I do want him, more than I ever thought possible.

"I want you there for me, Jace. I do."

"Good." He squeezes my hand. "We have a game coming up, a preseason game. Do you think you would want to fly down and watch it? I could hook you up with some good tickets." He wiggles his eyebrows. "It would mean a lot to me if you were there, especially with all this Rebecca bullshit."

A game. The last time I went to a baseball game was with Eric. Beer, pretzels, cheesy singing to classic ballpark songs, it was one of our favorite pastimes. Going to a game without him, can I do that?

"Hollyn, where did you go?"

Pulling me from my reverie, I wipe my tears. "I'm sorry, going to sporting events was something Eric and I cherished. I haven't been to one since."

"Oh, I didn't know." He pauses and then says, "I know it won't be easy, but maybe you could take a chapter out of Dear Life. Face your fears. Make the leap, Hollyn. One more steppingstone toward proving your existence."

There's that word again; fear. It's always clogging up our lives, putting us at a standstill until we're able to finally push through and prevail. Maybe this is the time for me to push.

Taking a deep breath, my stomach doing nervous somersaults, I say, "Okay, I'll go."

A bit shocked, Jace sits up. "You'll go? Seriously?" I nod my head, a small smile gracing my lips. "Well, fuck, babe. I wasn't expecting that." He chuckles. "Shit, I'm proud of you."

I'm proud of you.

Four little words coming from a strong and loving man carry so much weight. The nerves rushing through me settle with those four little words.

He's proud of me. Hell, I'm proud of myself.

Please God, please let me be able to handle it. I so desperately want to make the most of this opportunity.

One step closer.

DAISY.

"Tell me about your childhood," I say, running my hand along Carter's stomach. My head is resting on his shoulder, his arm is wrapped around me, and his hand rests on my hip. It's an intimate cuddle. Naked and snuggling, I love everything about it.

"Nah, you don't want to hear about that," he answers, his thumb rubbing against my skin.

"If I didn't, then I wouldn't have asked. Come on, I want to know more about you."

After inhaling a long breath, he says, "There's not much to say, Snowflake. My parents died of an overdose. Not the best examples, and since Uncle Chuck was my only living relative, he became my guardian. He didn't hold back showing how much he hated being stuck with me, which made for a disturbing living arrangement. We fought often and when we weren't fighting, we didn't speak to each other. I got my GED and then went to culinary school. Unfortunately, I had to depend on my uncle to pay, which is why I'm indebted to him now. You're with a real fucking winner, Snowflake."

I can be nave, but I know sarcasm when I hear it.

"Why are you so hard on yourself? You have so much going for you."

"Yeah." He lets out a harsh laugh. "How so? What do I have going for me?"

"Well, you have your own place. You know right from wrong. You are a protector even though it seems like you didn't have the best parents in the world to teach you. You have aspirations and dreams. You know what you want to be. That's all very important."

"You see the good in things so easily. Do you ever notice the bad?"

"I didn't," I admit. "Living with my grams, in our own little world, I wasn't just sheltered from the outside world, but also from everything bad. I've spent almost my entire life knowing nothing other than happily ever afters. But then my grams had a stroke and everything changed. My rose-colored glasses turned clear, and I saw the world for what it is: a tumultuous community full of rights and wrongs. I just choose to notice the rights more than the wrongs."

"A glass-half-full kind of girl."

I kiss his chest. "I'm just grateful there is a glass to partake in."

"A lifelong optimist, too bad you're with a pessimist."

"It's a good balance." Thinking back to what he said about his uncle, I ask, "Are you liking the Dear Life program?"

His chest rumbles beneath me with a silent chuckle. "Does it seem like I would be someone who would enjoy the program? I go because I have to, not because I want to."

"So if you have to go, why not take advantage of it?"

"Because I'm not that kind of person. I'm not one to passively follow directions, I never have been. Apart from culinary school. Everything about the program makes me itch. Talking about feelings, writing shit down, airing my dirty laundry. I hate every aspect of that. I'm a private man. I haven't been blessed with an easy life. I have a lot of battle wounds, a lot of deep-set scars, and it's hard for me to look at life like you do. I've been burned way too many times."

"You never know until you try," I suggest, wishing Carter could get something out of the program.

He kisses the top of my head and squeezes me. "I know, Daisy. I'm meant to struggle my entire life, nothing will come easy and no program is going to fix that unfortunately."

My heart hurts for him, to know he's set on struggling day in and day out. To know that no matter what he accomplishes, he doesn't have someone next to him cheering him on. To know the person who is supposed to show him love and support made him feel like an inconvenience at a young age. It just kills me.

"Let's talk about something else," he suggests.

"What do you want to talk about?"

His hand continues to stroke over my skin as he takes the time to think about our next conversation.

"Hmm . . . am I your type?"

"What?" I giggle.

"Your dream guy, do I fit the bill? Am I what you pictured in your mind?"

"Do you want the truth?"

"Lay it on me."

Drawing circles on his stomach, I tell him about my perfect man. "I grew up watching musicals with my grams and old shows like I love Lucy and The Dick Van Dyke Show. I was enamored with men who could sing and dance. I thought it was fancy to expertly match your suede shoes with cuffed Dockers. I envisioned my perfect man to be one with slicked-back hair, a voice like Bing Crosby, and the dancing charm of Fred Astaire, with a little mixture of Gene Kelly's swagger. I thought the perfect man was going to tap dance his way into my heart, sing me a melody, and then whisk me off to some show on Broadway."

"So you were looking for an old soul with the talent of a lost art."

"Pretty much," I answer. "And here, I ended up meeting a brooding man with a motorcycle, the whisking talent of a god, and the ability to protect me at all costs."

Leaning closer to my ear, he whispers, "You're forgetting something."

"Um, your killer dark eyes?"

"Try killer penis."

"Carter!" Once again I'm blushing, which I'm sure was his intention. Even though the word penis embarrasses me, especially when it refers to what we did tonight, he's right. It was killer. Never in my mind would I have thought sex felt that good. I'm not going to make it all butterflies and roses, because when he first entered me, that wasn't the best moment of my life. But afterward, once I relaxed, everything following was . . . just magical. It's the only way I can describe it. Flat-out magical.

"What? It's the truth, isn't it? Did these tap-dancing men have the same kind of killer cock as me?"

"Oh my gosh." My blush deepens, if that's possible. "I never thought about that area before."

"Never?"

"No." I shake my head.

"Hey." He shifts me so I have to look him in the eye. "Is my penis the first penis you've ever seen?"

I bite my lip. "I've seen one in the anatomy book my grams has, but that was an illustration. So, I guess, yeah. You're the first penis for everything."

Smiling widely, he scoops me back up, this time so I'm lying on top of him, looking down into his playful eyes. "I like being your first penis. Just so you know, not all penises are this nice. Some have warts."

"Warts?" I cringe.

"Yeah, and an abundant amount of hair. Penises vary, especially with the southern friend, the scrotum. I've got a good set, Snowflake; you lucked out. There are some pretty sick dicks out there."

"How do you know? Where do you look at penises? Do you do it often to compare?"

"Not so much." He chuckles. "I frequent the gym, and men let it hang out like it's their job, especially the old guys. Wrinkly old-man balls, not the best thing."

I don't want to talk about old-man balls, as it makes me want to gag. I like Carter a lot, but even looking at his balls, which seemed nice, make me shy. I focus on something else.

"You go to the gym? Is that why your arms are buff?"

He raises an eyebrow at me in question. "You think I'm buff?"

How could I not? His biceps are toned, defined in his tight-fitting shirts. His chest is broad and thick, so powerful that he can pick me up with ease. He has a body I never expected to see under his leather jacket, but it's a body I could die happy seeing every day. If that makes any sense. If not, how's this? Yum!

"You know you're buff, so stop fishing for compliments."

"Wouldn't hurt to hear you say it, Snowflake. A guy needs his ego stroked every once in a while."

I roll my eyes. "Oh Carter, you're so buff. You have muscles for days, all bulgy and brawny, like Mr. Clean."

"The bald cleaning guy?" he asks, distaste in his question.

"Yeah, he can be sexy."

"You want to rub that slick head of his? Pull on his earring?"

"He has an earring?" This is news to me. I can't picture it.

"Yeah, tough guys have earrings."

Leaning from side to side, I examine his ears: not pierced. "You don't have an earring," I point out.

"Nah, I'm more of the broody type than tough. But, I am able to step up to tough if you ever need someone to get hijacked in the face. I'm not opposed to fighting."

"Well, I am." I search his eyes. "Have you ever punched someone? Has anyone ever punched you?"

His eyes soften, his hand pushing my hair behind my ear. "You want the truth?" I nod. "Okay, yeah, a lot. I can't even count the amount of times, especially growing up. I've been punched by schoolmates, friends, my dad, my uncle, random assholes. I learned to defend myself pretty quickly."