Can't Hardly Breathe. Gena Showalter

That was what she would do. What came unnaturally. Starting today.

       CHAPTER TWO

      OUT WITH THE old Dorothea, in with the new Dorothea. It was time to shuck off the chains of her past and walk, no run, to a better future.

      Yeah! Long past time. She paced the length of her attic room, her hand pressed against the rose tattooed over her heart. A thorny vine twined with Christmas holly and wrapped around her entire breast, forming a complete circle. A constant reminder of the best and worst moments of her life.

      Love and loss.

      Fresh start...fun...spontaneous...wild. No more regrets.

      What should she do?

      Old Dorothea would spend the night texting her sister apologies. New Dorothea would...

      Stop apologizing? Yes! For sure. What was done was done. New Dorothea would stop trying to rebuild a relationship she’d ruined and start trying to build a stronger one. No, not trying. Doing. She wouldn’t sulk or cry. Ever. She would go out. Finally. Maybe to a bar.

      Definitely to a bar!

      Ryanne owned the Scratching Post and drew crowds from Strawberry Valley as well as two neighboring towns, Blueberry Hill and Grapevine. New Dorothea would dance, meet good-looking men and actually flirt.

      Is that a wallet in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

      She would charm, well, everyone, her beguiling wit on dazzling display.

      A girl could dream, anyway. In reality, both New and Old Dorothea had never flirted with anyone, and charm was beyond her.

      So. Slight tweak to her plan. Instead of going to a public place, she’d stay here.

      Old Dorothea would stay here. You’re New Dorothea.

      Yes, but there was an eligible bachelor two floors down...

      She sucked in a breath. That was right. Daniel Porter. The one who’d gotten away. The ultimate conquest. The star of her wildest fantasies.

      I think you’re perfect just the way you are.

      Problem: he’d been with a woman just last night. There was a little bit of an ick factor. What was the term? Oh, yeah, sloppy seconds.

      Okay, that was pretty offensive.

      Forget his past. The present situation was simple. Her crush couldn’t be reignited—because it had never died. The shy high schooler trapped inside her still wanted him. So did the needy girl who’d never tasted fruit from the forbidden tree.

      Truth was truth. Only Daniel would do.

      Biggest obstacle: she hadn’t magically morphed into Daniel’s type. He dated ex-cheerleaders. Thin beauties who belonged in the pages of a magazine. Successful women who’d actually finished college and now enjoyed high-powered careers, or at least had prospects.

      Were successful women better in bed? Yeah. Probably. Confidence was sexy, no matter a person’s sex.

      Dorothea had nothing to offer. Except maybe an orgasm. Or twelve. But then, orgasms were the point, the whole point and nothing but the point.

      A tremor of excitement and nervousness swept through her. Mmm, orgasms...

      Small obstacle: she’d never had a one-night stand. She’d only ever been with Jazz, so it had been a while. Some nights she ached so badly, so deeply, nothing assuaged her. Ached for an orgasm, yes, but mostly companionship. Having strong arms banded around her, holding her close, the rest of the world a distant memory...yes, please and thank you.

      A night with Daniel could be fun, spontaneous and wild, far beyond her most wanton dreams. And really, what man would turn down a no-strings encounter, even with a woman he had no interest in dating?

      No one!

      Was she going to do this?

      He would be alone, ripe for the plucking.

      Why not? she decided. What did she have to lose? Besides her pride. And her peace of mind.

      You have no pride or peace of mind.

      True. She wiped damp palms on her scrubs, her mind continuing to whirl. To win him, she would have to do something epic. Tiptoeing to his door, softly knocking and stuttering as she tried to form a complete sentence would only turn him off.

      Maybe she should call him and—No. Too impersonal.

      She could show up at his door with a pizza and—Nope. Too friend-zoney.

      She could show up at his door wearing lingerie, and only lingerie...

      Wrong! She owned...oh...zero pieces of lingerie. Pretty bras and panties were too expensive for a woman with no one to impress.

      Dang it, showing up in a T-shirt and jeans wasn’t fun, spontaneous or wild. Neither was her standard after-work attire—pajamas.

      What if she showed up at his door in a raincoat and a (fake) smile? As nervous as she’d be, fake was all he’d get.

      Straight men responded to a woman’s nakedness, right? Before her accident, Jazz had seemed to like her body. A lot.

      Once inside Daniel’s room, she could drop the coat, revealing her body to him. Her soft, now scarred body. In the light. All of her flaws would be spotlighted.

      Nope. No way. Never. Can’t do it. Won’t do it.

      Coward! If you want a different life, you have to do something different. Be strong. Be brave.

      So, yes, she would do this.

      Next problem: she owned the inn, and he was a patron. Also, they lived in a small town, and there would be talk. They would see each other tomorrow...and the next day...and the next. There would be no avoiding the one-night stand who’d seen her flaws.

      And what would happen the next time he wrecked a room with a thin, successful date?

      Air wheezed from her as her footsteps quickened. Back and forth. Back and forth, going from the couch she’d found discarded on a curb to the wall covered with pictures she’d taken of clouds, hail, rain, tornadoes, sunrises and sunsets.

      How badly did she want to be held...to laugh with a lover? To forget the rest of the world? How badly did she want an orgasm?

      No risk, no reward.

      Very well. She was going to do this.

      Dorothea hurried through a shower, repainted her nails yellow and orange—hopeful and nervous—and spritzed herself with an essential oil body spray she’d created, the mist settling in places the sun had never seen.

      It was time to lady-nut up or shut up.

      * * *

      DANIEL PORTER SAT at the edge of the bed. Again and again he dismantled and rebuilt his Glock 17. Before removing the magazine, he racked the slide to ensure no ammunition remained in the chamber. He lifted the upper portion of the semiautomatic, detached the recoil spring as well as the barrel. Then he put everything back together.

      Rinse and repeat.

      Some things you had to do over and over, until every cell in your body could perform the task on autopilot. That way, when bullets started flying, you’d react the right way—immediately—without having to check a training manual.

      Sometime during hour two, he reached for his pack of smokes, only to remember he’d quit weeks ago. Every time he’d lit up, he’d seen his dad’s disappointed face, heard worried words.

      Gonna put yourself in an early grave, son.

      He’d also replayed the day Dottie Mathis had spotted him outside, taking a drag, and wrinkled her pretty nose. Other people’s opinions usually held no sway, but for some reason, her reaction had stuck