Tristan didn’t often feel guilty. But in the hour since Katie Warray had driven away from the front gate—for the third time in as many days—his conscience had been poking at him. Irritating, itchy little mosquito bites of remorse.

He got up from his desk to pace around the cottage’s living room again. He’d done it so many times in the last half-hour, Molly didn’t even bother to raise her head from where she napped by the fire.

“You’re supposed to be man’s best friend,” he told her. “My suffering should disturb you.”

Molly shifted in her dog bed and curled up facing away from him.

Evidently all his suffering disturbed was her nap.

Tristan resumed pacing, trying in vain to come up with a black moment for the new North book. But the outline he’d been making progress on for the last couple of days kept slipping out of focus.

“Why I am feeling so guilty?” he asked, not for the first time.

Molly huffed and draped a paw over her ears.

“Turnabout is fair play,” Tristan insisted. 

He’d felt justified on the first day in telling Katie to come back at a more convenient time. There’d been no text, no call, no form of apology for ambushing him at his loft. While he was in his underwear no less. He’d just been evening the score. 

Turning her away on the second day had been a test of her resolve. If she was going to be his editor, Tristan needed to be sure she wasn’t a quitter.

But sending her back for a brownie this morning…

That might have crossed a line. 

Especially in the heavy rain. 

And from the looks on the faces of the security team when he’d done it, they agreed. 

Tristan could only imagine what the rest of his family would have to say when the news eventually made its way through that grapevine. 

He slumped back into his desk chair again and stared mindlessly out the window. Rain drops chased each other down the glass pane and turned his front yard into something misty and mysterious.

Tristan scowled at his laptop. Normally, a day like this was perfect writing weather. 

But all he seemed able to think about was the woman he’d sent out into it. 

And the ridiculous orange suit she’d been wearing. 

An unwilling smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and then his conscience prickled.

“I’ll let her in when she comes back this time,” he promised aloud. “With or without the brownie.”

How generous of you, a snarky internal voice that sounded a lot like his twin replied.

As he thought it, his phone rang, and Julian’s name flashed on the screen.

Tristan grinned and answered the call. “I was just thinking of you. It’s uncanny how you do that. But if you’d actually sold your soul for psychic powers, you’d tell me, right?”

Julian snorted. “If I ever sell my soul, it will be for something a great deal more useful than knowing when you want to talk to me. I got that at birth and it’s a gift I’d like to return. What’s wrong?”

“Why would you think something’s wrong?” Tristan asked.

“Tristan,” his brother sounded exasperated. “I don’t have time to drag it out of you.”

Tristan sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I think I may have gone too far.”

“Oh boy.” There was a brief buzzing sound on Julian’s end of the call. “Savannah? Push back my eleven o’clock by half an hour. Okay.” His voice sounded close to the phone’s receiver again, and Tristan could tell by the exasperated tone that Julian’s attention was back on him. “What have you done exactly?”

Tristan filled his twin in on the events of the last couple of days.

“A brownie?” Julian said when he got to the end. “You made her go back for a brownie?”

Tristan winced. “Too far?” 

“Too far was the suit comment you made on the first day. Demanding that she bring you a brownie like she’s a delivery driver who screwed up your order—and not your colleague who has bent over backward to accommodate you—is so far past too far you can’t see it your rearview mirror,” Julian said in his why-am-I-surrounded-by-idiots tone. “And another free piece of advice. If by some miracle she does come back with a brownie for you, I recommend you don’t eat it.” 

“Yeah…” Tristan considered his brother’s advice. “That’s probably right. I’ll make it up to her when she comes back. I’ll ask Mrs. A to make us lunch and let Katie help me brainstorm.”

“Why don’t you start with an apology?” Julian suggested. “And if she’s generous enough to forgive you, go on from there. Though Mrs. A’s cooking is a good thought. Don’t tell me if she makes her lobster mac and cheese. I’ll be tempted to drive down.” 

Tristan made a mental note to text Julian a picture of whatever she sent over. 

Mrs. Annesley and her husband were the caretakers of the Prince family's Hamptons estate. Mr. A was a quiet, easygoing man who preferred puttering around the gardens. Mrs. A was a big, bustling woman who ran the household with an iron fist and could work miracles in the kitchen. 

She took it as a personal affront if Tristan didn’t beg food off her at least a couple of times a week. And she adored showing off for guests.

Tristan’s phone beeped to signal someone else was calling. 

“I have to go, Jules. Security is calling.” A jolt of anticipation went through him. “I think she’s back.”

“Okay,” Julian said. “Let her through the gate this time. And remember to play nice.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tristan hung up on him and accepted the call from security. “What is it? Is she back?”

“She’s gone over the gate,” Mike said, sounding out of breath. “Lock your doors, Mr. Prince.”

Tristan blinked. “She got over the front gate?”

That was impressive. That gate had to be about twenty feet high. And a sign that Jules had been right in his assessment of exactly how far past too far Tristan had gone.

“Not the front gate. Your gate.” Mike spoke in controlled bursts like he was running. “And her van’s parked in front, so I can’t open it. I’m going to come in from the beach and deal with her. Keep your doors locked until I have her secured.”

“Secured?” Tristan repeated incredulously. “Mike, relax. She’s my editor, not a hired assassin. She’s not going to hurt me.”

“With respect, Mr. Prince. You didn’t see the look on her face.”

Blam!

Blam! 

Blam!

The back door of the cottage rattled on its hinges under the force of her blows.

“Tristan Prince!” Katie snarled. “I know you’re in there!”

“I’m going to have to call you back, Mike,” Tristan said. “There’s someone at my door.”

“Don’t—”

Tristan ended the call and strode over to open the door. “Katie, what a pleasant surpri…” 

He trailed off as the state she was in registered. 

Composed, elegant, professional Katie Warray was covered in mud. It coated her hands and bare feet and several wide, muddy streaks marred the fabric of what had been a spectacularly ugly suit.

Really the video feed hadn’t done it justice. 

Even soaked, that orange was eye searingly terrible. Aunt Audrey would burn it on principle and his mother would provide the extra gasoline. 

Katie’s hair was plastered to her head. There were leaves tangled in it. She was breathing hard, and the wide-eyed, bare-toothed snarl on her face was borderline homicidal.

“You,” she growled in a voice of utter loathing.

Tristan jerked back, surprise and an unwise thrill thumping through his bloodstream. What did it say about him that in that moment he found her electrically attractive?

“Here’s your brownie.” She hurled a sodden paper bag at him.

It bounced off his chest, leaving a muddy imprint on his T-shirt, and landed on the floorboards in a sad puddle of filth and chocolate.

Tristan looked from the brownie to the woman and gave in to a suicidal impulse. “What? No iced coffee?”