He glanced over his shoulder at the small window he’d replaced after Nancy’s door-slamming tantrum had shattered the antique glass. For a year after the divorce, it seemed like her screams and vitriol had continued to echo off the walls. He and Nicole had moved around the place like shell-shocked survivors. Then they’d slowly redecorated the entire house. Breakables had worked their way back in.

How could he bring someone into this carefully crafted peace? Even briefly?

Hell, he hadn’t even known Linda that long.

Like Nancy. Three dates and she’d turned up pregnant. He’d had no clue about her messed-up welfare family or her drug habit.

Then again, he’d spent long hours in Linda’s home, enjoying her company. He’d scened with her, bared her body and her soul. And sure as hell he’d been a Dom long enough to know when a submissive was lying.

Linda was exactly who she’d shown herself to be: a courageous, warmhearted survivor.

His mouth twisted. He was the scarred survivor of a fucked-up marriage, and he’d hurt her badly. Maybe she was better off without him.

* * * *

Linda’s store was a heaven-sent distraction. She needed to stay busy because her spirits took a dive whenever she thought of Sam…or the previous weekend…or the times with him before that. She’d thought they had more between them than just floggings and sex. She’d thought they’d…connected.

Guess not.

Scowling, she set another basket on the shelf, angling it so the subtle design showed.

With Sam, she’d felt safe. Safe enough to let go, to let pain transform into pleasure, to let herself slide into her happy place. His strength, his voice, even his brutal honesty was reassuring. So was the way he’d hold her afterward with surprisingly tender hands, caring for her as if she…meant…something.

Yeah, I meant a lot to him. As long as I stayed away from his home.

As tears burned her eyes, she set two more baskets—small bright ones—on each side of the first.

Still, no matter how it ended, knowing him had been worth it. And last weekend had been wonderful. She’d learned that other women accepted and openly enjoyed their BDSM lifestyles. And what a relief it had been to acknowledge her own need to be hurt and dominated. She smiled slightly. Her bookaholic friends “needed” to read or they got irritable, and she felt that way about pain. Since that was her “thing,” she’d better acknowledge it.

And she’d better not date men who thought unconventional meant sick.

Darn it. It wasn’t fair that the one man who accepted her—no, who really liked her other side—didn’t want more. Her lips quivered. She’d wanted to give him all of herself.

She couldn’t even hate him. Well, not much. He’d been gentle with her, slept in her house to protect her, cared for her after their scenes. He wasn’t a bastard, although she’d called him a few nasty names off and on all week. He just didn’t see what they had together as a…relationship.

Obviously, she’d read more into his actions than he’d intended. Gritting her teeth, she shoved the Overseer’s voice away. I’m not a slut.

She gave her head a firm shake. Yes, it was a pity that her little jar of hopes got knocked over, but how long was she going to whine about it? A year or two?

Do your job and be a shopkeeper.

A few minutes later, as she set the last basket on the shelf, she heard, “Hey, Mom.”

Turning, she saw her son walking through the store, and her spirits lifted. “Charles, how nice. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to give you something.” His brown eyes warmed with happiness as he handed her a grocery sack.

“Well.” She opened the sack. It was filled with… “Sweet grass?”

“Yeah. I was over at the coast and saw dunes of it. It’s the right kind?”

“Oh, it’s lovely. It’ll make the prettiest baskets.”

He rocked back and forth, hands in his pockets, pleased as punch with his surprise. How many bouquets of flowers, sheet music, books, and pottery had her generous-spirited son gifted her with over the years? Even as a toddler, he’d brought home pretty rocks for Mommy. They were still on the kitchen table, warming her heart whenever she saw them.

“Thank you, honey. This is wonderful.”

He grinned, gave her a quick squeeze, and kissed her cheek. “I’ve got a class in an hour. Love you.”

“Love you, sweetie.”

As Charles trotted out of the store, an elderly customer approached the counter, beaming. “What a nice boy.”

“Yes.” Linda’s heart expanded with pride. “He really is.”

A quick sale later, the woman left, her newly purchased tote sagging from the addition of a diet soda and an assortment of Belgian chocolates and truffles. Someone really liked her fancy chocolates.

As the customer stepped onto the boardwalk, a man stepped back to let her pass. Lee. Linda watched him walk into the store, his expression open. Friendly. Not a fancy chocolate person. No, he was a plain milk chocolate bar. Straightforward. No surprises. Liked by everyone.

She looked away. Sam would be dark chocolate with almonds and sea salt. Complex. Not overly sweet. Not to everyone’s taste. But having experienced Sam made it difficult to return to everyday chocolate.

As Lee walked up to the counter, Linda smiled at him. “Hi there.”

“You look beautiful today.” He grinned. “I came by to see if you wanted to go to a movie tonight. We can check the listings and find something we both like.”

“You pull out one of those chick romances, and I’ll beat your butt, missy.” The memory of Sam’s grating warning made her throat tighten. When she’d tossed Dirty Dancing into his lap, she’d learned in a painful way that he didn’t make idle threats. That’s over, Linda. Move on.

“I don’t think…” She took his hand. The knowledge that her decision would hurt him pressed a heavy weight onto her shoulders. But she wouldn’t lead him on as Sam had done with her. Lee deserved honesty. “This isn’t going to work, Lee. I like edgy sex, and you don’t.”

But he’d been kind. During her awkward attempt at discussing it with him, he’d tried so carefully to hide his disapproval.

His expression was that of a man whose terrier had nipped him. “Linda, I—”

“Neither of us is wrong.” Thank you, Gabi. I know that now. “But we have different desires and needs.” She pulled in a breath, hoping she wouldn’t lose him as a friend. “I think we should call this quits.”

He stood silently for a minute as if hoping she’d change her mind. “Well. We might have found a way to compromise, but…rumor has it you’re seeing someone. I guess he’s giving you what you like.” Lee squeezed her fingers and pulled back. “If it doesn’t work out, I hope you’ll give me another chance.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Me too.” Brows drawn together in unhappiness, he turned and walked out of the store.

She sighed. Only Lee could have handled an awkward situation so smoothly, but she still felt like scum for hurting him.

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t look like that went very well.”

Linda pulled her gaze from the empty door to see Dwayne by the wall, his purple and green shirt clashing with the colorful paintings. What had he heard? How could she have been so indiscreet as to have an intimate talk in her own store? Dumb.

Even dumber to have discussed anything in front of a reporter. Ignoring him, she walked to the other side of the store and started restocking shelves.

He followed. “Are you having a difficult time adjusting? Going from being a slave to a normal person?” Slave. He said it as if he liked the taste of the word.

Her skin crawled. Note to self—never date a reporter. “If you’re not going to buy anything, please leave.”

“Did your business fall off when people realized what you are…were?” He casually leaned against the wall shelves, his gaze as avid as a dog looking at raw meat. “You know, I heard a rumor about a place you visited before your kidnapping. Disturbing stuff.”

Her skin went cold, and she could actually feel the blood leave her face. Even knowing her reaction confirmed his rumor, she couldn’t stop herself. “Get out. You’re not welcome in my store.” She pointed to the door.

His expression darkened. “You’d do better to talk to me. Give me something juicy, and maybe I won’t use that other information.”

“Get. Out.”

“Fine.” He paused in the door to look back. “You’re gonna be sorry.” He stalked out, bumping against the coffee shop owner who’d stopped on the boardwalk.

Oh, God. As Linda’s knees started to buckle, she grabbed the shelf. Two totes fell onto the floor, flattened like roadkill.

“My heavens, he threatened you!” With an appalled expression, Betty entered the shop. “‘You’re gonna be sorry.’ That’s a threat.”

“Yes.” Her energy leaked away, leaving exhaustion behind. Would this never end? “But he wouldn’t be the first reporter to print nasty things.” About slaves. About me.