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I turn her in my arms and brush her hair from her face. Worry fills her beautiful eyes.

“We’ll get another set.” My version of soft voice still comes out raspy. “I’ll go online and order the exact ones we have, so they’ll all match.”

She swallows. “But what if my parents don’t come, then we’ll have too many.”

Ah, the real problem—the realworryis etched in her words.

She’s afraid her parents aren’t going to come to the little housewarming party my mother arranged. It was Mom’s idea to have a small private dinner—just her, Holly’s grandmother, and parents. A new start, she called it. I agreed it was time for me to be part of my family again, and I agreed even more that Holly’s parents needed to get their heads out of their asses and start treating her like a daughter and not a stranger.

But it’s been over a week since my mother emailed, then called, Mrs. Daniels and all messages have gone ignored.

A lone tear slides down my fiancée’s face, and I capture it with my thumb, cupping her cheek and pulling her to me for a kiss.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “They’ll be here, and we’ll have more than enough knives and forks.”

Nodding, she gives me a sad little smile that cracks my heart before she winds her arms around me and rests her cheek against my chest.

My soul starts to rage.

Fuck those douchebags.

I promised Holly I’d never let anyone hurt her again, and her asshole parents are about to find out I meant it.

It’s just after noon when my motorcycle rumbles onto the black asphalt of the parking lot. I pull into a spot defined by perfect yellow stripes, kill the engine, and step off my bike.

Staring up at the six-story, mostly glass building, I light up a smoke. I wonder how many poor birds fly into this monstrosity.

The chains on my motorcycle boots clank on the stone walkway as I approach the—you guessed it—double glass doors. I snuff out my cigarette on the bottom of my shoe and shove it in my pocket before entering the building. Classical piano musicis playing from hidden speakers in the marble-floored reception area. Two men in suits are sitting in black leather chairs, engrossed in a talk about file transfers. The walls are stark white, decorated with abstract paintings in grays, blacks, and glimpses of red. It’s cold and sterile. I’d lose whatever’s left of my mind if I had to work in a place like this all day.

I saunter to the reception desk, where a young woman who matches the decor leers at me suspiciously. Porcelain skin. Jet-black bobbed hair. Red lipstick. A thin silver headset sits on her head like some kind of administrative tiara.

“Deliveries are at the back of the building, you’ll see the loading dock,” she says.

“I’m not delivering, I’m visiting.”

My raspy voice grabs her attention. “Who are you visiting?”

I lean against the curved partition she’s perched behind like some rare animal. “I’m here to see Cynthia Daniels.”

One of her eyebrows arches up. “Do you have an appointment?”

I shake my hair out of my eyes. “Don’t need one.”

Her dark eyes flash over the scars on my face. “Actually, you do.”

“Actually, I don’t. Press whatever little buttons you have to, and tell her she has a visitor.”

“And who shall I say is visiting?”

Smirking, I say, “Tell her that her son is here.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows and presses numbers on a keypad.

“Your son is here to see you,” she says softly into her headset. “Yes, your son. Okay. I’ll let him know.” Her eyes shift back to me. “She says she’ll be right down.”

“Good.”

I stroll around the lobby, ignoring glances from the two men in the leather chairs, and pop a stick of gum into my mouth.