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becoming caretaker to them both. She got a job working from home, writing freelance stories online and articles for the local newspaper after she managed to scrape by and get an online bachelor degree in journalism. When Grandma died, she left her alone with a mother suffering from bipolar depression with psychotic episodes.
    Three years ago, Abigail bought the house next door to Mother with the money left from Grandma’s death and gained some space from the cloying weight of living with her and being next door to Gracie.
    Not enough space.
    Poisonous darts, built from her mother’s hatred of men, festered since her divorce, and the sickness of her mind seemed to get worse every day. Mother getting upset at the idea of Braxton breezing back into her life wasn’t unexpected.
    “Let’s sit and eat, you and me. We don’t need to talk about Braxton. We can talk about nice things.”
    Her mother’s eyes narrowed and she pinched her lips, signaling that nice things were far from on the agenda.
     
     
    Back home from a trying afternoon of convincing her mother she wasn’t falling for Braxton’s line of bullshit, she finally had time to process it all.
    Letters.
    Out of all that he said, that particular bit was unexpected. Romantic, the idea might be, but since Abigail wrote about every report Braxton needed to get his high school diploma, it seemed an unusual lie for him to pick. He had to know she would remember how much he hated writing. But to say he wrote her every day for ten years…
    How stupid did he think she was?
    But he was so damn familiar . That word seemed the best to describe him. Something about the way he moved, the timbre of his voice, the little quirks of his brow…all of it was so familiar to her that the struggle not to be the Abby he remembered was constant while he was with her. Sure, his shoulders were broader, his arms as thick as her thighs now, all the boyish promise filled out to manly delight, but it was her Braxton under all of it.
    She needed to drop the possessive in her thoughts.
    But his fingers on her flesh had brought her to such a fast orgasm, and when he licked those same fingers afterwards…
    Gah. It should have disgusted her.
    It didn’t. Her panties were wet just remembering his fingers going into his parted lips, wet with her juice.
    The letters.
    Again she slid back to the part that mattered — why would he concoct such a ridiculous story, so easy to track back and prove false?
    Shoving on her shoes, she grabbed her cell phone off the table and dialed Carnie.
    “Tell me you were as hung over as I was this morning so I don’t feel so guilty about it.”
    Choking back a laugh, she shrugged, although Carnie couldn’t see it, and butt bumped the door closed. “I was hung over. Braxton brought me bacon.”
    “Bacon? Shit, that was devious to the point of diabolical. He does know how to romance you, doesn’t he?”
    “Don’t want to discuss all of it so you will have to wait for the juicy tidbits later—”
    Carnie barked in laughter. “He made your tidbits juicy?”
    Abigail blushed, remembering his strong arms pressing her into the side of the truck as he fingered her to fulfillment and whispered the naughtiest things in her ear. “Again, later. I have got to fill you in on the line of bullshit he tried to feed me.”
    “Oooh, bullshit. I love bullshit. Meet you for coffee?”
    “The diner?”
    “On my way. Just make sure you don’t leave out the juicy bits.”

Chapter Seven
    February 14, 2009
    Abby,
    It feels like I’ve been missing you forever now.
    Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.
    B
     
    Adjusting the skirt for the fourth time, Abigail wobbled for a second on the uncomfortable heels before steadying herself and blowing out a breath. “This isn’t a big deal. I can make it through this meeting. He probably won’t be there.”
    “Talking to yourself is a sign you’re going crazy. Are you crazy for me, Abs?” His voice made her spin on her heel to face