You’re not lying. You’re just avoiding the truth.

Apparently, her subconscious had a lot easier time splitting hairs than she did.

Then maybe it’s time to say adios to Kyle.

Apparently, her subconscious was also a waffling, capricious bitch.

Rylann threw on a smile for Cade’s benefit, pushing aside the self-reflection and inner turmoil for a time when her lover’s nemesis wasn’t standing in the doorway.

“Wow, two dozen calls,” she said. “I bet that was fun to wade through.”

“A real hoot. Rhodes is like a boomerang around here—he keeps coming back again and again.” He grinned. “I bet you’re glad you don’t have to deal with him anymore.”

Right. She wondered if Cade would consider seven rounds of hot and steamy sex within the definition of “deal with.”

“Actually, I didn’t mind working with Kyle,” she said. “He’s not a bad guy, you know.”

Cade rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone starry-eyed, too. What is it about this guy? The half-billion dollars? The hair? Do you know that I used to get death threats from crazed, angry women calling me the Antichrist and demanding Rhodes’s immediate release from prison?” He held up his hand. “Swear to God.”

“Now, that’s definitely something the Antichrist wouldn’t do.”

Cade laughed. “Have your little crush, Pierce, but I think you’re SOL on that front. According to Scene and Heard, the Twitter Terrorist has been getting busy with some brunette bombshell.”

It took all of Rylann’s de minimis acting abilities to keep a straight face with that one. “Right. I heard that, too.”

From that point on, her day—which had started out great after hearing the fantastic news about Kyle and Twitter—went from awkward to worse. She appeared in court for a motion to suppress in a credit card fraud case, a motion she’d felt fairly confident about going in. Although the Secret Service had handled most of the investigation, the initial search of the defendant’s premises had been conducted by two Chicago police officers who’d responded to a domestic abuse call made by the defendant’s wife. After the cops arrived—and of course after getting consent from the wife—they did a sweep of the house, opened the bedroom closet, and found over a thousand credit cards in different names.

Or at least, that’s what Rylann thought had been the situation.

On the witness stand, however, the cops completely caved, admitting that—oops—maybe the wife had “technically” revoked consent when they went into the bedroom, but since they were already in the house, they’d just finished the search anyway.

And so Rylann had sat there at the prosecution table, unable to do anything except watch as her case went up in flames when the judge, not surprisingly, granted the defendant’s motion to suppress all one thousand credit cards found on the premises.

Not good.

After that, she’d spent the rest of the day listening to the pissed-off rantings of the two Secret Service agents who had taken over the investigation from the Chicago police, scrambling to see if there was any evidence left that would allow her to somehow save the case, and, ultimately, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on. By the time she left work at six thirty, her head was throbbing, she felt nauseous, and even the hazy, pre-sunset light outside made her eyes hurt.

When she got home, she immediately changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, left off all the lights, took two Tylenol, and then lay down on the couch, praying for sleep.

An hour later, she was woken by the sound of her cell phone. She sat up and instantly groaned, feeling as though somebody were driving a jackhammer into her forehead. She reached over to the coffee table and saw it was Kyle calling.

“It’s the man of the hour,” she answered, trying to muster up an enthusiastic tone before falling back onto the couch with her hand over her eyes. “Oh God, that hurts,” she whimpered.

“What hurts?” Kyle asked, sounding concerned.

“The invisible man pounding spikes into my head.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Maybe you should take out an invisible Taser gun and zap the son of a bitch.”

Rylann laughed, then groaned again. “No making me laugh—it hurts too much. I have a migraine,” she explained.

“Yes, I figured it was something like that. I’m on my way to Firelight to meet Dex. We’re having a few cocktails to celebrate my new partnership with Twitter. Can I bring you anything?”

Awww. “That’s sweet. But I’m okay. Just had a supremely crappy day at work, that’s all. You go whoop it up with Dex. You earned it. The thing with Twitter was genius.”

“You’re impressed again,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself. “That’s three times you’ve stroked my ego now, counselor.”

“Imagine me saying something really sassy and quippy back to that,” Rylann told him. “But right now, it hurts too much to think. I’m officially de-quipped.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, there was a knock at her front door.

When Rylann opened it and saw Kyle standing there, she immediately pointed. “Go. You should be celebrating.”

Ignoring her, he stepped inside. “Dex can wait a few minutes to whoop it up. He’s at the bar every night. It’s not like he’s there just to meet me.” He shut the door behind him and looked her over. “So you’re de-quipped, huh? I didn’t think that was even possible.”

“Well, that’s because you…” Rylann struggled to pull at least one semidecent retort out of the pounding fog that was her brain…but came up dry as a bone. She sank exhaustedly against the back of the couch. “I’ve got nothing. Get in your zingers, go wild with the sarcasm—I’m totally, completely defenseless.”

With a smile curling at the edges of his lips, Kyle held up a Starbucks cup. “Drink this. My mother used to get migraines. I remember her saying something about caffeine helping.”

“Sweet Jesus, you are a god,” Rylann said, taking the cup gratefully. She’d had luck with caffeine before but hadn’t had the energy to stop at a Starbucks on her way home from work.

“Very true.” Kyle took her by the hand and led her to the couch. “Now sit and drink while I work my magic.” He took a seat behind her and began massaging her neck.

“Do you want to tell me about your supremely crappy day?” he asked softly as his incredible fingers worked on the knots in her neck and shoulders.

“I lost a motion to suppress that tanked my whole case.” She took another sip of her coffee. “Tell me what happened with Twitter. I can only imagine the looks on everyone’s faces when you walked in.”

Maybe it was the caffeine kicking in, or the massage, or simply Kyle’s rich, lulling voice as he told her the story, but slowly, Rylann began to feel a smidge better. She still had her migraine, but now it felt as though the invisible man were merely pounding her head with a dull, blunt object instead of spikes.

When she’d drunk about half of the coffee, Kyle shifted on the couch, leaning back with his legs outstretched. “Lie down. Put your head in my lap.” He saw her raised eyebrow. “Mind out of the gutter, counselor. This isn’t a sexual thing.”

Rylann set the Starbucks cup on the coffee table while he grabbed one of the throw pillows and put it over his lap. She started to lie down on her side, when he stopped her.

“No, on your back.”

She turned around, snuggled comfortably between his legs, and rested the back of her head against the pillow.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered.

She did, then felt his fingers brush lightly against her forehead. When he began massaging her throbbing temples, her body melted into a liquid puddle and she actually moaned out loud.

“Oh God…that feels so good,” she breathed. “Please don’t stop. Ever.”

“I can do this all night, baby,” he said with a soft chuckle. “I told you—I’ve got you.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, Rylann woke up on the couch, curled comfortably against a warm, hard body, and realized that she must have fallen asleep while Kyle was massaging her head.

He’d shifted their positions while she slept, stretching out on the couch next to her, with her head on his chest. He’d also grabbed the chenille throw blanket off the back of the couch and tucked it all around her, just up to her shoulders.

A girl could fall big-time for a guy who’d do something like that.

She lifted her head to peek at him through the darkness, the moonlight casting shadows across the strong planes of his face. Her movement must have woken him, because he stirred, inhaled deeply, then blinked in amusement when he opened his eyes and saw that she was watching him.

“How’s your headache?” he said in a deep, gravelly voice.

“Better.” Fortunately, it had mostly dissipated into a faint ache while she’d slept. “You should’ve woken me up,” she said softly. “You had such an awesome day—you should be partying right now with Dex.”

“I can go out with Dex anytime.” He reached up and ran a finger along the side of her face. His voice was a low murmur, barely more than a whisper. “I want to be here, Rylann. You know that, right?”

She knew he wasn’t only talking about tonight. “I know.” And she knew one other thing beyond any doubt. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m getting very used to having you around, Dimples.”

“Good. Because I’m taking you out tomorrow. On a real date.”

Such a simple request, and yet not so simple at all. “Kyle, I don’t—”

He cut her off. “Don’t worry. I can make sure no one finds out.” He held her gaze in the moonlight, seemingly unwilling to take no for an answer. “Say yes, Rylann.”

Maybe it was the fact that the headache had weakened her defenses. Or maybe it was just him.