Marissa.

“You are not coming in here whenever you feel like it anymore.”

That was the last thing I said to Reid three weeks ago when I walked out of the shower and found him standing in my kitchen at two in the morning. Boots still on. Eating the pasta I had made for his father. Looking at me like the towel I was clutching was a suggestion.

Reid Kane. Twenty six. My husband’s son. My stepson on paper and nothing else in this house.

I married Barrett fourteen months ago. Barrett Kane. Fifty two. Quiet money. The kind of man who never raises his voice because the room already...