Chapter 1 

Lindy

Thick, acrid black smoke billows from beneath the crumpled hood of my 2008 Honda Civic, stinging my eyes and coating my senses with the bitter taste of burnt rubber.

I wave a hand in front of my face, coughing into the sleeve of my oversized cardigan. Cars rocket past us on the shoulder of Interstate 95, the rush of wind rocking the dead vehicle and whipping my protective braids across my cheeks. 

My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh. It isn't a text. It’s a phantom echo of the phone call that ended four minutes before the engine gave out. Landon’s voice still rings in my ears, polished and laced with that familiar, casual cruelty.

“Still struggling to keep up, Lindy? I told you quitting the firm was a mistake. But then again, you stopped putting effort into a lot of things. Maybe if you’d stayed on the treadmill instead of letting yourself go, things would be different.”

I press the heels of my hands against my closed eyelids, fighting the humiliating sting of tears. Eight years of marriage reduced to a younger mistress and a barrage of insults about the softness of my stomach and the width of my hips. I drop my hands and look down at my body, the dark mahogany skin of my wrists peeking out from the sweater. The curves that once made me feel like a woman now feel like a burden, a map of stretch marks and thick thighs Landon decided were simply too boring to stick around for.

A sharp clatter of gravel pulls me from the spiral.

Drake is pacing near the metal guardrail, his neon green sneakers kicking loose rocks into the ditch. He has his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his windbreaker, his seven-year-old brow furrowed in a way that makes him look too old for his age.

"Mom?" Drake stops kicking the dirt and looks up at me, his brown eyes wide and uncertain. "Is Dad still coming to the game this Saturday? He said he was going to buy me new cleats."

The question twists like a serrated blade in my chest. I step away from the smoking hood of the car, navigating the uneven dirt of the shoulder until I reach him. The autumn wind bites through my sweater, but I ignore the chill, crouching down to meet him at eye level.

I reach out, adjusting the collar of his jacket, zipping it up a few inches to block the cold. My fingers brush his chin.

"Your dad is really busy with work right now, baby," I offer the lie smoothly, swallowing the bitter truth. Landon isn't busy with work. Landon is busy playing house with a twenty-four-year-old fitness instructor. "But you don't need new cleats to be the fastest running back on that field. You’ve got the magic right in your feet."

Drake offers a small, unsure smile, his shoulders dropping. "Are we going to be stuck out here forever?"

"Never." I tap the end of his nose, forcing a bright, reassuring smile—the one that requires every ounce of energy I possess. "Auntie Miranda is on it. She’s probably on her way right now with snacks."

I stand up, pulling my phone from my pocket to check the time. A text message sits on the cracked screen, sent two minutes ago.

Miranda: Emergency at the PR firm! Literal dumpster fire. Sending a tow truck right now, don't hate me! Love you, buy you a drink later!

I let my head fall back against the passenger side window of the Civic, staring up at the gray, unforgiving sky. Of course. Miranda’s PR emergencies always take precedence. A fresh wave of exhaustion drags at my bones. 

I am thirty years old, divorced, standing on the side of a loud highway in jeans that pinch my waist, waiting for a stranger to drag my worthless car to a junkyard.

Ten minutes stretch into fifteen. The smoke from the engine finally thins out into a wispy gray trail. Drake hums a cartoon theme song, tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick. I cross my arms over my chest, rubbing them to generate heat.

A deep, rumbling engine cuts through the high-pitched whine of passing highway traffic.

The sound vibrates through the asphalt, straight up through my boots. A matte-black truck, sleek and intimidating, pulls onto the shoulder. It creeps forward, the amber lights flashing on the roof, casting a rhythmic yellow glow across the gray afternoon. The truck is immaculate, looking less like a standard roadside service vehicle and more like something out of a military convoy.

The brakes hiss and the engine cuts off.

I step in front of Drake instinctively, shielding him from the road. The driver’s side door pops open.

A pair of scuffed, dark combat boots hits the pavement with a solid thud.

I practice my polite, customer-service smile, preparing to explain the engine failure to some weary, overworked mechanic. "Thank you so much for coming out, my friend called and—"

The words turn to nothingness in my mouth.

The man stepping around the tow truck does not belong in a roadside uniform. He towers over the hood of my car, easily standing six-foot-four, his shoulders broad enough to block out the oncoming traffic. He wears a faded, grease-stained henley pushed up to his elbows, exposing thick, corded forearms wrapped in intricate black-and-grey tattoos. The ink slips beneath the fabric of his shirt, hinting at a canvas that covers his chest and back.

He wipes his hands on a blue shop rag, his head lowered against the wind, dark, messy hair falling over his forehead.

Then, he looks up.

I stop breathing.

Piercing, icy blue eyes lock onto mine. The stark intensity in them strips me of my logical thoughts. A distinct, jagged scar cuts through his left eyebrow, giving his rugged, brutally handsome face an edge of unfiltered danger.

John Connelly.

The name whispers in my mind, fighting against the impossibility of the moment. The last time I saw him, we were eighteen. He was the quiet, angry boy with bruised knuckles who sat in my senior English class. Now, he is the multi-millionaire, undefeated MMA World Champion I see plastered on sports networks and billboard advertisements. 

He is a man who fights in a cage for a living, surrounded by flashing cameras and screaming crowds.

He stops walking. The blue rag hangs motionless from his grip.

The wind howls down the interstate, whipping my braids around my face, but neither of us moves. Time evaporates. The chaos of the highway fades into a dull, distant hum.

He tracks the length of my body, his gaze burning a path from the messy bun on top of my head, down the curve of my hips, and back up to my face. There is no pity in his expression. There is no polite, detached professionalism. There is only an arrested focus, as if I am the only breathing thing standing on this stretch of highway.

Drake peeks out from behind my leg, his small hand grabbing the fabric of my jeans. "Mom? Is he the tow truck guy?"

The sound of my son’s voice breaks the spell. I blink, my fingers tightening nervously on my sweater. I feel every ounce of my exhaustion, every extra pound Landon told me ruined my worth. Standing in front of a man who makes millions relying on physical perfection, I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

John tosses the rag onto the hood of his truck. He steps closer,  moving with the predatory, fluid grace of a fighter. He doesn't check the smoking engine. He doesn’t glance at the blown tires.

He stops inches from me, his towering frame casting a shadow over my body, blocking the bitter wind. The scent of motor oil, clean cedar, and raw, untamed power surrounds me, intoxicating and warm.

"Lindy."

His voice is low, caressing me like a physical touch. He says my name like it is a prayer he has been holding on his tongue for a decade. 

Something snaps between us, the charged, suffocating silence demands an answer I don't know how to give.