Stepping out, I didn’t even bother grabbing a towel to dry myself as I searched for clothes and my running shoes. By the time I had everything on, was out my door, and already running on the path, I still had water dripping down my body. I didn’t care that I was only in shorts and a short-­sleeved shirt, and that it was snowing, I just needed to run. I needed to forget.

That was almost laughable.

I would never forget.

A deep, searing pain pierced my chest as I came closer to the playground in the park, and my footsteps automatically slowed down. Even in the dark gray of the early day, I could see the times Reagan and I had brought Parker here. See the first time I’d accidentally run into her here. And each one made the ache in my body grow as it had every time I made it out this far.

Three and a half weeks since I’d seen Reagan. Almost five since I’d seen Parker, and I hadn’t even told him I loved him that day. I’d been an asshole, and left. That was it, the last memory he had of me.

Lying down on my back in the snow, I stared up at the lightening sky and tried to remember every moment with them.

I hadn’t stopped calling Reagan, and she hadn’t started answering. But I hadn’t shown up at her work or apartment anymore—­to be honest, I was afraid of what I would find out if I did.

That she had moved on. That she had hardened herself to men again. That she had meant her words about me being toxic, about not wanting someone like me in her son’s life. That she still believed I only wanted her so I wouldn’t have to deal with my demons . . . I would wake up the same way I had this morning every day for the rest of my life if it meant getting Reagan and Parker back.

I wish I could say that because of Reagan shutting me out, I’d gone to get help—­well, tried to get help. But I hadn’t. I still believed talking to some random psychiatrist wouldn’t do shit, but every day I wished I would have opened up to Reagan when I’d had the chance. She understood me. She knew just by looking at pictures I’d taken of myself what I was doing, when I hadn’t even realized that I’d been doing it. She didn’t judge me. Hadn’t . . . hadn’t judged me. She would have listened; and my peace—­in the form of the most amazing girl I’d ever met—­would have helped me somehow.

I lay there thinking about words that should have been said long ago . . . back when she’d first looked through all my pictures. But it was too late; I couldn’t turn back time to change what I had kept from her.

Pictures. I sat up from the cold, wet ground and stared blankly in front of me. Not seeing the playground in front of me. Scrambling to my feet, I took off in a dead sprint for my condo, never once slowing down until I was back inside.

Grabbing my laptop, I quickly found the folder with the pictures of me and scrolled through them before opening up another folder, and then another.

I sat there staring at the pictures in front of me for long moments before running around my condo to find my phone, and calling Hudson.

There was a grumbling noise, and it was only then that I realized I didn’t even know what time it was. But I didn’t fucking care.

“Hudson, I need your help,” I said breathlessly.

There was a rustling noise for a few seconds before: “Steele? What happened?”

“I gotta get my family back, and I need your help.”

Reagan—­December 16, 2010

“KEEGAN,” I WHINED, and fumbled with the blindfold. “This is so dumb, why can’t you just tell me where we’re going?”

Someone smacked my arm. “Stop trying to take it off, can’t you try to have fun just once?” Erica asked.

Crossing my arms, I huffed as I sat back against the seat. “I have fun . . . I would just rather not be kidnapped by my brother and his girlfriend.”

“But it’s for your birthday, so it’s allowed, and a surprise, and fun,” she argued. “So get over it.”

“Seriously, Ray, just a few more minutes until we’re there.”

I made a face at the direction of my brother’s voice. “I would have tried to guess where we were going if you hadn’t confused me by going up and down the fucking freeway.”

“Are you really being a bitch on your birthday?” Keegan asked. “Because this is not a party and you cannot cry.”

“Who said I’m crying? I’m not crying. I just want to know where I’m being hauled off to before you kill me. I would’ve liked to say good-­bye to my son. Speaking of! Why isn’t he in the car with us?”

“Did you really want him to be bored while I drove up and down the freeway for an hour? Besides, you heard him, he asked to stay with Mom and Dad.”

With a defeated sigh, I mumbled, “No.”

But honestly? Even though I loved my family for whatever they had planned for my twenty-­third birthday, I just wanted to be in my apartment with Parker. It was nothing against my family . . . I just didn’t want to do much of anything lately. Each day seemed harder than the last to function. To get myself out of bed. To go to work. The only thing that drove me to do anything was Parker. Even with tonight, I’d known we would be going out to celebrate, but Erica had taken one look at me and shoved me back in my apartment before doing my hair and makeup, and making me change. Saying I had to at least look like I was excited to be celebrating. Its not like I’d been in sweats . . . actually, yeah, I had.

All I wanted was to make it through another night so I could crawl into bed and finally give in to the ache of not having Coen there, not having his arms wrapped around me, and knowing he wouldn’t be there in the morning to wake up Parker with me.

I tried telling myself I’d made the right decision in not letting him back into our lives, but when Austin had left me, I’d gotten stronger every day without him. I felt like I was slowly dying without Coen. After a month of constant calling, his calls had stopped a week and a half ago; and while a part of me was glad for it, the rest was terrified that I would never hear from him again. And I didn’t know what was making it worse. That it was my decision. That I knew it was still killing Parker to not have Coen there. Or that I’d purposefully hurt Coen to the point where I’d hoped he would want to stay away.

So, no, I didn’t want to be kidnapped. I didn’t want to be separated from my son. I wanted to be home with him acting like there wasn’t a huge piece of us missing.

The car stopped and I straightened when I heard the gears shift to park. “Are we here?” I grabbed for the blindfold, and my arms were smacked away again.

“You have to keep it on until we’re inside,” Erica chastised.

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes!” they both hissed, and I jerked back.

“Got it. Sorry.”

I let Erica help me out of the car and waited until she grabbed my hand to lead me into the restaurant.

“Parker’s already here?”

“Your guy is waiting for you,” she said patiently. “There’s a tiny step up right in front of you.”

I stepped up and my brow furrowed when the light behind the blindfold vanished. I knew we were inside. But it was completely silent, and it sure as hell didn’t smell like food.

“Uh . . .”

“I’ll be right back, let me help Keegan with your gift. Don’t move!”

“Erica!” I complained, and reached out into the darkness, letting my arms drop when I heard a door shut. “Seriously?”

Taking a deep breath, my body stilled and goose bumps rose on my arms as the faint scent of the building I was in registered in my mind. I knew this place. I knew that smell.

Quick flashes tortured me. Skin against skin. Perfectly placed arms and lips. Fingers slowly pulling down the zipper on my jeans. A firm hand gripping my hair. A large bed. Slow movements as I fell in love with him.

My lips barely parted and the goose bumps moved to my entire body as the flashes kept coming. Taking a step back, my hands moved to the blindfold, but stopped halfway when a song began playing throughout the space. As I ripped the blindfold off, my mouth dropped open and I hurried to cover it with my hand when I saw everything in front of me.

I was in Coen’s studio, and hanging from the ceiling were large canvases. Dozens of them. They were low enough so the canvases hung directly in front of me in two rows set across from each other at an angle.

I walked past picture after picture of Coen. Every one I’d seen the day I looked through the folder of him. They still gripped at my heart when I saw his eyes or his face covered, knowing that he was hiding his demons from the world, but that never took away from how amazing each one was.

My footsteps faltered when the pictures changed to the flashes I’d just been having. The photo shoot Coen and I had done right here in this studio was now in front of me. In each picture the chemistry between us was tangible. In each picture the passion and love that kept pulling us together was breaking my heart more and more. Tears filled my eyes before spilling over as I came upon pictures from the park of Coen and Parker, Parker and me, Coen and me together . . . and last, the three of us.

I stopped walking and looked straight ahead at the only canvas on an easel, which was situated at the end, in between the two rows. Coen was leaning in to kiss me, both of his hands cupping my cheeks; one of my hands was resting on his chest while the other held Parker close to me. Parker’s head was tilted back, looking up at us with a large smile on his face—­and there, across our feet, were the words: My Peace.

A jolt went through my body when Coen’s voice came from directly behind me, and I bit down on my lip to try to stop the fresh wave of tears.