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But Jett still wasn’t letting it go. He leaned back against the counter with a frown, all humor wiped from his expression. “A new girl in town when the cycle’s picking up again? You can’t afford distractions, Hayes.”

That was the problem with the cycle. It was never convenient.

And every few years…it came back around.

I ignored him and got up and poured some of the “fancy” coffee that Ryder hated to wait for. It was one of the only things I’d liked about New York…so I’d brought it with me.

Ryder walked up behind me, his voice quieter than usual. “You sure you’re good?”

Good? Right. Like I’d been anything close to good since the moment she’d gotten out of that car.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Ryder didn’t buy it. Jett definitely didn’t, either.

But I didn’t care, because whatever part of me should have been worried about her had already slipped its leash.

CHAPTER 9

SIENNA

Iwoke up with my hand down my panties and Sterling Hayes in my head.

Not metaphorically or poetically. Literally. My fingers were tucked under the elastic of my underwear, hips tilted, my breath coming in these slow, needy pulls like my body had decided to go on without me.

The realization hit with the shock of ice-water.

I yanked my hand away so fast I nearly punched myself.

“Ow,” I hissed, rolling onto my back and staring at the ugly yellow popcorn ceiling as if it had personally betrayed me.

Fantastic. I was masturbating in my sleep over the man who’d announced to a bar full of strangers that I had “good angles.”

Like I was a house he wanted to flip. Or a woman he wanted…

Nope. Abort. Too early. I had not had enough caffeine for that thought.

I threw my forearm over my eyes and groaned. My head pulsed in one of those dull, throbbing concussion aches I knew far too well. David had gifted me a few, wrapped in apologies and promises I’d been gullible enough to believe. Which meant I actually had a disturbingly reliable baseline for how bad this one was.

I exhaled and winced as the pulse flared again. How many concussions counted as too many? Three? Five? What was the threshold where the CDC politely suggested your brain might deserve a do-over?

I really should look that up.

The room swam a little when I tried to get out of bed. A new piece of artwork—a watercolor moose—had been waiting in my room when I’d gotten back yesterday afternoon. Hattie’s way of trying to cheer me up after I confirmed with Mack that what Sterling had said was true.

I was indeed stuck in Blackwood for at least a month.

I huffed as the faded floral bedspread bunched around my legs like it was clinging to me for support.

“Okay,” I muttered. “New rules.”

No more naps. Period. I clearly couldn’t be trusted with them.

No more fantasy cowboys taking up real estate in my subconscious.

And absolutely no more letting my hormones run feral over a man who looked at me like I was already his favorite mistake.

I swung my legs off the bed and sat there until the room stopped doing an interpretive dance. The tiny clock on the nightstand told me it was 1:13 p.m. Great. I’d slept long enough to qualify for a small coma.