"That's a great angle."

Blake. Danica pushed herself to her feet. Her ankle screamed out in pain, and she fell down to her b.u.t.t on the side of the curb with an embarra.s.sed gasp.

"Whoa." He sat down beside her, his leg touching hers.

She stared at his muscular thigh, feeling like a fool and wanting to touch him all at once.

"Those things are dangerous. Let me check your ankle." He moved off the curb and crouched in front of her. He lifted her leg at the knee and slid his hand over her ankle and up the sleek leather boot. She felt the heat of his palm all the way up the back of her calf. He slid them down slowly, as if he'd done it many times before, and slipped her stockinged foot carefully from the boot. Her foot dangled in the air between them.

Danica's head spun. It had been way too long since she'd felt her body react to a man's touch. She leaned back and closed her eyes. "It's fine," she whispered. One of his hands softly held her calf, sending a tingling sensation up her thighs. His other hand held her foot. His palms were warm and big. She wondered what they would feel like moving up her leg. Blake wiggled her foot, sending a searing pain through her ankle. Her eyes flew open. "Ouch!" She sat up and pulled her leg from his grasp, causing him to lose his balance and fall forward. He caught himself with his arms on either side of her waist, his face just above her chest. For a second, they just stared at each other. She held her breath, then realized he was doing the same.

He lowered his elbows, his lips coming closer to hers. "You okay?" he whispered.

His eyes bore into hers.

"You've asked me that a lot lately."

He smiled. "I guess I have."

G.o.d, he's impossibly gorgeous. Danica looked around, and even in her drunken state, she knew they must have been quite the sight splayed out along the curb of the side street in front of the bar. "We should move," she said, slipping off her other boot.

"Right." He pushed from the ground and then offered her a hand. Danica sat on the curb, unwilling to move. She didn't trust herself not to jump him. She felt like Belinda or Kaylie. All she could think about were his lips.

"Wait one second." He grabbed her boots from the ground. "Wow. No wonder you fell. These are killer heels."

"Where are your girlfriends?" she asked as she reached for his hand. The icy road beneath her bare feet made her shiver.

He pulled her to her feet, and she immediately collapsed back to the curb with a cry of pain.

"Uh-oh, you did do some damage. Want me to take you to the emergency room? It might be broken."

Emergency room? She couldn't think past the wonder of where his entourage was. She shook her head. "Where are your girlfriends?" she asked again.

"They're not my girlfriends. I can't help it if they clung to me." He sat down beside her, his shoulder touching Danica's.

She liked the feel of him. It had been so long since she'd been with a man. She'd almost forgotten the way a man's touch could make her heart soar. Maybe just this once, just one night? Behave, woman, she told herself. Now you sound like Belinda. You know he's a player. Don't rationalize.

"No emergency room. I'm fine. It's just twisted. I just need to get home. I live right around the corner, at The Heights condominiums. I can walk."

"No, you can't."

Pfft! She swatted the air. "I'm fine. Really, go."

"How about if I just drive you to your complex?"

Danica thought of Belinda again, and reality sobered her. "It's okay. I'll call a cab. Thanks, though."

"You sure? How about if I stay with you while you wait?" Blake looked at her with empathy, and Danica thought she saw desire hovering in his eyes.

"I'm really not that kind of girl, even if I'm drunk. Maybe you should have gone home with the Barbie twins."

Blake's jaw dropped. "Look, you don't even know me. I wasn't going to try anything, and I think that's pretty presumptuous of you." The hurt in his voice was palpable.

"I'm sorr-"

Blake was already heading for his car. He waved his hand dismissively behind him.

Great, now you can add b.i.t.c.h to your typically frigid self.

Chapter Eight.

The morning light peeked in through the unfamiliar curtains. Blake slid off the bed and slithered into his jeans as silent as a mouse, a skill he'd spent the last twenty years refining. His head felt like a fog-filled balloon. He really needed to cut back on the tequila chasers. He tightened his belt around his slim waist and glanced in the mirror. He did a once-over, checking for fingernail marks, hickeys, or any of the other calling cards women left as their claim on him. No marks. A relieved sigh escaped his lips. He leaned over the dresser, closer to the mirror, and touched the peppery whiskers along his jaw. Yesterday he would have thought, d.a.m.n. I've still got it. Today, Blake saw an aging, selfish, lonely man. He'd spent the last several hours trying to escape the reality of his best friend's death, but now it found him like a vulture on prey, settling heavy and dark upon his shoulders.

He pulled his light-blue Henley over his thick, dark hair and smoothed it against the six-pack he worked so hard to maintain. With one last glance at the buxom brunette's shapely, bare a.s.s, he headed for the door. He hadn't wanted to go home alone last night, and she'd been just what he needed. After that b.i.t.c.h Danica pegged him for just what he was, he'd needed a release and returned to the bar. Get in, have fun, and get out, he reminded himself. For all the years he could remember, that had been his motto. Dave had coined him as the Lady Slayer. Only, today, he wasn't on the high that he usually felt after a satisfying conquest. And Rozy, or Willow-he couldn't remember which-had definitely been satisfying. Today, he looked at her naked body and felt nothing but loneliness. Sally and Rusty would wake up soon and realize that Dave was really gone. Blake knew he couldn't run from the hurt that was clawing at his heart, but he could ignore it.

Blake pulled away from her apartment in his Land Rover, thinking about Dave. The sadness. .h.i.t him like a punch to the gut. He'd hoped to run from the hole Dave had left in his life and from the pain of thinking about it, but he'd woken up as the exact same man he'd been the night before, only, if possible, even lonelier. He had to go to work and face a business that would only emphasize the loss of his friend. He wished he could go from one bed to the next, occupying his mind on the plays he put on women, pretending as if the real world didn't exist. But even he knew that one day that hurt would find him, and he'd drown in an even deeper abyss of mourning chased by a helping of self-loathing.

Blake stood in front of the gla.s.s doors of AcroSki, his feet rooted to the ground. Once he walked inside, he knew real life would find him. He wasn't ready to deal with it. He'd pushed his feelings down to a manageable flicker, and he knew that the moment he opened those doors and was welcomed by darkness and silence, that flicker would burst into flames and burn right through his coat of armor.

The sign on the door said Closed, as it had since they'd closed up and headed for the slopes the night of Dave's accident. The moments before they'd skied came rushing back to him-Dave's anger, Blake's dismissal of that anger. Dave would never walk through those doors again. Blake was surprised at how his heart slammed within his chest, and his hands began to tremble. He could not do it. He couldn't face customers and pretend everything was okay. He'd tried to pretend last night and this morning, but it was right in front of him again. He had to take the day off. He couldn't work. He mentally ticked off what he'd have to accomplish in order to make that happen. He'd lose income, but that wasn't a problem. He had plenty of money. He'd have to pay their two part-time employees. It was only fair. Within minutes, he'd made his decision. He would escape reality for one more day, but there was something inside that he needed, and that meant entering into the silence.

Blake tightened the muscles in his legs, pulled his shoulders back, and turned the lock. I can do this. He walked through the doors into the cool air of the store. The temperature was always cooler in the mornings, before the timer for the heat kicked up a notch. With his head down, he barreled toward the office, trying to ignore the absence of Dave's banter: Hey, Lady Slayer. Who was it last night? Brunette or blonde? Blake went into the office, flicked on the light, and closed the door, leaving the ghost of his best friend behind him. His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. He pushed around the papers on his desk, frantically pulled the drawers open one by one, then sifted through the doc.u.ments inside. Where the h.e.l.l is it?

He thought about the day before, the slip of paper Dave shoved into his pocket. What had he done with it? d.a.m.n it! He had to find it fast. He wanted to make an appointment with someone to help him modify his behavior before he changed his mind. He needed to lock himself in this time with more than just words.

Blake picked up the phone and called their employees, breaking the news of Dave's death. They needed their own time to mourn, so closing the store had come as no surprise to them. He jogged back through the store, then out the front doors, locking them-and Dave's missing presence-behind him. The Closed sign swayed against the gla.s.s. He knew he'd have disappointed customers, but he was dead set on dealing with this head on. Adrenaline sent him running for his car. He climbed in, breathing hard. He was doing the right thing. He knew he was. Dave's death was the impetus he needed to make some changes in his life. He pushed the pedal to the floor and was home in twenty-eight minutes.

He flew up the stairs to his third-floor condo and unlocked the door. He breezed through and didn't even notice when the door slammed shut behind him. He ran to his laundry basket, throwing dirty clothes onto the floor until he found his jeans, then dug into each pocket until the slip of paper came out in his fingers. He let out a loud breath and closed his fist around it.

Blake sat on the chocolate-brown comforter on his king-sized bed and leaned his elbows on his knees, his forehead pressed into his fisted hands. He contemplated his next move. Did he really need help? Couldn't he just deal with Dave's death like other people did? Let the ache and the missing come in and spirit him away into a deep depression? He would go about his life as he always had-from one woman to the next, ignoring his emotions. Feeling nothing but a coc.o.o.n of his own pleasure. What was so wrong with that?

He opened his fist and looked at the crumpled paper. Dave's meticulous handwriting stared back at him, his voice floating forth. Work through that mommy drama of yours. Blake hadn't thought of his mother, really thought of her, in years. She'd left when he was just a little boy. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Dave was gone. Really gone. He'd been his only real friend. Everyone else was transient, peripheral, benign. A tear slipped down his cheek. He swiped at it angrily. d.a.m.n it. He wasn't a child. People died! It was just part of life. He stood and paced.

His cell phone rang. He glanced at it. Sally. s.h.i.t. He let it go to voice mail, then dialed the number on the slip of paper. He needed to be strong for Sally, and in his current state of mind, he just couldn't be. His heart pounded against his chest. One ring. Two. He could hang up now. Three. Just hang up. Voice mail. You've reached the office of Dr. Snow...

"Hi, um...I'd like to make an appointment, please." He added his phone number and took the phone away from his ear, then brought it back. "Thank you." He pressed End, then realized he hadn't left his name. There was no way he was calling back. He didn't trust himself not to cancel the inquiry.

He dialed Sally's number.

Chapter Nine.

Danica and Mich.e.l.le sat by the window in Crumbles Bakery, surrounded by the homey aroma of coffee and freshly baked bread. Because Mich.e.l.le's past was so traumatic, Danica tried to find cozy places for them to meet. She believed that smells and surroundings could have an impact on one's mood, though if Mich.e.l.le's mood was any indication, she'd been dead wrong. Danica enjoyed being Mich.e.l.le's Big Sister. It was a different experience from being Kaylie's older, biological sister. She looked at Mich.e.l.le, slumped over the table, with her straight, bottle-black hair hanging down to the middle of her back. Their thirteen-year age difference made her more like an aunt than a sister, but Danica was still younger than Mich.e.l.le's mom, which made her more relatable. That might be why they got along so well. Sometimes, they just sat and talked for hours, and other times they went to the movies, bookstores, or museums. She thought again about the youth center she had longed to open and wondered, if there were such a place, would Mich.e.l.le feel like she fit in?

Mich.e.l.le broke off pieces of the apple-cinnamon m.u.f.fin before her, dropping the fingertip-sized pieces onto her tongue.

"So, what's new? How's Nola?" Mich.e.l.le had lived with her grandmother Nola since her mother had gone into the rehab facility. Danica tried to ignore her pounding hangover.

Mich.e.l.le shrugged, her eyes still trained on the m.u.f.fin.

"Is her health okay?"

Mich.e.l.le pursed her lips and nodded.

It usually took a few minutes for Mich.e.l.le to open up each week, but today she appeared more sullen than usual. She wore her signature black jeans and baggy, black T-shirt.

"So, what else is new with you? Is school okay?" Danica pushed.

Mich.e.l.le looked up at Danica quickly, then back down at the table.

Bingo! "Anything you want to talk about?" Danica asked.

Mich.e.l.le shook her head.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, until Mich.e.l.le lifted her eyes, staring up at Danica from behind her thick, dark bangs.

"School sucks." She dropped her eyes.

Success! "Yeah, it does suck. I remember high school. Everyone wants to be invisible, and those who don't are so obnoxious that you wish you could just tell them off-which, of course, would be social suicide."

Mich.e.l.le smiled.

Danica knew she was finally getting through. She gained a different type of satisfaction when dealing with Mich.e.l.le than when she dealt with her paying clients. It was so difficult to be a teenager, with what could feel like insurmountable peer pressures and hormones driving them in new and different directions. Sometimes she rued her decision to follow her parents' guidance and take the financially safe route of being a therapist. But that was water under the bridge, so she'd focus on helping Mich.e.l.le as best as she could. "I remember wanting to wear the right clothes, say the right thing, date the right guys."

Mich.e.l.le's smile faded.

"But I never could-date the right guys, I mean. The ones who were popular were a.s.sholes, and I wasn't really attracted to the ones who weren't. Gosh, that sounds bad. It's not like I had many choices. I was even nerdier then than I am now." Danica took a sip of her coffee. "If that was even possible." She thought of those painful years, remembering how Kaylie sailed through high school in a sea of happiness, with too many friends to count.

"You probably had tons of boyfriends," Mich.e.l.le said.

"Nope. They called me Danica Manica because I was flat as a board with no hips and awful hair."

Mich.e.l.le sat back in her seat. "You're so pretty. I can't imagine that."

Danica shook her head. "Thank you, but believe me, I was queen nerd and wasn't at the top of anyone's dating list."

They both laughed.

"What about you? You must have guys who are interested?" Danica wished she could brush Mich.e.l.le's hair out of her sad, hazel eyes.

Mich.e.l.le shook her head. "I'm a pariah. I'm known as that girl whose mother is an alchie."

Hurt pierced Danica's heart. No kid should have to go through that. "They can't blame you for your mother's illness."

"Illness?"

"Well, yeah, alcoholism is like a disease. Your mom can't really help it. She's struggling with addiction. But I guess that's a bit much for high school kids to understand. Your mom's out of rehab, so at least you know she wants to stop drinking." This was the second time Mich.e.l.le's mother had been in rehab, which didn't necessarily equate to a permanent pattern. Danica didn't have all of the details of Nancy's recent stint in rehab, but she did know that Nancy had signed herself in. She hadn't been forced to go. A permanent change was never easy, but Danica was hopeful.

"How can I not blame her? It was her choice to drink in the first place." Mich.e.l.le tapped her foot.

Danica watched Mich.e.l.le scanning the bakery for an escape. The last thing she wanted was for her to feel trapped. "Let's get out of here."

They walked side by side down the busy sidewalk, and Danica found herself scanning the pa.s.sersby for Blake. Then she chided herself for doing so. Sometimes Danica wished they didn't live in a tourist trap, where people meandered rather than walked with a purpose. That was one of the main reasons she usually stuck to non-touristy spots. The other reason was that she worked so much that she rarely had time to spend at trendier locations.

She looked at their reflections in the windows of the restaurants and shops as they pa.s.sed. Mich.e.l.le walked with her shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into her pockets. Danica looked like she'd come directly from work, in her thick, wool blazer and slacks. She looked like she could almost be Mich.e.l.le's mother. She cringed at the thought of looking any older than she already was.

"What do you want to do today? I thought we might do a little shopping." Danica hoped to eventually get Mich.e.l.le out of the ninja clothes she hid behind.

Mich.e.l.le crinkled her nose.

"A movie?"

"Um, do you think we could go to that museum again?" Mich.e.l.le asked tentatively.

"Sparks? You liked that?" Danica had taken her to the little eclectic art museum months ago. Mich.e.l.le hadn't seemed too interested then, and Danica was surprised she'd want to return. They turned the corner and headed for the museum.

Danica held the door to Sparks open for a couple to leave and for Mich.e.l.le to enter. The pungent aroma of patchouli filled the small lobby. Mich.e.l.le walked straight through the lobby and toward the back of the museum. Danica fell in step behind her as they pa.s.sed enormous iron and clay sculptures in the main hall and filed through an adjoining narrow hallway lined with paintings and smaller sculptures set on tall, black, rectangular bases. She wondered if Blake liked art. She envisioned him in a thick ski parka, running his hand through his hair and feeling right at home surrounded by the smell of patchouli. Generalizations, much? She had to get him out of her mind.

Off of the hallway were several small exhibit rooms, no larger than a typical bedroom, lined floor to ceiling with various types of artwork. That was part of the aura of Sparks that she loved. Entering Sparks was like entering another world, like convention had yet to be conceived.

Mich.e.l.le stopped in front of an abstract painting. She stood with her hands in her oversized, black-canvas coat pockets, her head c.o.c.ked at an angle.

Danica mimicked her stance, trying to make sense of the art. She had trouble understanding abstract things that weren't part of a person's being or emotions, but she knew that art was a great way to express feelings, and she'd been right to hope Mich.e.l.le might enjoy it. Kaylie had gotten the artistic genes in the family. That's why Danica loved working with people who could relay what they were thinking-even if they didn't realize that what they said wasn't exactly what troubled them. People were easy for Danica. She could tell when someone was twisted in knots and needed help finding the way to straighten their spine. Art, not so much.

"What do you think it represents?" Danica asked.

Mich.e.l.le shrugged. "I just like looking at it."

Danica was glad that Mich.e.l.le was taking interest in something. Now, if she could only get her talking. "Does it remind you of anything?" She looked at the picture, turning her head one way, then the other. There were two eyes, but they were floating amidst what looked like a child's painting of fish gone wrong and uneven streaks, with splotches of colors and what looked like two mouths eking out of the corners of the canvas. Something that looked strangely like a three-fingered hand reached down from the top edge.

Mich.e.l.le glanced over with a wrinkled brow. "I'm not sure. I just remember it from last time, and I like it."

Danica walked around the little room, secretly watching Mich.e.l.le. Mich.e.l.le crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. She put her hands on her hips, then dropped them, as if her arms were some sort of strange appendages that she wasn't used to. She obviously felt out of place in school, hadn't had a boyfriend the entire time Danica had known her, and wasn't about to open up today. Come to think of it, Danica hadn't had a boyfriend in an even longer time. No time for one, she reminded herself, and thought about the files she'd review later in the afternoon. Her professional life had seeped into every spare moment she had. Maybe it was time for a change, she mused.