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She scowls at me. “You never have time for anything these days, Dayna. You’re either working or partying.”

“I work hard to keep my life. Something you might know if you actually got off your arse and lifted a finger.” The words are sharp, cutting. I’ve never snapped at her like that before. Her eyes flare, her mouth pulling into a tight line.

“How dare you? You know I can’t work because of my migraines.”

She’s never had a migraine in her life. I would have sympathy for her if she had. I don’t even think she’s ever had a fucking headache.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. The only way to get her to leave is to figure out what the hell she wants and just agree to it.

“If this is just a social visit, can we pencil something in over the weekend when I have time?”

“Oh, darling, I have a fundraiser over the weekend. We’re trying to build a new wing at the Children’s Hospital.”

Despite how annoying she is, I do smile at that. “That sounds like a great cause.”

“Anyway, that’s why I’m here. James Critchlow will be at the event. He is ambitious, very attractive, very wealthy, but most of his success comes from?—”

“No.” I cut her off before she can keep going. “I don’t need you to play matchmaker with my life. I can swipe left on my own dates.”

Her nose wrinkles with distaste. “Please tell me you’re not using those ghastly dating sites. Nothing good ever comes from those.”

That we both agree on. “I’m not.” I don’t tell her about Dash. If I do, I’ll never get her to leave. She’ll have an intervention staged within thirty minutes, a priest and a psychiatrist on the doorstep.

Usually, I’d love rubbing it in her face that I’m dating someone she wouldn’t approve of, but I feel protective of Dash, and of what we have. I don’t want her to know about him. I don’t want her to dirty what we’re building with her poison.

“James is a really good catch. I think you’d fit well with him.”

I scowl. “I’m not marrying someone because you think he’s a good catch. I’m not marrying anyone.”

Especially not a boy who sounds like he wears slacks unironically and spends his summers on yachts in the Caribbean.

“Dayna—”

“No!” I lose my temper. “No! I am sick of you interfering in my life like this. This is why I moved out. This is why I live in a fucking shoebox apartment, working two jobs to keep my head above water. Because doing that, killing myself to make enough money to live here, is better than suffering in that fucking tomb of a house with you. I’m tired of having to explain my choices to you.

If you don’t like it, too fucking bad. I’m not your doll, Mother.

You don’t get to dress me up and parade me in front of your friends so they can pick me.

Now, I really have to get ready. So, if you’re done trampling all over my life, can you please, please, leave? ”

The air is so thick I can taste it. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, not at first. Then she stands abruptly.

“All I’ve ever tried to do, Dayna, is help you. You think it doesn’t break my heart to look round your life and see how you’re surviving? I just want the best for you. I don’t want you to struggle like I did trying to raise you, but if you can’t see that…”

She pushes around me, heading for the door, and everything inside me clenches in anger. This is what she always does. She makes me feel as if I’m in the wrong after she emotionally eviscerates me.

Usually, I would go after her, but when the door slams, I flinch but don’t chase her.

Then I smell it. Burning .

“Shit… shit, shit, shit!”

I rush into the kitchen, my heart squeezing so tight, it leaves me breathless. I drag open the oven door and black smoke billows into the room, choking the back of my throat until I’m coughing.

Fuck.

I grab a tea towel, wafting it in front of the oven to clear it, even as my stomach sinks.

When I lift the dish out, it’s charcoal.

I slide the dish onto the side, slamming the tea towel next to it.

My fucking mother.

My phone rings, and I reach into my back pocket to pull it out.

Katie.

“Everything is fucked,” I say before she can utter a word.

“Do you need me to come over?”

I take a steadying breath, trying to douse the anger and disappointment flooding my body. “What I need is the fire brigade and an exorcism. Also, a hitman.”

“Who are we killing? And do you want me to bring snacks?”

I rub my temple, which is pulsing beneath my fingers. “My mother, and always.”

“What’s Evelyn done now? Though I’m relieved it’s her and not our fairytale man letting you down. Because if he does hurt you, me and Ivy have already decided how we’re going to kill him.”

I blink. “That’s terrifying. And Evelyn has done what Evelyn always fucking does. Interfered in my life right when I needed everything to go perfectly. And now, my lasagna resembles the bottom of a volcano, and I don’t have time to make something new. He’s going to be here soon.” My voice cracks.

“Okay, take a breath. We’re just going to brazen it out. Tell him you changed your mind about the food and go out for dinner.”

“I spent my last twenty quid on this. I don’t have the money to take us out.”

“Plan B? Just fuck him until he forgets what food is. Genius, right?”

There’s a knock on the door, and my heart crashes against my rib cage. “I think he’s here.”

“He’s early. We like a timely king.”

“What do I do?”

“Maybe start by getting off the phone and answering the fucking door. Good luck.”

The line goes dead, and I slide my phone onto the counter before I go to the door. It could also be my mother back for round two, but I’m not gonna manifest that into the universe. I’m not that much of a sadist.

Hesitantly, I open the door, and relief floods my body when I see him standing there.

He is so breathtakingly handsome, it makes my breath hitch to look at him. All that blond hair, the layer of scruff over his jaw that could descend into a beard if he let it, and that body hidden under his clothes. I know how it looks, how it feels to be on top of it, under it.

He steps over the threshold, cupping my face and kissing me as if it’s been six hundred years last saw each other.

I forget about my mother, about lasagna. I melt into his touch, gripping the front of his kutte as he claims my mouth like he’s always owned it. All the tension, all the anger and frustration bleeds out of me as he slides his tongue against mine.

Then his hand presses to my belly, guiding me inside, and I hear the door shut behind him before he pushes me up against the wall.

This man might be the death of me, and I’d welcome the end.

He grips my hip like a lifeline as he takes what he wants from me, and I let him.

I’d take anything he offers, and I don’t give a fuck how desperate that sounds.

When he pulls back, his eyes are blown black, heated, and my stomach is fluttering wildly.

“You look good, beautiful.”

It’s such a contrast to the venom my mother spat at me that it makes me flinch. He notices, squeezing my hip. But I clear my throat as if nothing happened.

“You look pretty handsome yourself. Though I guess it’s easy to look hot when you come preloaded this way.”

His gaze crawls my face, as if looking for wounds beneath the skin. He won’t find them. I keep them well hidden.

“You okay?”

I want to tell him about my fucking run-in with my mother, but we’re not there yet. He might embrace my brand of crazy, but I’m not sure he’s ready for Evelyn Harrington.

“Do you want good news or the bad news?”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I melt a little more. I swear this man was sent to unravel me. “Both.”

“Okay. Bad news first. I turned dinner into a modern art project. Unless you want to eat charcoaled cheese and singed basil, lasagna is off the menu.”

I brace, waiting for his response. For his disappointment. “What’s the other news?”

“I may have a packet of pasta in the back of the cupboard somewhere, so we can still have something Italian.”

His eyes roam my face. “You got any boots?”

I blink. “What kind of boots? Is this a kink? Because I’m not judging, but there are some lines I won’t cross. Though should’ve known you were into something weird. You’re too perfect to be real. Makes sense you’d get off on someone stomping in boots along your spine.”

He stares at me for a beat. “Your brain is truly fucking terrifying sometimes. No, it’s not a kink. Do you have boots or not?”

“I have like, six different types. Ankle boots, calf-length, knee-high. Ones with zips, ones with buckles. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Why do you have that many? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Just something that covers the bottom part of your leg and supports your ankles.”

This time I’m the one eyeing him. “Are you sure this isn’t a kink?”

“Babe, put the boots on. And a warm jacket if you have one.”

I head into my bedroom and in the back of the wardrobe find a pair that I think will be perfect for what he is asking. I sit on the edge of the bed to pull them on, making sure my jeans are tucked inside them. How the fuck did we go from burned lasagna to boots?

I shake my head. Who cares?

I grab a short black jacket from the hook on my door, shrugging into it.

I find Dash in the kitchen, peering down at the lasagna like it’s a science experiment.

“You want to try a bit?” I ask, wrapping my arms around him from behind, plastering my face to his back.

“I would have eaten the whole fucking thing if you’d served it. The bit that’s not burned looks good.”

The compliment hits me in the chest like a crossbow bolt. “Sorry I fucked up.”

He turns me in his arms, so I’m facing him. “You didn’t fuck up anything.”

“The carcinogenic food group behind you says otherwise.”

He laughs, and I mirror him. Burned food and my mother forgotten. “Come on. I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Woman, quit asking questions and just trust me, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, because it’s crazy, but I do trust him.