Chapter 1

New York City in the middle of January might be the grossest place on earth. It's cold and wet. The streets are covered in gray slush and puddles that have no bottom. Subway stations are suffocatingly hot and humid, especially when you're already bundled up in a dozen layers. I've been in the city for ten years and I will never, ever get used to it.

Bursting through the door into the lobby of my apartment building is such an unbelievable relief. It's warm, but not too warm. It's dry and clean, and most importantly, it's home. The shower is calling my name. Then my bed. I can't wait to be dead to the world for the next five hours before I have to get up and go to work again.

I collapse against the wall of the elevator and my eyes slide shut as the car rumbles up the building. Would it be bad if I fell asleep here? I could curl into a ball in the corner—there'd be plenty of room for other people who need to use the elevator. Not that there are many people around at this time of night.

The doors open and spit me out before I'm fully unconscious, so I guess that's a no to sleeping in the elevator. My chin is heavy on my chest and my eyes are little more than slits as I stumble toward my apartment at the end of the hallway. I stop before I get there, though, and suddenly every ounce of drowsiness evaporates at the sight in front of me.

My pulse races, adrenaline rushing through my veins. My vision zeros in on the man sitting on the carpet, long legs extended out in front of him, back against my door. My heart lurches in my chest like it's a magnet being drawn to its missing pair. "Beau?"

He stares back at me with eyes that are as big as mine must be. He looks good. A little haggard, perhaps, with his hair standing up on end and bags under his eyes. The lingering baby face from high school has long melted into a strong, stubbled jaw. The muscles on his shoulders and arms aren't quite as pumped as they were when he was on the football team, but there's no mistaking their solid definition.

This can't be real. I must be dreaming. Hallucinating. The long hours in the office have finally gotten to me and my brain is conjuring up fantasies to compensate.

"Gavin."

My knees go a little weak at the sound of my name on his lips. His voice is low and gravelly, scraping over my skin all raw and unvarnished. I've always loved the way he says my name. I guess the years haven't changed that.

He climbs to his feet, his movements slow and labored, and when he straightens, his shoulders stay slumped in on themselves. That's when I notice the red shooting through the whites of his eyes, the way his jaw is clenched tight, his hands curled into fists by his side.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

A sound escapes his throat. It's wretched and miserable. Two steps and I've got him in my arms, pulling his head down onto my shoulder even though he's several inches taller than me. He sinks his fingers into the thick down at the back of my puffy winter coat, and the weight of his grip nearly drags the coat all the way off my shoulders. His breath is hot against my neck and that familiar warm, spicy scent of him tickles my nose.

God, I've missed him so fucking much.

It's not even as if I haven't seen him in the ten years since we graduated from high school. We've been best friends since we were kids and we stayed best friends when I moved to New York for college. We chat on the phone all the time. We see each other when I go back to Georgia for the holidays. I was his best man when he got married several years ago.

"Is it Lucy?"

His chest expands under my embrace and he lets the breath out in a long, shaky sigh.

"Fuck," I mutter. "Come on, let's go inside."