My best friend Lona Benton's brother had come back from the military.

Word was, he'd been wounded on a mission, a brutal injury that left him unable to have kids.

Lona sighed dramatically, "I'm a DINK, you know—no kids, no plans for them. And now Trist, with this injury, is out of the game too. Looks like my family line ends with us."

A few days later, I finally met the tough-as-nails brother Lona was always going on about—Tristan Benton.

The moment I laid eyes on him, my heart stopped.

This man was the spitting image of my daughter's father.

***

"It's all my dad's fault for giving us such cursed names! Lona, Tristan—what kind of bad-luck names are those?"

In the smoky haze of the barbecue joint, Lona clutched her beer bottle, tears streaming down her face as she wailed.

"I had this dream, you know? When Trist comes back, I'd introduce you two. Lucy would officially be my niece!" Her voice cracked, slurring with booze.

"But a man who can't have kids? What's the point? He's basically useless. We're so close, I can't set you up with him—that'd be like sabotaging you!"

Just then, her phone buzzed to life.

I glanced at the screen.

It was her brother, Tristan.

Lona was already half-passed out, her face planted on the table, oblivious to the ringing.

I froze for a moment, torn about whether to answer. But the call wouldn't stop. When it rang for the third time, I sighed and gave in, pressing the button.

"Mom says get your ass home," came a deep, gravelly voice from the other end.

It was smooth, almost too smooth, and I felt a flush creep up my cheeks.

I tugged at my burning earlobe, trying to sound casual. "Hi, I'm Lona's friend.

"We're at the barbecue place. She's, uh, not exactly in a state to get home on her own. Any chance you could swing by and pick her up?"

After all, Lona could barely stand right now.

I'd had a few drinks myself and didn't trust my balance enough to drag her home.

It would be a godsend if her family came for her.

Before he could respond, Lona suddenly sat bolt upright.

"Poor Trist!" she slurred, swaying in her seat. "Trist was shipped off to military school so young; he never even had a girlfriend. And now, with this... this injury, who's gonna want him?"

The line went dead silent.

My own buzz fizzled out under the weight of embarrassment. "She's really drunk," I mumbled, trying to smooth things over.

"Address," he said, his tone clipped, icy.

"8 Elmwood Lane."

The call ended abruptly.

Lona had always painted Tristan as this larger-than-life figure.

To her, he was a man with a will of iron, her childhood hero.

I'd known her for years, but with Tristan always off on some mission, I'd never met him.

A week ago, Lona dropped the bombshell: Tristan was back, discharged from the military after a serious injury.

I glanced at Lona, slumped again, and decided to drag her outside to wait. He'd probably show up soon.

In the distance, a sleek black SUV rolled up.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out.

He was dressed in crisp workwear, his frame imposing, muscles evident even in the dim streetlight.

The glow behind him cast his face in shadow, leaving only a sharp, commanding silhouette.

Just then, my phone lit up with a video call.

"Is that Lucy?" Lona mumbled, squinting at my screen.

"She's calling this late? Must be important.

"Go on, answer it. Trist's here anyway."

She waved sloppily at the figure approaching.

My stomach twisted with worry about my daughter, so I didn't bother with pleasantries.

As the man drew closer, I stepped aside to take the call.

Lucy's bright little face filled the screen.

"Mommy!" she chirped, her smile wide and carefree.

Relief washed over me.

"Why aren't you in bed, kiddo?"

"I miss you, Mommy!"

My mom's voice cut in from the background.

"I took her to the countryside today to catch shrimp. She had a blast, and now she's too wired to sleep. Had to call you. Where are you, anyway? Still out?"

"I'm with Lona, just catching up."

My mom had taken Lucy back to the countryside for a few days, giving me a rare break.

"Lona's there?"

Lucy's face popped back into view, her eyes sparkling. "I wanna talk to my godmother!"

I glanced back at the entrance.

Lona was now slung over the man's shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Without a word, he tossed—yes, tossed—her into the SUV.

I froze, blinking at the sheer audacity of it.

Talk about a tough guy.

To be honest, my daughter Lucia was an accident.

Four years ago, I was reeling from a bad breakup and drowned my sorrows at a bar.

That was where I met him.

He was the perfect mix of raw sensuality and restrained intensity, every inch of him hitting all my weak spots.

Emboldened by too many drinks, I did something wildly out of character—I took him home.

What followed was electric, a night so in sync it felt like fate.

I still remember the heat of his calloused hands, the rough brush of his skin against mine, and the way his breath hitched when I gasped his name.

For a fleeting moment, I thought maybe this could be something real.

But the next morning, his phone rang. When he answered, his face hardened instantly.

"Understood. I'm on my way," he had said into the receiver.

He hung up, got dressed, and scribbled a number on a scrap of paper.

"I've got an urgent assignment. Call this if you need to reach me."

And just like that, he was gone. I didn't even know his name.

I figured that was the end of it. But a month later, I found out I was pregnant.

Thinking that he had the right to know, I tried calling that number several times.

However, no one ever answered.

I felt like a fool.

He probably wasn't interested and just fed me a line to slip away without drama.

That number? Likely fake, a way to dodge me if I got clingy.

Despite it all, I decided to keep the baby. My health was in a poor state, and that might be my only chance to have a baby.

It's a cliché, messy story, but I've never regretted it.

Lucia's bright, sweet, and sharp as a tack. She's been my anchor, my joy.

The next morning, Lona called, her voice hoarse from the night before.

"Trist was so damn rough! He dragged me home like a caveman—I've got bruises on my arm! I'm telling you, stay away from guys like him. He's got a violent streak."

Then I heard a low rumble in the background. "Lona."

Lona switched gears instantly, her tone turning syrupy. "Trist, you free this afternoon? Can you help my friend move some stuff?"

"No."

"Perfect!" Lona chirped, ignoring him entirely. "I got you a free laborer. He's coming by this afternoon to help."

"Lona, really, I can handle it," I protested.

"Oh, come on! He's just sitting around, unemployed, twiddling his thumbs. Let him help."

I thought she was joking. Tristan hadn't agreed, after all.

But that afternoon, she showed up at my shop, and there he was, towering behind her.

I run a women's lingerie store in the city, a small business I've kept afloat for years.

I didn't hire staff, so I mostly handle everything myself.

When I was swamped, Lona would pitch in.

That day, I was in the middle of inventory when I heard raised voices outside.

"This is what you want me to move? Lingerie?" Tristan's voice dripped with exasperation.

"What's wrong with lingerie? Don't you wear underwear, Tristan? Or are you too macho for that? Keep this up, and I'm telling Dad you're a sexist pig!"

"Do you want me to remind you who's older here?"

Tristan sounded exasperated.

"Oh, you're gonna hit a woman now? I'll make sure the whole world knows what a gentleman you aren't!"

Worried they'd come to blows, I rushed out.

"Hey, it's fine, really! There's not much to move today; no need for extra hands.

"I am so terribly sorry; Lona probably didn't explain what kind of shop this is. I..."

I turned to apologize to Tristan, but when I saw his face, the words died in my throat.

He was striking—his features sharp and unyielding, like they'd been carved from stone, yet impossibly handsome.

The deep brown jacket he wore clung to his broad frame, exuding a rugged charisma.

My mind went blank, everything I'd meant to say swept away by a flood of memories from four years ago.

I could still feel it—the way his calloused hands had grazed my hair, the taut veins in his arms pulsing under my touch, his deep, ragged breaths filling the air between us. Every detail was as vivid as if it had happened last night.

I hadn't expected those moments to stay so sharp, etched into me like they were part of my skin.

"Forget it," Lona huffed, rolling her eyes dramatically and looping her arm through mine.

"If he's too good to help, let him go. He's been gone for years and comes back acting like chivalry's a foreign language."

"Wait."

Tristan stepped closer, his presence towering, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse race.

I fought to keep my composure, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

He cleared his throat, his voice low but steady. "The stuff. Where is it?"

"What stuff?" I blinked, still reeling.

"You said you needed help moving things. Where are they?"

Tristan shrugged off his jacket, revealing a snug black T-shirt that hugged his muscular frame.

His strength was unreal—heavy boxes that would've taken me ages to move looked like playthings in his hands.

He hefted four or five at a time without breaking a sweat, his focus razor-sharp as he worked.

With him around, Lona and I suddenly felt like spare parts.

Lona lounged nearby, slurping a milkshake and scrolling through her phone, perfectly content to boss her brother around.

I ducked into the stockroom, pretending to fuss over inventory, but my mind was a chaotic mess.

My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.

I never could've imagined that my daughter's father would turn out to be Lona's brother.

I tried to calm myself, whispering under my breath, "Come on. Pull yourself together.

"He probably doesn't even remember me. It's been years, right? And it was just a fleeting night..."

Lost in my spiraling thoughts, I jumped when his voice cut through the silence.

"All done outside."

"Oh! Thanks!" I blurted, my voice too high.

The storage room, already cramped, suddenly felt suffocating with him standing there.

I instinctively took a small step back, only to bump into a shelf. A few things toppled over. Before I could react, he bent down and scooped it up.

"Here, you dropped this."

In his hand was a black bra with delicate bunny-ear straps, the thin fabric dangling from his fingertips.

The color matched his T-shirt in a way that felt almost fated.

My mind flashed back to that night—I'd been wearing something just like it...

Heat flooded my face, and his gaze darkened, those piercing eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my knees weak.

Then he leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath brush against my skin.

"You seem nervous around me," he said, his voice low, almost teasing. "Why's that?"

My brain short-circuited, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Lona said you hit women!"

His eyes widened slightly, but before he could react, I darted past him like my life depended on it.

Lona, catching the tail end of my outburst, stormed over.

"Hit women? Who's the jerk that's hitting women?"

Tristan's face darkened, his jaw tight.

"Keep talking, Lona, and you might just find out."

Because of Tristan, the work was done far faster than usual.

What normally took until seven or eight was finished by four.

Lona, not wanting to overstay, tugged at Tristan's arm. "Come on, let's go."

But Tristan didn't budge. He leaned back casually, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

"What, Ms. Prescott's too stingy to treat us to dinner?"

My cheeks warmed at his teasing tone. "Of course I'll treat! What do you guys feel like eating?"

Lona's jaw dropped.

"Tristan! Seriously? You've got some nerve making my friend foot the bill. That's low, even for you."

"Relax," he said, unfazed. "Pick a place. I'm paying."

"Now that's more like it!" Lona grinned, satisfied.

She hooked her arm through mine, leaning in to whisper, "Trist's got deep pockets. He's rarely this generous, so think hard about what you want. Don't hold back!"

By some twist of fate—or maybe Tristan's deliberate choice—the restaurant we ended up at was right next to the bar where we'd first met all those years ago.

Neither Tristan nor I were big talkers, but thankfully, Lona's chatter filled the silence, keeping the awkwardness at bay.

Still, I could feel his gaze on me throughout the meal—hot, unrelenting, like a spotlight I couldn't escape.

My phone buzzed suddenly, breaking the tension.

Lona leaned over, peering at the screen. "Is that Lucy? God, I haven't seen her in forever. I miss that little angel!"

Tristan's expression shifted, a strange mix of curiosity and something else I couldn't place.

I excused myself and stepped outside to take the call.

As I walked away, I heard his low voice asking Lona, "She's... married?"

Lona pounced on his question like a cat on a mouse. "What's that supposed to mean? A woman can't have a kid without being married? Wow, Trist, didn't know you were such a dinosaur."

"So she's not married?"

Tristan leaned back in his chair, a flicker of relief crossing his face.

He took a slow sip of water, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"Good. So, have you met the guy? What's his deal?"

Lona frowned at him suspiciously.

"Trist, you're looking a little too pleased about this. Just because your life's taken a hit doesn't mean you get to enjoy her misery."

Tristan frowned, clearly not getting what she was saying.

Lona pressed on, her voice dropping to a whisper. "When Eleanore comes back, don't you dare bring up Lucy's dad. I think she hasn't dated anyone all these years because she still hasn't gotten over that jerk."

Tristan's faint smile faded, his expression turning unreadable.

I stayed just out of view, waiting until their argument fizzled out before slipping back to the table, pretending I hadn't heard a thing. I hadn't intended to overhear, but their voices carried clearly.

The truth was, I had never told Lona the full story about Lucia's father.

When we met, Lucia had already been born.

And I didn't see the point of talking about a man I thought I'd never see again.

I'd only vaguely mentioned that I couldn't reach Lucia's dad after I found out I was pregnant.

Now I could tell that Lona must've filled in the blanks herself and had drawn her own, much darker, conclusions.

She clearly thought that guy was a deadbeat, and, to spare my feelings, she'd never pressed for details.

Now, that misunderstanding had backed me into a corner.

Lying to Lona felt awful, but I couldn't just blurt out the truth—that Tristan was Lucia's father.

I barely knew Tristan, and if things went south between us, it could ruin my friendship with Lona.

That night, Lona and I had a few drinks, the wine loosening our tongues and lifting the mood.

Tristan, stone-cold sober, took the wheel.

As the car headed north, Lona pressed her face against the window, frowning. "You're going the wrong way! Eleanore's place is in the other direction!"

"I'm dropping you off first," Tristan said coolly. "I have something to do later tonight, so I won't be going home."

Lona pouted, muttering under her breath. "If I'd known you weren't going home, we wouldn't have let you drive. Eleanore and I could've hit up another bar."

Tristan shot her a look but said nothing.

The car pulled up smoothly in front of the Benton's mansion. Lona dragged herself out, grumbling all the way.

I felt a pang of unease at the thought of being alone with Tristan.

"My place isn't far from here," I said quickly. "I can just grab a cab. You've got plans, so I won't hold you up."

"It's fine," he said, his tone easy but firm. "I'm going that way."

Lona nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, let him drive you! It's late, and whatever 'big plans' he's got probably aren't that important."

Pushing back further would've seemed forced, so I relented. "Alright, thanks."

"Where to?" he asked.

"Sunnybrook Hills."

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Weren't you and Lona planning to keep drinking? I could take you somewhere now if you want."

"No, no," I laughed nervously, waving off the offer. "Lona was just joking. Thanks for today, though—you and Lona really saved me."

His gaze lingered, a teasing edge to his voice. "Why so formal? Do you really not remember who I am?"

My breath hitched. I hadn't expected him to be so direct. My heart raced, and I scrambled for a response.

Before I could speak, he pressed on, his tone confident. "You remember."

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered, my voice betraying me.

"Liar," he said softly, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Lona never told you what I used to do? I'm trained to read emotions from breathing patterns."

I froze, instinctively holding my breath.

He burst out laughing, the sound rich and warm. "Okay, that part was a lie."

"Tristan!" I huffed, half-exasperated, half-relieved.

"There we go," he said, his grin widening. "Now that sounds more like you. You've been so jumpy since you saw me today. What's got you so nervous?"

Terrified he'd see right through me again, I clamped my mouth shut, not daring to say another word.