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and smoothed her hands down her sides, noting every bruise on her hips, her thighs. She eyed her mons, nude except for a small landing strip. No doubt the bareness facilitated modeling skimpy outfits, but nakedness would take getting used to. She gulped as she imagined Chance burying his face in her pussy, probing her folds, his hair-roughened jaw rasping against delicate flesh. A trickle moistened the region. Did he enjoy giving oral sex? Receiving? Did he kiss afterward, or was he one of those men unwilling to risk tasting his own cum?
    “Other than our shared kink, what did you like about me?”
    Did that mean how it sounded? Like kink had brought them together? And what exactly was it?
    She had her kinky fantasies, but she’d never indulged. Never had the chance. And her fantasy consisted of only one act—performed in a multitude of scenarios and ways. She was versatile in her singularity.
    Spanking. She didn’t know why it turned her on so, but it did. Hand spankings, belt spankings, being flogged and paddled. Hot. Hot. Hot. And her spanker?
    Chance Everett.
    You’re pathetic, a terrible friend . Disgusted at her train of thoughts, she stomped to the shower.
    She permitted the water to heat, then stepped in.
    Bliss. She groaned with pleasure as the spray massaged aching muscles and chased away the goose bumps she’d acquired from standing naked so long. Closing her eyes, she stood in the cascading water. A melody popped into her head, and she hummed. Funny how many tunes the brain remembered, music easier to grasp than lyrics, like the song creeping through her head now. She hummed louder. When the words came to her, the song died in her throat.
    Immortality . The Celine Dion song hit too close to home, but Zoe’s memory would be kept not inside, but outside, revealed to all. How could she live her life as another person? She didn’t want to be Zoe; she wanted to be who she was: Destiny Grable, age twenty-nine. Family photographer. With any hope, a future wife and mother. Sister to Laura, daughter to Arnett and Carole Grable.
    Once she had sprained her wrist, and it had swelled until her arm didn’t fit with her body. The same disconnect skittered through her now. Where mentally she expected softness, fullness, roundness, she found instead jutting hips, flat breasts.
    She grabbed a shampoo and recognized Zoe’s flowery scent. She would resemble her, but she didn’t need to smell like her. “Zoe, I’m sorry, but I can’t be you,” she whispered.
    “Be yourself. That’s what he wants.” As if Zoe had stood beside Destiny and spoken, her throaty voice had resonated loud and clear.
    Destiny dropped the shampoo bottle and stifled a shriek. Feeling foolish, she poked her head out of the shower curtain. She was alone. Of course.
    “You’re losing it.” She flattened her hand against her thumping heart.
    She plunked Zoe’s shampoo on the tiled shelf and grabbed the other one. Woodsy. Chance’s. She poured a measure into her palm and washed her hair without scrubbing, avoiding the wound area. She rinsed, sending reddened suds swirling down the drain. She conditioned next, but with no alternative, used Zoe’s product.
    With her head soaked, she ended her shower. Gingerly she toweled her hair, eased out the tangles with a comb, then blew it dry.
    She donned a terry robe hooked on the wall, opened the bathroom door, and crept down the hall to get fresh clothes from the bedroom.

Chapter Six
    The way she wielded the chef’s knife like a pro to slice an onion while humming under her breath caused the hair on the back of Chance’s neck to stand up. It wasn’t the first time an unsettling prescience had taunted him since he’d brought Zoe home from the hospital last week. There’d been many instances since then in which her actions had seemed different yet familiar. The humming. He’d never known Zoe to sing to herself, yet he’d caught her doing it often. The way she crinkled her nose when she giggled. The