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Broken Souls
Little Hope Series, Book 3
Ariana Cane
Copyright © 2022 Ariana Cane.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission
requests, write to the author at the contact form @arianacane.com
ASIN ​ : ​ B0BCBNFZCD
ISBN: 9798357340269
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the
author’s imagination.
Book cover design: Maria @SteamyDesigns.
Editor: Anna Noel.
Proofreader: PageWorkEditing.
First printed edition November 1st, 2022.

www.arianacane.com
Created with Vellum
 Contents

Author’s note

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue

Acknowledgments
Also by Ariana Cane
To all who went through hell.
 Author’s note

Please READ BEFORE diving in.

This book is darker than the previous two because it takes on a very heavy subject. Please, read
the trigger warning (TW).
The first ever person to see this book was someone who went through what Alicia went through.
Even before sending it to my editor, I sent the story completely unedited (a truly shameful moment for
me) to someone who could relate and help me make this book a healing one.
After helping me with a few sensitive lines, this person emailed back the following (inserted here
with her permission): “Thank you for making me feel heard.” I cried the whole evening. Everyone
who goes through hell like that, no matter the gender, deserves their story to be heard if they choose it
to be. And if this book helps even one person, I’ll be over the moon.
We are not our past. We are the future.
TW: SA (the heroine suffered in the past, not from the hero, but the whole book circles around it).
Adult language and adult situations.
If you find yourself in a similar situation as certain characters, please speak to someone. There’s
help out there.

The National Sexual Assault Hotline in the US as of fall 2022 can be reached at 1-800-656-4673.
 Prologue

“N obody will get to you on time.” A heavy breathing assaults the back of my head. “Nobody.”
I hear a disgusting sound from behind me, like a hyena hackling. I squeeze my eyes shut,
trying to drown it out. I’ll never look at that animal the same again. He presses my face into the
bed and drags my pants down. “Nobody will come. You’re all alone here.” His whisper drops.
“With us.”
I wake up to my sheets completely soaked in sweat. It’s the same nightmare that has been haunting
me for years. It’s always the same moment of that night. The same words. The same people. And the
same no-escape situation. They haunt me in my waking moments and in my sleep, even all these years
later.
Today is a lucky day for me; I woke up a little earlier, a few breaths before my life was forever
changed, so I don’t have to relive it again. I check the time. It’s four thirty in the morning—no way I’ll
go back to sleep after that. I never do.
I look around my room to ground myself. My shelf is stacked with some of my favorite books,
some of which have been there for years… some since, well, eight years ago. I’m twenty-six and still
live with my parents. Still have the same nightmare. The same furniture since I was a teenager. The
same paint on the walls.
And the same sleepless nights.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and falling back against my pillows. Something needs to
change. Anything. I’m not saying I’m ready to move on, but I think I’m ready to move away.
I sigh, accepting the fact it won’t be easy. For any of the members of my family.
But it’s time.
 Chapter One

ALICIA

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Kayla, my older brother’s girlfriend, asks, carrying a box to the
kitchen. My first kitchen, which will belong to only me. I look around with pride. I won’t be sharing
the space with my mom anymore. I love my mom—I do—but I want to do things my way.
Kayla’s perfect ash-blonde hair sticks to her sweaty forehead and she has raccoon mascara
smudges under her eyes, yet she’s one of the most interesting people I’ve ever seen. Her colorful
tattoos play peekaboo from under her long sleeves as she unboxes the silverware my mom packed for
my new home. Sometimes I stare at them in wonder. I love her tattoos, but I’m not sure I could handle
getting one. To let someone keep touching my skin for hours? I don’t think so.
Kayla notices me watching her art and covers it with the sleeves of her sweater, sending me a
playful wink. She is such a beautiful woman. Mixed with Justin, she’ll make me the cutest nephews
and nieces in the universe, so I can spoil them rotten.
Despite our rough beginning, I think about how lucky I am to have her now. She didn’t have to
forgive us for how we treated her, but she did. She’s the type of person who shines despite
everything. I judged her wrongfully before, and I’ll be ashamed of that for the rest of my life.
Plus, she’s so good for Justin. He finally took that pretty-boy mask off, and now, surprisingly, he’s
a decent human being. Almost. Well, he’s getting there.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” And I’m sure that I’m sure. It was time to get out from under my parents’ wings.
My parents love me to death, but sometimes it can be crippling. With my history, it’s
understandable, to a certain degree. At least Justin got off my back after Kayla talked to him.
 I support myself and make decent money, but still I’ve been living in my childhood bedroom,
scared to venture into the real world again. Today is my first day living independently at the sweet
age of twenty-six.
I look around the house. The building is old, built in the nineteen hundreds. I don’t think there
have been many renovations ever since. It’s one story, with shallow ceilings, one bedroom, one bath,
a living room with a vintage fireplace, and an oversized eat-in kitchen.
The kitchen is what sold me. It’s never been updated, which I think gives it a certain charm. All
the appliances are old besides the fridge and the stove. The original molding on the cabinets is broad
and highly detailed. The island is oval. I never thought I’d love a weird, oval-shaped kitchen island,
but I can already imagine sitting here with a laptop and a steaming cup of coffee, typing all my wild
fantasies away.
Another thing I absolutely adore is the fireplace. Built with the house, its red brick and beautifully
detailed iron cover give me shivers of pleasure as I imagine curling up in front of a crackling fire
during late, cozy winter nights. Good thing cold nights are frequent here, deep in Maine. I let out a
dreamy sigh.
If I’m completely honest, Little Hope, our charming small town, doesn’t have many renting
options available, so I’ve been waiting for Mrs. Jenkins’s daughter to move her mom in with her.
Mrs. Jenkins is a wonderful old lady, but a little too old to live independently. So when Justin had
mentioned months ago that he wanted to call her daughter and explain how bad things were getting, I
got excited. And I’ve been waiting patiently ever since for it to happen.
“The place is dope.” Kayla saunters over to me, looking around. “I can’t believe you scored it.”
She shakes her head, digging into the bags on the counter.
“Me neither. It’s pure luck.” It’s not. I’d been lurking in the bushes, waiting for the perfect moment
to ambush the scary old lady with my proposal.
“I’d say it is. You charmed the hell out of Mrs. Jenkins.”
“What can I say? I am a natural-born charmer.” I wink. I’m so not. A long time ago, maybe. But
not anymore. Now I just hide behind this façade of a total bitch or a fluffy bear, depending on the
mood. We Attleboroughs all have that in common. We seem to all like hiding behind our own masks.
Yeah, we’re blood related for sure.
Kayla laughs. She’s one of the few people who knows what happened to me, so she doesn’t
believe my veneer for a second. “Also, Justin’s been fixing her car for years for almost nothing. I may
have reminded her of it.” I shoot her a sheepish smile and shrug.
“You hussy!” She points a finger at me, laughing. “For real though, how did you convince her to
rent it out to you and not someone else?”
“It wasn’t easy. The lady is tough, man.” I shiver, remembering every conversation I tried to start.
She always sent me on my merry way with a cute, very grandma-like “screw you, Alicia, go bother
your parents; they got money and can get you anything.” But I wanted this old house. I’ve been
watching it since I was a kid as we drove by. It looked like a fairy cabin, nestled deep in the forest,
from a story about a long-lost princess who finds her prince and has her happily ever after. Something
I’ll never have. That’s why I wanted the house, so at least I can have that.
“I know. I’m scared of her. Whenever she comes to the diner, I feel like I’m at military school,
about to get busted for something.” Her eyes widen like she’s seen a ghost as she remembers.
“Even after Marina?” Her employer and guardian angel of sorts is a tough, old-fashioned woman
and probably the trendiest person in Little Hope, with her sleek bob and fancy makeup. For a small
town in Maine, she always looks so expensive. Marina took Kayla in when she had no money and
nowhere to go. Even though Kayla is a highly sought-after tattoo artist and does fine money-wise, she
still helps Marina on her days off. Marina’s diner is like a family business for them and a homey
place for everyone in Little Hope.
To be honest, I’m a little scared of Marina. Reasonably, she’s not my biggest fan after I’ve been a
bitch to Kayla on a few occasions, so I guess it’s well deserved. But still, I’m half expecting her to
add some laxatives to my order. Again, well deserved.
“Nah, Mrs. Jenkins is like a pit bull with a bone, while Marina is a Chihuahua with a bow. No,
thank you.” She shudders visibly, and I laugh.
“She’s not so bad. She did promise to put a chastity belt on me if I organize any orgies here, but
otherwise, I should be good.”
“See!” She laughs, throwing her head back. “Scary.”
Yeah, she is. She threatened to do all sorts of things if I destroy her house, but I really needed to
get out from under my family’s roof, and her house is my dream home. I promised to keep her house
free of orgies—an easy deal on my end, since I’m not my fun-seeking brother Justin—and parties. It’s
not like I have friends to throw crazy celebrations, because I don’t. I have Josie, but she’s an internet
friend. You know, one you talk to every day but never meet in real life. Kayla considers herself my
friend, but I don’t deserve her. Sometimes it’s hard to think I deserve anyone.
Maybe I’ll make some friends eventually. This first step on the path of accepting my new self
might be what I needed.
Mrs. Jenkins gave me endless instructions, including attaching a photo update of her houseplants
with every monthly money transfer. She has quite a few of those, and I already know how I’ll set up a
green corner in the living room next to the wide window, a beautiful collection of all those plants
scattered all over the place. Mrs. Jenkins took all the furniture but left the plants. It doesn’t make any
sense to me, but who knows what quirks I’ll have at her age.
“Did you meet your new neighbors?” Kayla asks, placing cleaning supplies in the cabinet
underneath the sink.
“Not yet. I’m sure they’ll be great.” I pause and add with a chuckle: “If I ever talk to them.”
“Right.” Her laughter is forced, and I do a double take to ensure I haven’t missed anything. She’s
standing in the same spot, rocking on her heels and watching me with a weird look on her face.
“I think that was the last one.” Justin walks down the stairs, drawing my attention away from
Kayla. “Jake’s bringing pizza if that’s all right,” he tells Kayla while heading to the bathroom, and she
rolls her eyes.
I quickly glance at her. I know she hasn’t made amends with Jake after his evil actions nearly cost
them their relationship. Well, it’s more like he hasn’t made amends with her. He should start by
begging her for forgiveness for the years of torment. In his defense, he thought she was to blame for
what happened to me that night. He was wrong though. We all were. And now we all have a lifetime
to make it up to her.
She never brings up the years of hate we sent her way. We don’t deserve her. She’s a bigger
person than any of us will ever be.
As for Justin, he’s still mad at Jake, and it pains me. No matter what happened, they’re still my
brothers, and I love them. I wish they would bury the hatchet so we can return to being a big, happy
family. Justin tolerates Jake at family gatherings, but I think the biggest thing stopping Justin from
accepting Jake is that his meek apology to Kayla didn’t seem sincere. It didn’t seem genuine to any of
us, to be fair. I understand where Justin comes from since Kayla is his person, but it still hurts to see
our family so fractured.
 Jake’s our little brother, and we all look so much alike. Anyone can tell we’re related. We’re all
blond with baby-blue eyes. The boys have athletic builds, which is the one difference between us. I
have huge boobs and a few extra pounds that I could survive without nowadays. I used to be told I
was pretty and I liked to believe that, but I’ve grown to resent it.
“I bought these new hair bands. You know, I think they’ll look absolutely amazing on you.” Kayla
notes as she bends to drag a giant box marked ‘clothes’ to the exit, murmuring, “How the hell did this
box get into the kitchen? Men.” She rolls her eyes, and I chuckle. “So anyway, wanna try these bands?
I can drop them off if you want.” She glances at me while dragging the box on the floor.
“I mean, yeah, sure.” My eyes dart around as my palms turn sweaty.
“Awesome!” Kayla finally drops the box as Justin returns. “Be a dear and carry this to the
bedroom, please.” She walks to stand behind me and suddenly touches my ponytail, making me jump.
She instantly drops her hand, and my cheeks turn hot.
“Sorry,” I murmur, avoiding her eyes.
“Don’t be!” She waves her hand dismissively. “I have this tendency to startle people. Not a good
thing when I have a pen with ink in my hand, if you ask me.”
I finally manage to meet her eyes, and she winks at me. “Yeah” is all I can squeeze out. I’m
grateful to her for not making it weird.
“Go, Justin. The box won’t carry itself.” Kayla shoos him away, knowing he won’t leave on his
own. Every time he sees me triggered by something, he goes into this overprotective-brother mode. I
adore him—I do—but I’m being suffocated a little. And to be honest, I think he is too.
“Yeah. Thanks, Justin. I mean it, thank you.” I find and hold his gaze, silently showing him my
gratitude for everything. He helped me convince our parents to let me live alone. They’re
overprotective. Not without reason.
“Welcome, Tiny.” He strolls over and throws his arm around my shoulders.
I punch him under his ribs. “I told you to stop calling me that.” I’m anything but tiny. I’m five-
eleven, for heaven’s sake.
“You did?” He snickers, and I punch him again. He lets me go with a loud oof, smiles, and heads
toward Kayla. I can feel their love in the air. Thick with passion. It’s where I find inspiration, in
people like them. Their chemistry and life stories. It’s also where I feel overwhelmed with guilt,
remembering how I nearly ruined everything for them. He leans in for a kiss, and within a second,
their perfect Disney-worthy kiss turns into something you’d find on Pornhub. I instantly cover my eyes
with my hand.
“Jeez! Stop it!” I yell. “You can’t christen my kitchen before me!”
Justin jumps from Kayla immediately. “What the hell are you talking about? You aren’t having sex
here.” He thinks for a moment. “Or anywhere else, for that matter.” He looks horrified, like the actual
idea of me having sex with somebody makes him sick.
I almost want to tell him it makes me sick too.
Kayla laughs, turning slightly red as she starts putting my silverware inside the drawers.
The front door opens, and Jake comes barreling in, holding five pizza boxes.
“I see you’re hungry.” I quirk a brow.
“I’m a growing boy.” He winks, putting the pizzas down on the counter. “I met Freya and Alex at
the store. They’re stopping by later. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I tell him with a shrug. Alex is Justin’s best friend, and Freya is his fiancée. I like
them both, especially Freya. She’s changed this town for the better since she’s been here. Talk about
how one person can change the world.
 Justin and Alex served together in the military and have always been close. But Jake was at odds
with Alex for a while. I guess Jake started to grow on Alex when he saved his fiancée by shooting her
crazy ex. Jake can be hard to like, but he’s also a lifesaver. Quite literally.
We’re almost done putting everything in the kitchen away when there’s a knock on the door. “It’s
my first guest!” I cry, jumping up and down like a happy toddler before rushing to open the door.
Freya and Alex are standing on my doorsteps—my—with two huge boxes in Alex’s arms. Something
long and wrapped in gazette paper sticks from the corner. “We came bearing gifts!” Freya exclaims,
and I let them in with a smile.
“Come inside, guys. Pizza’s getting cold.”
“Good thing we brought a microwave,” she says with a toothy grin, and I laugh.
“Thank you, guys! The best housewarming gift ever!”
I find plates in the cabinet where I just stuck them and put them on the island next to the boxes.
Within minutes, the pizza is devoured, with only a couple slices remaining. Suddenly, I’m grateful
Jake was hungry enough to bring so much.
Once everyone is happy and fed, I decide to ask about the gifts.
“What’s in the other box?” It sits between her feet, and she looks like she’s guarding it like
Cerberus. I lean closer to them and try to pick at the side for clues. Freya smacks my hand away and
orders Alex to put them on the counter. When he’s done, Freya pushes one of them toward Jake.
“Open that one, will ya?” She beams at him. For someone so short and tiny—to be fair, many people
are short next to me—everyone always listens to her command. She’s a force to be reckoned with.
Jake opens the box and starts setting the microwave up while Freya pushes the other box toward
me.
“Can I touch it now?” I ask, smiling at her. “You’re not gonna beat me up again, are you?”
“Only if you don’t like it. Now open it.” She nudges the box toward me and impatiently claps her
hands.
I take a knife and cut the box open. It’s huge. I have no idea how Alex could have carried both
boxes simultaneously, even considering his Godzilla size. I have no idea what could be in here.
When it’s finally open, I laugh until tears start streaming down my face. “You guys. It’s perfect!”
Justin tries to peek around me, but Kayla nudges him aside. “Lemme see.”
The box is filled with single-life necessities: a six-pack of ginger ale (because I don’t drink
alcohol since that night), a gift card for the one Chinese restaurant in Little Hope (we need more, in
my opinion), a box of condoms, a mighty bat, a bag of mint gum, and a massive ten-inch dildo.
“What the hell, Freya?” Justin yells, turning red. “That’s my little sister.” Even the tips of his ears
are crimson.
“Right. Like you don’t rub one out here and there.” She mocks him.
I throw my hands up. “Stop, just stop. Both of you. I’ll be traumatized after today, for sure.” I pull
the bat out and weigh it in my hands. Living alone has its perks, but I’m also a little scared. What if
someone tries to break in? I haven’t lived on my own since… well, ever. I only attended one year of
college, but I lived in the sorority house. I was never alone. I’ll need this bat more than I need a
dildo. Though, judging by the size of it, it could cause some serious damage. No way I ever let that
monster near my lady parts; it’d split me in two. Why did Freya buy it? Is Alex the same size? Eyeing
him from the side, I wouldn’t be surprised. Poor woman. Or… a lucky one? Bless her soul… and
lady bits.
Kayla chortles to my right and pushes Justin to the side. “It’s time to go, people.”
“What? Why?” Jakes asks.
 “Because Alicia needs to get comfortable and ready for bed. It’s late, dummy,” she explains,
annoyed she even has to explain. “We’re overstaying.”
Jake looks dumbfounded, glancing between us. “She’s our sister. It’s practically our house. We
can stay as much as we want. Right, Alicia?” He looks at me for support. Support I’m not going to
give him. Knowing my overprotective brothers, they’d be camping here. Taking turns out front,
shotgun in hand, ready to take on any windblown leaf that threatens my peace.
“Yeah, no,” I answer with a shake of my head. “I love you, Jakey, I do, but go home.”
He looks offended.
“Because I’m about to use Freya’s gifts.”
He looks at me with dead eyes, not understanding.
I widen my eyes and add: “All of them.”
Now, he’s terrified.
“Okay, people, gotta go.” He collects his jacket and practically runs out the door. Everyone
gathers their purses and jackets and swiftly follows him.
We all share good nights, I thank them for helping me move my furniture and endless boxes, and
they leave, but Justin lingers on the porch for a moment, rocking on his heels. “Are you sure you’ll be
okay?”
It nearly breaks my heart. Justin still blames himself for what happened to me; no matter what I
say, I can’t change that. He must forgive himself first. Until then, he’ll never hear me trying to tell him
I’ve never blamed him.
I wrap my arms around Justin and rest my cheek on his chest. He smells like my childhood hopes
and security. “I love you, big brother.”
A choke sounds from above me, but I don’t look up. I don’t want him to feel embarrassed. “I love
you too, little sister.” He nearly croaks his words, walking to his truck. Kayla’s in the passenger seat,
looking the other way, giving us privacy.
I can’t believe I ever thought ill of her, following the masses and… well, my own prejudice.
She’s so pure. Probably the purest of us all.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my emotions. It’s the first day of my new life.
I’ll get better soon.
 Chapter Two

MARK

I wake up to a loud beeping sound. Lost between sleep and wakefulness, I pry my eyes open in an
attempt to understand what’s happening. My last two back-to-back shifts have left me groggy and
disoriented. Little Hope isn’t very big on firefighters—or emergencies for that matter—and yesterday
we got called to help put out a massive fire in an apartment building in Copeland, a neighboring town.
One whole crew went to fight the fire, and the other remained in Little Hope, both pulling double
shifts.
Someone is licking my fingers, and it takes me a while to figure out it’s Ghost. He’s whining as he
gently pulls on my hand. I try to force my eyes back open, but they don’t listen. I haven’t slept in days,
and I’m fucking exhausted.
When I finally get my wits together, my brain clears, and I am finally able to force my body to
move, I realize the sound seems familiar. Very familiar. A fire alarm. I jump from the bed, wide
awake, and grab my pants from the floor. I’ve seen far too many dicks during my firefighter career.
Enough to last me a lifetime. People get caught in weird states of undress during emergencies more
often than you might think.
I run downstairs, trying to figure out where the sound is coming from. It only takes me a moment to
realize it’s coming from Mrs. Jenkins’s house. She had just rented her place to somebody. Just fuckin’
awesome—the perfect welcome party on the first night they moved in.
“Stay,” I command Ghost as I grab a fire extinguisher from the wall next to the door. I run toward
her house. I have manners so I knock on the door once, but I don’t hear an answer, so I kick it out with
my foot in one go. I’ve been telling Mrs. Jenkins for ages that her door’s flimsy, and I’ve asked her to
let me fix it on more than one occasion, but she’s a stubborn old lady. Looks like she’d foreseen the
current disaster.
As soon as the door is out, the smoke comes out thick. The fire must have been running for a few
good minutes. And then I hear a child shrieking.
My blood runs cold, and I rush toward the screams. But there’s no child in there, not at all. Only a
tall, blonde lady running around Mrs. Jenkins’s living room, waving her arms and yelling like a
banshee as smoke barrels out of the fireplace. I’m next to it in two big jumps, spraying the foam all
over. I’m so glad I grabbed the extinguisher because Mrs. Jenkins never had one. Watching the smoke
die down, I’m thankful the fire wasn’t a real house fire. This idiot must have started it without
knowing how the fireplace works. Fuckin’ spoiled princess.
She keeps yelling, clutching her hands to her chest.
My head is killing me, and her shrieks threaten to break my skull in two. “Shut up!” I bark.
To my surprise, it works. She closes her mouth and looks around nervously with her big, blue
eyes. Fuck me for noticing their color.
“Did you open the damper?” I growl.
“What?” she asks, finally shifting her attention from the fire to me. She’s crying, her face black
from the thick smoke, with two clean paths down her face made by tears.
“Did. You. Open. The. Damper.” I accentuate every word like for an idiot, which she clearly is.
My tolerance for stupidity has run out by now.
She whimpers. “What is a damper?”
Oh, fuck it. I turn to the kitchen, grab a few towels, and wrap them around my hands. Returning, I
dive inside the fireplace.
“What are you doing?” She shrieks again. “You’re going to burn!” She makes a beeline toward
me, but I’m already done. I open the damper, and the smoke flows up the chimney. It will get rid of it
faster than if I just opened the door or the window. Chimneys are made this way, so the house won’t
burn down. The ancient and trusty-as-shit technology is clearly wasted here on this ridiculous
creature.
“Why did you do that? You’d burn!” Her eyes dart around my torso, and I become too aware that
I’m half naked in a stranger’s house.
“I wouldn’t. The fire was out already,” I explain but glance down at myself just in case. With the
amount of body hairs I have, a few may have gotten scorched.
“But the surface must still be hot!” She’s still yelling, and although it’s like sandpaper against my
brain, I’m grateful to find a drop of common sense in that head of hers.
“I didn’t touch any of it. See?” I spread my arms wide. “I’m fine.”
Her eyes rake over me, but I can’t see her facial expression behind all that soot. Her eyes survey
me one more time, narrowing as if not happy with what they see. She quickly averts them. I’m not
prince charming, but I’m not that ugly to look at. Her obvious disgust causes acid to settle in my
stomach. This is why I don’t mess with rich girls anymore, the ones who can only paint their nails and
aren’t capable of anything else.
The sound of a fire engine roars outside. Just great. Thirty seconds later, three people in full gear
burst in, stopping short when they notice me. One comes toward us while the other two hover by the
entrance.
“Dang, boy, you’re fast,” Austin says after asserting the situation. He’s the oldest at the station and
like a father figure to everyone he works with. We respect him tremendously, even when he’s busting
our asses. Especially then.
I grab my extinguisher and get ready to go back home. There’s no way this chick would know
what to do if a fire really did break out, so I’m her best bet for survival here. This thing goes with me
wherever I go, within reach in case of emergency. It’s a necessary precaution, or she’ll burn down the
whole neighborhood.
“What happened here?” Austin asks with a whistle, looking around.
“This idi… lady…” I gesture at the blonde. “Decided to light the fireplace without opening the
damper.”
“Oh, ma’am.” Austin coughs, trying to hide his laughter. “Are you all right?”
The woman shoots me a dirty look and turns toward Austin. Trying to maintain her pride, her
posture is so proper and intense, she might as well be the queen of England. “I’m fine, thank you very
much,” she tells him, a thankful smile on her lips.
“Yeah, good thing Mark lives nearby,” he says, a proud smile on his lips.
“You’re here just as fast as he is, so I’m sure you’d have been able to save me anyway.” She gives
him a sweet, megawatt smile, and her pearly white teeth look ridiculous on her smokey face. In fact,
her eyes and her teeth are the only places not covered in soot.
I briefly assess her attire: oversized—like four sizes oversized—pajama pants and a long-sleeve
shirt of an unknown color. Her long blonde hair falls in a tangled mess down her lower back, covered
in soot. My sister wouldn’t be caught dead looking like that, even at home alone on a Sunday night.
“Yeah, you got a point there. We need to check everything to ensure the fire didn’t spread.” He
looks around, wonder in his eyes. “Damn, the old bat really kept all this beauty to herself? Hmm.” He
proceeds to check the building.
As he does, the two other guys come closer. They’re new and from a different shift. I don’t even
remember their names yet.
“Sup, man. Heard a lot about you,” one says with a nod before turning toward Austin before
leaving. “We’ll be outside. Shout if you need us.”
I look around and see that Mrs. Jenkins took all the furniture with her and left her houseplants. She
hated those things with passion. Her kids thought she loved them, so they kept giving them to her as
gifts. She had to keep them. I bet she was more than giddy to dump them on this woman.
I turn my attention to her and catch her checking me out. My torso, to be precise. She’s so focused,
I look down to ensure I don’t have a nasty burn or something I don’t know about. No, everything looks
just fine. I glance back at her, and when she notices my eyes on her, she sheepishly averts her eyes to
her naked feet. It would be adorable if I wasn’t annoyed as fuck by getting awakened after a double
shift. Plus, her disgust a few minutes ago didn’t exactly stroke my ego.
Austin comes back. “All good. Do you need an ambulance, ma’am?”
The blonde shakes her head. “No, the gentleman stopped the fire on time,” she says, still looking
at her feet. After a few moments, I hear a “thanks.” It comes out of her mouth like it physically pains
her.
Fuckin’ spoiled princess. Even from here, I can tell the potato bag she’s wearing costs more than
any piece of clothing should.
“See you tomorrow, Mark,” Austin says with a wave, getting ready to walk out the door.
“Nah, I’m off tomorrow. Have some errands to run, finally,” I say, following him. Whatever
happens here now is the blonde’s problem, not mine. “You staying for another shift? It will be what?
The third for you?”
“The fourth,” he says. “Mary isn’t speaking to me, so I’m in a doghouse. I figure if I spend this
time at work and let her miss me, she may properly greet me later.” He winks as he laughs at his own
joke.
I chuckle and smack his shoulder. The escapades between him and his wife are legendary. They
spend more time fighting than making up, but they love each other. I guess it’s their foreplay.
Regardless, I wouldn’t know what a normal relationship would look like if it bit me in the ass.
Austin leaves the house and saunters over to the new guys outside. I throw one last look at the
woman, making sure she’s really all right. As annoying as the idiot has been, I still have some
empathy for her. She stands in the middle of the room, looking around at the mess and biting her
thumbnail. Her eyes seem lost, as if she’s mentally somewhere I can’t see, and she isn’t moving.
“Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance?” I ask her.
She blinks a few times, her eyes clearing. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thank you.”
I nod and leave. My job for tonight is done.
Outside, the crew is getting ready to leave. They’ll probably stay for a few more minutes just to
be sure everything is all right.
I get home and place the extinguisher back where it belongs, making a mental note to replenish it.
Ghost nervously moves around my feet, nearly knocking me down with his massive frame. “Easy, boy.
We have a new neighbor. I have a feeling our quiet days are over.”
He whines and presses his wet muzzle into my hand, his big brown eyes looking up at me.
I reek of smoke but don’t have the energy to take a shower, so I go back to my bedroom. Before
mindlessly falling into bed, I peek outside. My window is across from Mrs. Jenkins’s window. Well,
from her new tenant’s. Her curtains are open, and the light is on. She’s standing in the middle of the
room, her face covered by her hands. I step closer to the window, trying to get a better look. Her
shoulders are shaking. She’s crying. Fuck. Fuck!
Not your problem. Not your problem.
Even if she’s annoying as fuck, I’m a firefighter, and she might be in shock. The sour taste in my
mouth is impossible to ignore, and I’m about to go to her again when she turns, notices me peeping,
and jumps to the window to close the curtains. What do I do now? Just as I’m about to turn back to my
bed, an elegant hand, covered in grime, pops up between the curtains, middle finger raised. I chuckle.
I guess that’s my answer.
“Watch our new neighbor tonight, Ghost. Daddy was rough and kicked her door out,” I say to him
as my head hits the pillow.
He lets out a low bark and patters to the window overseeing her front porch. He’ll let me know if
someone comes around. Heaven knows I can’t watch it tonight.
 Chapter Three

ALICIA

I wake up groggy and puffy from crying. The first day of my new life didn’t exactly go according to
plan. To almost burn down the house on my first night… I couldn’t even make that up for one of my
books.
Speaking of my books, one positive is that I got some good inspiration from my next-door
neighbor. He’s very tall, a few good inches taller than me, and as I’ve mentioned, I’m not petite. His
brown hair was in a messy, low man-bun, and he has abs I’d describe as washboard in any of my
novels. And his arms? Huge. Real deal arm porn. I can’t stop thinking about his chest either. He’s
hairy. Very hairy. I was never the one to like hairy guys, but this particular one pulls it off like a
champ.
Perfect inspiration indeed—until he opened his mouth.
Oh, I saw the judgment in his eyes. For multiple reasons, I’ve become well acquainted with
people’s convictions over the years, so I recognize it when I see it.
And how much embarrassment can one person handle? A firetruck outside my new home on my
first night. I groan and cover my face with a pillow, wishing I could erase the humiliation. If Mrs.
Jenkins finds out, I’ll be out on my ass faster than I can sneeze. So I need to make sure she won’t. I
have a very long day ahead of me.
I took a shower before I went to sleep to wash all the soot and grime off my body, but I need
another one now. I still feel dirty, so I hop under the hot water and scrub my body, ridding it of the
invisible dirt. The more I scour it, the more I remember another time I tried to scrub off filth. A
different type of filth. Dirty, sweaty, wandering hands on my skin. I scrub faster. The hands slither up
my arms, and I scrub them fiercely too, wanting nothing more than to deterge my brain from the
memories. I scrub my skin so vigorously, it bleeds. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. The hands make their
way down my back and push me down. I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating. I claw at the hands—the door
handle—and run out of the shower. Here, I can breathe again. I’m alone. I’m safe.
It’s been nearly eight years. Why can’t I move past it? Why? I smack the tiled wall. And again.
And again.
When I’m done, and the panic is taken out on myself and the wall, I dry up and do my skincare
routine. It’s the constant in my life, keeping me grounded. It might seem superficial for some, but for
me, it’s the only thing that still makes me feel like a woman.
I might have joked about vibrators earlier, but I don’t use them. I don’t have a use for them. My
libido’s been dead ever since that night. My doctor says it will come back when the time’s right, but I
don’t think it ever will. At least, it feels that way. It’s had a lot of time to find its way back and still
hasn’t done so.
I’m broken, and I accept it.
After applying my seven-step morning routine to my face and body, I get dressed in my typical
grey oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants and go to the kitchen to assess the damage.
Smoke is still everywhere, especially on the walls and ceiling next to the fireplace. The front
door hangs on a hinge. One. It must have been moved by the wind at night. After my neighbor left after
saving my bacon, the firefighters came back and tried to put screws back in there, but the threshold
was destroyed. They did their best. The entrance was somewhat covered by the door, but not well,
and it won’t hold up for long. I need to call one of my brothers to come help me. The cold will be
here before I know it, and I’d like to be able to shield myself from the Maine elements.
I cover my face with my hands and groan loudly. Man, I can hear it now. I’ll never hear the end of
“I told you so.” Not until the day I die.
I start the coffee machine and get to work. Everyone in my family is a self-proclaimed proud
coffee snob, so I can’t do anything without a cup of good, sweet caffeine.
A few hours later, the front door bursts open, almost falling, nearly startling me to death.
A glass of tall, messy, and angry comes in without knocking. He’s wearing his brown hair in a low
bun, his beard neatly trimmed. A tight white T-shirt fits his impressive chest like a glove, and worn-
out dark jeans cling to his narrow hips and muscular thighs. I wonder if he forgot his jacket. It sure is
cold outside. It’s mid-September, but it’s uncommonly chilly out there—with the amount of muscle he
has, he probably doesn’t even know he’s supposed to get cold.
His shoulders are broad, even wider than my small door, fit for a fairy—or a very old woman. He
has to step in sideways to get in. I’m not kidding. It’s the only way he fits. I always wrote those
characters, but I’ve never seen one of them in real life. Well, maybe Alex fits the bill a little, but I’ve
never seen him stepping through any doorway sideways. I gulp, freezing on my knees, my scrub brush
forgotten on the floor.
And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. There’s a big man in my space. A very big man in my
space. I look around for an escape route. If he comes charging in, I’ll run for the back door and
outside to the front of the house, where other neighbors can see me. I’ll be yelling all the way. I will
not be quiet. Not this time.
I turn my attention back to him as he carefully watches me. Assessing me? Thinking about how
easy I’d be able to overpower?
I’m shaken from my thoughts as he lifts a box of tools in his hands to show me. “I’m gonna fix the
door.”
I let out a breath, gulping again but not with fear this time. Instead, with embarrassment. “You
don’t have to.”
“I know,” he says as he puts the tools on the floor. He checks the door out before standing upright
and turning to leave. “You need a new lock.”
“I wouldn’t need it if you didn’t break the door.” I stand and follow him outside.
“I stopped the fire. A simple thank-you will suffice.” He comes to a halt on the stairs outside my
home, turning toward me. Folding his bulging arms across his chest, he narrows his eyes.
“You could have knocked.” I mimic him by crossing my arms, but it lacks the energy he has.
“I did, but you didn’t answer. You were too busy shrieking like a banshee. It could have cost you
your life.” His large brow quirks up, challenging me to argue.
My mouth hangs open. “I was not!”
“Were too.” He annoyingly clicks his tongue.
My chest swells, puffing up like an angry dragon about to burn a village. I never scream like a
banshee, never. I’m calm and collected.
“Thank you for stopping the fire and saving my ass. Bye!” I say, running back inside and smacking
the door shut behind me. Well, I try to smack it closed, but it doesn’t work. Part of the frame is
missing. I sigh. I’d be in enormous trouble if it was winter. But it’s still fall, thank God.
Wait a minute. Bad people don’t care if the weather’s good or bad; they just come in and do bad
stuff. I shiver at the thought. I was sleeping with an unlocked door the whole night. I never do that,
ever. I must have really been in shock.
I continue my mission to scrub the house clean of soot, resuming in the kitchen when the front door
opens again.
“You there?” an already familiar voice calls in. I groan and go to meet him.
“What are you doing here?” I stand in the living room, arms folded across my chest, just as he did
before. Looks like it’s a default pose of mine nowadays.
He’s on the floor next to the door with his tools and a brand-new lock. “Come ’ere.”
“Why?” I narrow my eyes.
“So you can take the lock from the box and make sure it’s sealed and never been opened.” He
stretches his hand out, the clear plastic package containing the lock looking so small in his giant
hands. I swallow the lump in my throat. And then another.
With no snarky remark—or any, for that matter—I walk to him on wobbly legs and carefully take
the box from his hand. The factory seal isn’t broken.
“Good?” he asks, and I nod silently. He takes the box from me, cuts it with a pocketknife, and
passes the set of keys to me. I take it with another nod and murmur, “Thanks.” I can’t say it any louder.
If I do, tears will burst from my burning eyes.
Do I give off a vibe that I’m miserable and scared? Why did he do that? There is no way he did it
just to be benevolent, right? Nice guys don’t exist.
I walk to the kitchen and start the coffee machine again. The good one, not the drip thing. I fix a
mighty strong americano and debate whether to put sugar in it. He seems like a guy who doesn’t take
his coffee sweet, but looks can fool, so I decide to spice it up a little with just one spoonful and bring
it to him. He’s still fixing the door, but the missing pieces in the frame are back in place.
Silently, I pass the mug to him. He looks up at me, then at the mug and takes it with a nod. I wait
for his reaction, scared he’ll be disgusted. I’d be disappointed if he hated it. I put one perfect golden
spoon of organic brown sugar in it. It’s exactly how I take it, and nobody likes when somebody
doesn’t like our favorite things. He studies the cup for a moment and takes a careful sip. He pauses
for a moment, and the sip grows into a big, healthy gulp. Me likey.
He nods silently and puts the half-empty mug on the floor next to him as he returns to work. I do
the same. After about thirty minutes, I hear him clear his throat. “Lock the door behind me,” he says,
just loud enough for me to hear him but not loud enough to be considered a yell.
In the short time it takes me to walk to the living room from the kitchen to thank him, he’s gone. A
phantom of the opera. A ghost.
I check the lock, and to no surprise, it works perfectly. Tonight I can sleep peacefully, not
worrying about strange people breaking in. I still can’t believe I hadn’t thought about that yesterday. I
must have been exhausted; there’s no other explanation. Even when I lived with my parents, I
sometimes locked the door to my room. Absurd, but necessary for me regardless.
Hours fly by as I clean and clean and clean. By the time I’m done, it’s long been dark outside, and
I’m starving. I have a few slices of pizza left over from yesterday that I decide to warm up. It’s
September, and it’s time for lit fires and cozy socks in Maine. I look outside and, for a second, I
consider starting the fireplace. This time I know what to do to avoid disaster. But this idea quickly
vanishes when I stretch my arms and feel a pinch of pain in my back, reminding me of how I’ve spent
the whole day and why. No, thank you. I’ll use a cozy throw and be good to go.
I usually don’t like reheated pizza, but today it tastes like the nectar of gods, and I moan as I take
my first bite. While I chew this delicious cheesy goodness, I think about my day. My first real, whole
day of living alone. It went well, I’d say. Of course, it could have been better, but I’ve always dealt
with problems on my own. Fudge, I didn’t deal with them on my own this time, did I? I wish I did, but
without my neighbor’s help, I’d have had to call my brothers.
I jump when my phone rings. Somehow, they always show up in some way the second I think of
them. Ever since that night. I already know who it is without even checking the screen.
“Hey, Justin,” I say as I hit accept without even looking at the caller.
“How’s my favorite sister doing?” I hear a smile in his voice.
“I’m your only sister. And I’m doing great,” I answer as I stop chewing. I loathe open-mouthed
chewers and try to extend the same courtesy to people around me.
“You’re not scared to stay there by yourself, are you? Because I can come and stay with you for a
couple of days.” I hear the metallic rustle of keys, and I’m almost positive he’s halfway out of the
house to start the truck.
“No, please don’t.” I groan. “I’m fine, I promise. In fact, I’m very proud of you.”
There’s a pause as he stops walking. “For what?” He sounds confused.
“For waiting a whole day to call me.” Duh.
I can hear Kayla chuckling, and Justin clears his throat. “Yeah, well, that’s me, the best brother.”
Kayla guffaws.
I can’t help but chuckle. “She stopped you from pestering me, didn’t she?”
“Maybe,” he answers sheepishly.
“Thank you, Kayla!” I call louder so she can hear.
“No problem!” she shouts back.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again. There’s a hidden meaning behind his words.
I take a deep breath before offering a response. I want to make sure I believe it myself before I
sell it to anyone else. “Yeah, I’m good, Jus. Really good.”
“Okay.” I hear him drop the keys. “Promise you’ll call me when you need me?”
“Of course I will.” I nod, even though I know he can’t see me.
 “Okay, good. Love you, little sister.”
“Love you, big brother. Now go chill with your woman and stop worrying about me,” I say and
hang up the phone. Knowing him, he’d start looking for an excuse to stay over and guard me.
No can do—if he asked too many questions, I’d let the story about the fire slip at some point, and
all hell would break loose. He’d be here in a minute, throwing all my stuff into his truck.
I throw the dishes in the sink, trying hard to overcome the urge to not wash them immediately. I’m
so used to trying to have control anywhere I can. It’s a loud shout-out—and a fuck you—to the night I
lost control over my life. Even small things like washing dishes make me feel like I have a grip on my
life and what’s happening in it.
But the dirty plate keeps bothering me, looking at me from the sink with judgment on its perfectly
dirty surface. I take a deep breath and decide to take a shower just so I can break this soul-draining
eye contact. Letting control slip here and there might be another thing missing in my perfectly routine
life.
Instead of a shower, I fill the bathtub with hot water and not one but two bath bombs. I’m spoiling
myself rotten today.
In a house like this, I honestly expected an old-fashioned clawed tub, but in reality, it has an
average tub that can barely contain my long frame. It works for me either way. A tub is a tub. I sink my
tired body into the water and decide to spend a few minutes by myself, without scrolling through
social media or reading a book. Just me and my thoughts. A scary place sometimes, if I’m honest.
I lean back and close my eyes, hoping to get a moment of peace. But instead, I get a mental visit
from my neighbor. His broad chest pops into my mind and doesn’t leave. I open my eyes and
vigorously shake my head, but the image of his naked torso doesn’t go away. I shake my head some
more, but it’s still there.
I groan in annoyance and bump my head on the back of the tub. Why? Why are you in my head?
His wide, beautiful chest, covered in dark hair… I hate hairy men. I can’t stand them. The characters
in my books are always hairless with perfect, smooth chests, and yet this one particular—this… yeti
can’t get out of my mind.
His arms are the size of thick, old trees. Probably even bigger than Alex’s. When I was a teenager,
of course I had a crush on my brother’s best friend. It’s a given, duh. A right of passage of sorts.
Because of this, I’ve observed Alex’s body many, many times throughout the years. Of course, I’d
overgrown this stage by the time he left to serve, but still, in my sensitive mind, Alex was a hero.
Plus, he’s really huge. Like tank-size large. Always has been. So maybe it’s why I’m comparing my
new neighbor to him. Because I seriously think this guy’s arms are bigger. And hairier. That’s for
sure. And surprisingly, I find it hot. His pectorals are so pronounced, and his dark pink nipples…
How on earth do I even remember the color of his nipples when my house was on fire? How did I
even focus on them? My fingers itch to touch them, to see if they’re as smooth as they seem. Or
maybe he has other smooth parts? Now I’m itching to know.
My thighs slap shut on their own accord, water splashing everywhere with the movement.
Embarrassment creeps up my cheeks. A weird feeling between my legs makes me squirm, and I move
around some more, trying to get rid of it. It’s a feeling I lost so long ago, I don’t even remember what
it is.
Why, universe? Why now?
I groan and submerge myself into the water, attempting to keep myself there as long as possible,
long enough for my lungs to start burning and my brain to become busy with other thoughts—anything
other than imagining the hot man next door barreling right in here, asking if he needs to put out another
fire. Yeah, I’m not sure I’ll be able to escape those thoughts.
I rise above the surface and breathe the air in. My lungs do in fact burn as planned, but my brain is
still hung up on my night visitor.
The tingling between my legs is still there but subsides a touch. It’s so unfamiliar and long
forgotten that I honestly don’t know how to react to it. I don’t even know why it’s here now. My
therapist said it would come back at the right time when my body is ready to respond to the right
someone. It wouldn’t respond to the yeti, right? Because the look he gave me was anything but sexy.
I’ve seen that look around town, from people who don’t know me and only see a version of me I let
them see. Not this time though, no. This time I didn’t even have the chance to open my mouth, and he
already formed an opinion about me. And it was not a favorable one.
I groan again and get out of the bath—my me time is ruined anyway—and finish my evening
routine. A weird noise coming from the pipes makes me pause for a second. Is that normal? It sounds
like a wounded beast howling inside them, and an uncomfortable shiver runs down my still-wet back,
causing goose bumps to rise all over my body.
Do I live here alone? Do I want to live here alone? Or anywhere, for that matter?
For the first time since the idea of moving out entered my brain, I’m unsure if it was the right
choice. I mean, I’m not equipped to live alone per se, but I’m scared of anything with more than four
legs—meaning if I see a spider, I’ll get an aneurysm. I don’t know how to unclog the toilet if it
happens, and I don’t do grocery shopping because there are too many people in those stores, rubbing
against me in the isles. On the other hand, I have horrible nightmares, and most nights I wake up
screaming, covered in sticky sweat, so having no one giving me looks of pity in the morning is a huge
bonus.
The howling stops after a few moments, but my elevated heartbeat remains. If it comes back, I’m
calling Jake or Justin for a sleepover, hoping Jake is still in town. I wish I had a nearby girlfriend so
we could do girly stuff together, but I don’t. That’s my own fault. My closest friend is Josie, who
lives in New York. We FaceTime almost every single day, but it’s not the same. It’s not like I can fall
asleep on a call with her; unlike me, she has a life.
I pull on an oversized white T-shirt and red plaid pants and walk to the kitchen. A nice, warm cup
of peppermint tea sounds relaxing, and it’s exactly what I need. I take out my kettle, turn on the faucet,
and shit hits the fan.
Well, not quite so literal, thank God, because that would be a disaster. But something breaks under
the sink with a loud pop. I duck under to investigate, and when I open the doors, water starts spraying
everywhere. Under the water pressure, my million-step skincare routine washes away from my face
in a second. My T-shirt clings to my body for dear life, and my pants almost slip off; that’s how
powerful those angry pipes are.
“Fuck!” I yell, trying to get closer and see if I can close something in there or, at the very least,
wrap a towel around the pipe. That should help, right? But the pressure is so intense, it keeps beating
onto my face without letting me get an inch.
You dirty bastard, you’re the howling beast who nearly made me shit myself?!
By the time I reach the offensive pipe, the kitchen is wholly drowned in icy water—it’s about an
inch and a half deep—and there is not a single dry patch left on my body. Turns out the pipe burst.
The water hose looks rusty. I try to collect all of the kitchen towels to wrap them around the pipe,
but it doesn’t work. At all.
“Fuck me!” I kick the cabinet with my foot and howl in pain. “Fuck you!” I yell as I smack the
pipe with my fist, causing my knuckle to split. Just great. Just keep it coming, universe, would you? I
dive inside the cabinet again, but the moment the cold water reaches my split skin, I jump back and
yell. “Fuckity fuck!” As I fall on my ass. What in the ever-loving hell is happening right now? Who
did I piss off in my previous life?
I can’t contain it anymore. I just yell. I let all of my frustration out as loud as I can. “A-a-a-a-a-a!”
as I remain seated in the pool of water on my kitchen floor while the pipe still showering me from
under the sink.
 Chapter Four

MARK

To say my morning sucks would be a colossal understatement. I’m beat from back-to-back shifts and
not sleeping nearly enough after last night since I had to rescue my new neighbor, who is surely going
to be a pain in my ass going forward. I can already tell.
I walk Ghost in the morning, make myself breakfast, and go to do some grocery shopping. Before I
leave, I check the annoyance’s door, just to be sure of what I need to buy. I’m well acquainted with
the door after all of the issues Mrs. Jenkins had with it and don’t need to see the hinges in order to
buy new ones. Good thing I can do that from outside. It’s too early to face the banshee again.
A couple of hours later, I fix her door as silently as I can, because if I open my mouth and say
something to her, she’ll say something back, and I’ll likely strangle her. The woman has the insane
ability to wake carnal urges in my body by being this ice-cold queen. I want to shake her, just to
prove she has red blood running through her veins like the rest of us, even though she clearly thinks of
herself as better than us lowly animals.
I leave quietly when I’m done, without saying a word. I have so much stuff to do, but I’ve wasted
two hours driving to the store to grab what she needs and to fix it afterward. I could be doing other
things. It pisses me off and ruins my day, but a fucking hero-syndrome makes me put everything aside
and run to a rescue, either they want it or not.
Thankfully, later that evening, I relax a little. I’m home and relatively calm. Tomorrow I have another
shift, and I’m still groggy from the days I’ve had.
I took a shower and am about to let Ghost outside before we go to bed. I’m walking to the fridge
for a well-deserved beer in anticipation of a nice, relaxing dinner when a blood-chilling scream
pierces the air. Ghost’s ears go up and he whines. I run outside with him hot on my heels. Another
piercing cry comes from the neighbor’s house, and I don’t hesitate when I rush to her door. It’s
locked. Figures.
I step back and kick the door open with one hard push on my boot. I’m so fucking glad I put boots
on before walking Ghost. Kicking doors out while wearing slippers is an ungrateful job. The moment
the door is off the hinges, Ghost is inside.
We run toward the sound coming from the kitchen. My body tenses, ready to fight with whoever
I’ll find there. When we reach the kitchen, the cry intensifies.
My new neighbor is sitting on the floor, resting her elbows on her bent knees, her butt almost
submerged in the water that completely covers the floor. The water is spraying from under the sink
like a fucking fountain.
Ghost stops abruptly, and I nearly fall, stumbling over his body.
I drop to the floor next to her and ask, “Who’s here?”
She’s still yelling, so I shake her elbow lightly.
“Is anyone in the house besides you?”
She stops yelling, but her eyes are terror-stricken. Ghost nudges her cheek, and she moves her
attention to him, finally blinking.
I take a deep breath before asking again, “Is anyone else in the house besides you?”
She shakes her head with a quiet “no.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head again.
I don’t know what the hell happened here, but in the ten seconds I’ve been in her house, I’ve
gotten completely wet. “Stay here.”
I hurry to the basement, shutting off the main valve. When I turn to go back up, I notice Ghost
hadn’t followed me downstairs. Hmm, that’s unusual.
When I return to the kitchen, the scene greeting me nearly knocks me to my knees: my new
neighbor hasn’t changed her sitting position, but now her hands are resting on her soaked feet, her
knees bent to her chest while she stares ahead, unblinking. My loyal dog sits behind her, resting his
head on the woman’s shoulder. His butt is in the water, and he hates cold water. The spoiled little shit
always waits for me to warm it up before I clean his paws. His eyes are sad as he notices my
approach.
Ghost got his name for a reason. We never see him coming; he’s stealthy and mean. He knows how
to hold a grudge and isn’t friendly to anyone. He doesn’t even like my sister, simply tolerating her
presence, even though she’s been bribing him with treats for years.
I got him from the K-9 unit in Boston. He was my friend’s dog for a few months of training as a
puppy until they deemed him unsuitable for the job. My gain. The friend couldn’t have two dogs at the
same time—his unit rules—so he had to find him a new home. I gladly accepted the pup since I’d
been looking into shelters by then anyway.
Since then, Ghost has been my best friend, a part of my family, and my therapist. Sometimes, a
very mean one. He doesn’t bite, but he can give anyone a stink eye, sure to make them understand how
little their worth is. It’s precisely why I give Alicia and my dog a moment before I burst in. I’ve never
seen him try to comfort anyone but me.
And it’s fucking annoying.
“What happened here?” I ask, managing to calm my voice despite the adrenaline rushing through
my body.
She finally moves her attention to me. Those big blue eyes are full of pain, sadness… and
something else. Something that’s been lingering there for a long time, but I just noticed it. Something I
can’t name yet. “The pipe burst,” she says quietly.
“Why were you yelling?” I ask, calmer now.
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I got tired.”
“Tired?” I ask, annoyed. I’m back to being pissed off. What the fuck could she have gotten tired of
to yell like someone was killing her? “Of what?”
“Of living like that.” This time, I have to strain my ears to hear. I’m not even sure I was meant to
hear it. My annoyance evaporates. Ghost whines, nudging his wet nose into her neck. She shudders,
blinking rapidly. Her stare becomes more focused and present. Only now she understands she has a
huge German shepherd sitting behind her back, nuzzling his big head into her neck. “Of the pipe
fighting me. That’s what I got tired of.”
“It fought with you?” I raise a brow.
“It did.” She nods and turns toward Ghost. The bastard is eager for attention and hangs his tongue
out the side of his mouth. She carefully strokes the fur behind his ear, whispering something meant
only for him.
I’m jealous. I’m fucking jealous that she bewitched my dog, a mean bastard to everyone. But not
her. It took him months to warm up to me after the betrayal of his first daddy.
“I turned the main pipe off. I’ll check what the problem is.” I dive under the sink. The pipe has
given its last breath, and there’s no way I can fix it without replacing the whole thing. “The hardware
store is closed, obviously, and I don’t have anything I can replace it with now. You can call tomorrow
for someone to come and fix it or wait for the day after tomorrow. I’ll be off shift and can do it. Your
choice.”
“I’ll call someone,” she answers quietly. “Thank you.”
I nod in acknowledgment of her decision and whistle to Ghost. He whines but follows me. Thank
fuck, or I’d be super pissed.
When I’m about to walk outside, I notice the door is toast. Damn it, how can I leave her alone,
sleeping at night like this when a lot of weird shit has been happening in Little Hope recently? Last
night I was too exhausted to think about it, but now, when my brain is functioning, I can’t just close my
eyes to it. I sigh and walk back. She’s still on the floor in cold water.
“Do you have anywhere to stay tonight? I thought someone was here killing you or something…” I
notice her slight flinch, but I keep going. “So I kicked the door to get inside.”
Her eyes go round, but she’s quiet.
“So yeah, no door,” I say, feeling a little guilty. “Do you have anywhere to go tonight?”
“Sure,” she mumbles as the corners of her lips drag down. She’s the picture of pure sorrow.
Fuck my life. “You can stay with me.”
Her eyes widen even more if that’s possible, and I’m about to drown myself in those deep blue
oceans like a fool, led by his dick.
“I’m okay.” She wipes her nose and finally rises from the floor.
“It’s almost midnight,” I say after glancing at the clock on the wall. “Call them now so you can go
there.”
 “Sure, I will,” she says, still sitting without making any movements. She must sense me waiting
because she adds: “When you leave.”
I look up, calling for patience. I take several level breaths. “You won’t be calling anyone, will
you?” I ask when I’m able to speak calmly.
She shakes her head, not meeting my eyes.
“Why?”
Her voice is so small. “I can’t because I’ll never hear the end of ‘I told you so.’”
Yeah, I knew this was going to happen. With a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach, I make
her an offer. “My house is almost the same layout as this one, and I have a big couch. You can sleep
there, and Ghost will keep you company.”
There’s hesitation written all over her face. It’s clear as day. She’s confused. Hell, even I’m
confused about why I offered, but it’s too late to back out now.
“I don’t want to impose,” she tells me, meeting my gaze. Her voice drips with concern and
melancholy. But she shouldn’t feel concerned. I’ve been so used to people sleeping at my place
growing up, and later sharing a space with other firefighters, that sometimes I feel weird when no one
is around—hence getting a dog.
“You won’t. In fact, you’ll be doing me a favor. I’ll be up at the ass crack of dawn for my shift,
and you could do me a favor by walking Ghost in the morning.” I glance at the dog, his tail wagging
vigorously, too excited at the prospect. I send him a look. Traitor. He just hangs his tongue out,
mocking me.
“He has a cool name.” Her voice sounds shy, which is weird, considering her being a spoiled
princess and all. She would be; otherwise, she wouldn’t score this house. Mrs. Jenkins, the lady from
the local elites, is notorious for being picky, and someone must have pulled a few strings to get her
this place. “And he’s so cute,” she says, even shier. Where did her confident voice go from last night,
talking like she owned the world? She sounds like a normal person today. She looks at Ghost and
cracks a smile, the very first one I’ve seen on her face. My breath hitches. It’s fucking breathtaking.
Suddenly, I notice other things too, like the way her soaked white shirt clings to her body,
completely see-through. And her tits are gorgeous—big and supple. My fingers itch to touch them.
She’s got curves on her under those baggy clothes. In all the right places. Just how I like them. I can
see her narrow waist under her generous chest. Her pants hang low, clinging to her for dear life, and
my eyes travel long past her belly button. All through her shirt.
My dick stirs, and at that moment, I know it was a terrible idea to invite her over. I turn around,
subtly pretending that I don’t have a raging hard-on. “Get your stuff and come over.” I move to leave,
but her voice calls out from behind me, stronger this time.
“Can Ghost stay with me while I get ready?” She rushes as if embarrassed to ask. And she should
be. It’s my fucking dog. I turn around to remind her of it when I see her face. Her request isn’t one of a
spoiled brat but necessity. She’s probably scared to stay at some dude’s house or even stay here, an
evening on her own with no lock.
Even in Little Hope.
I keep forgetting I’m a large man with different fears. I swallow my sharp remark and nod.
“Stay here,” I command Ghost, and I walk away.
I can’t pinpoint why exactly, but her guarded aura nudges me inside, and I don’t like it.
 Chapter Five

ALICIA

I watch him leave my destroyed kitchen. Did I just agree to spend a night at the house of a guy whose
name I don’t even know? I guess I did. That’s not just out of character; it’s out of my mental capacity,
yet here we are.
I’ve never spent a night with anyone but one of my family members under the same roof, and here
I am about to walk into my neighbor’s house. No one will know where I am. Should I call one of my
brothers and admit defeat? They’ll haul me away from here before I even end the call.
Do I want to stay on my own so badly though? I look around. The kitchen is a catastrophe. I’m
sitting on my ass on the floor covered in inches of water. Some water seeped into the living room, but
most of it stayed in the kitchen. I’m so grateful to whoever built this house with such a tall threshold. I
nearly kissed the floor this morning when I stumbled over it, sleepy and groggy from the night I had,
cursing it with all the words I know, but now, I’m thrilled it’s here.
Ghost whines, drawing my attention to his dancing from paw to paw. He clearly isn’t enjoying the
cold water.
“Yeah, it sucks.” I stretch my arm to pet him, and he leans into my touch. His fur is so thick and
soft. Surprisingly so. I expected him to be… prickly, maybe? I don’t know. I’ve never had a dog.
Mom is a cat person, so we always had those fluffy egoistic bastards at home. They absolutely hated
me and used to pee in my shoes. I don’t have a good track record with pets.
Ghost is something else entirely though. His eyes, currently staring into mine, are intelligent—
almost on a human level or even brighter (yep, you got that right). He feels my pain, the one I’ve been
burying all along. I’ve heard that dogs are empaths, and now I’m sure they are. No creature that has
these compassionate eyes can stick to a bad person. And to be honest, I don’t know why, but the
grouchy man doesn’t set off any of my triggers. In fact, it’s the opposite. I’m calm when he’s around.
Yes, I yelled when I saw him in my kitchen. Who wouldn’t? A huge man, knocking down the front
door and barreling in? Yeah, that’s part of my night horrors. Until I realized it was him. Well, I didn’t
see him until he walked into the kitchen; at that moment, all I saw was a repeat of my nightmares.
Until he was beside me with his dog nudging my cheek with his nose. Only then did I comprehend
who was in front of me: a person I met no more than twenty-four hours ago and who already saved
me. Twice. Plus, he’s a firefighter. The people from yesterday clearly knew him and worked with
him, it seems. So I should be safe, right?
Ghost nudges my neck with his muzzle, reminding me of our current situation.
“Yes, boy. Let’s go.”
He jumps up and sprints to the living room, far from the water, not waiting for me. Shaking his
enormous paws as soon as he steps on the dry surface, he shoots me a worried look and proceeds to
dry himself.
Me though… It takes me a while to lift my wet, battered body from the floor. I’m soaked. My hair
is a disaster. My clothes cling to my body like a sleazy second skin.
Wait a minute! I look down and groan. My nipples are on full display. And the hot man had seen
all this mess, everything I’ve tried to hide for years. Everything I never planned to share. Why,
universe? Why?
I slowly walk toward the shower. I’m cold to the bone, and even though my skin looks wrinkly,
like I’m two hundred years old from marinating in the water for so long, I still need a shower. And I
need to warm myself up ASAP before I catch pneumonia.
I strip and get inside…
And no water comes from the shower-head. I groan as the cold sends painful shivers down my
body. I forgot Mark shut off the main valve, and so there will be no hot water—or any water—for me
in the foreseeable future. So I pull one of the towels from the hook by the tub, wrap myself in it, and
enter the nothingness of my mind. I go there often since that night. Sometimes, my mind enters a stage
where it can’t take anymore and just erases everything and thinks of nothing.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but a loud barking brings me back. I blink rapidly, trying
to clear the fog and look at the dog. He stops barking and watches me with a slight tilt of his head.
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” I smile at Ghost, and I swear he smiles back. “Also, you’re a bit
of a pervert.”
I step out of the shower and dry myself with a big, fluffy towel. Then I dry Ghost as much as I can
with the same towel. He deserves his own, but I don’t have another available at the moment. The
bathroom is a decent size, but there is almost zero storage here, so I put all my towels in the dresser
in the bedroom.
I throw a sad look in the direction of the kitchen. I don’t even want to think about how much I’ll
have to pay to fix this water damage.
I sigh before walking to the bedroom. I climb on the bed and put on another pair of pants and a T-
shirt, both extra big of course. Folding the pants up at the bottom just in case, I climb out of bed and
motion for Ghost to follow me. I grab a few towels on the way and a pair of fuzzy slippers because
it’s cold outside. I’m not psycho enough to walk barefoot, even in this state.
When I pass the kitchen, I throw the towels on the floor so more water won’t slip through. I stop
for a moment, contemplating if I should just get rid of the water in the kitchen now or wait till later. It
won’t go anywhere. I’m about to drop my slippers and get to work when I feel exhaustion eating my
muscles and bones. My knees crack like I’m ninety-nine, and I give up on the idea of doing anything
but sleeping tonight.
We slowly walk toward my neighbor’s house. Ghost’s letting me know he’s here with me by
pressing his big, warm body to my leg. I drop my hand and touch his fur. He’s still wet, but at least
water isn’t dripping from him anymore.
As I slowly move my feet, I think about what the hell I am doing here. Why did I agree to go to a
stranger’s house? What if I have a nightmare? What if he’s like them?
I shake my head because no, he is not.
Despite my attempt at relaxing, I still stop. I look back at my house. Maybe I’m safer in there,
even with a busted door.
A fluffy body moves behind my legs, pushing me forward, and I laugh. Squatting to the dog’s
level, I say to him, “Can you read my mind, good boy?”
He blinks at me with his beautiful, intelligent eyes.
“Do you think I’ll be all right?”
He sticks his tongue out and gives me a long, slobbery doggy kiss on my cheek, making me giggle.
The old Alicia would absolutely hate it. She was so squeamish. But I’m not her anymore. This
moment with him is something special. I cherish every single interaction I have in my life now. They
don’t come often because I never have the guts to be around people. I guess dogs are my buddies now.
I stand and proceed my walk at a snail’s pace to the neighbor’s house. I guess I should call him by
his name. Mark. That’s what the other firefighter called him. Such a short yet strong name. I like it.
When we finally make it to the house, the door is slightly ajar, and Ghost runs inside. I slowly
step over the threshold, expecting a bachelor’s den, like my brother used to have before Kayla moved
in: beer cans, dirty clothes, dishes everywhere. But something different greets me.
The house is simple but beautiful. He was right; it’s got the same layout as my house. The only
difference is that it mirrors mine. It has the same ancient fireplace, but his looks better. More
polished. The kitchen has a rectangular marble island. The backsplash is a work of art, like the most
difficult mosaic of abstract figures, yet the simplest one. The cabinets are wood. The molding around
the house is spectacular, so many tiny details merged into one gorgeous pattern. An oversized, worn-
out leather couch sits in the middle of the living room, and a ginormous flat-screen TV hangs on the
wall in front of it.
I gasp as I look around.
“It’s so beautiful,” I whisper to myself.
“Thank you.” A low voice comes from behind me, and I jump.
Mark steps back, throwing his hands up in front of him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, it’s fine. Sorry,” I answer. When will I stop jumping when a man talks to me? “I didn’t
expect your house to look so…” I can’t find the right word.
“Clean?” He raises a brow.
“Perfect.” That’s the word. His house is what I picture when someone says home.
His pupils dilate from the unexpected compliment, and his cheeks turn pink beneath his beard. We
both feel super uncomfortable with the deep but short conversation, so we look around.
“I’m Alicia, by the way.” I give a small wave with my hand.
“Hi, Alicia.” He swallows nervously and says, “I’m Mark.”
“I know,” I admit with a smile.
“How so?” His eyes narrow, but there’s no malice.
 “The other night, the firefighter called you that.” I wave behind me like the other night is right
there.
“Oh. Austin.” He nods in understanding.
“Is he your friend?” I don’t know why I’m asking, but I’m curious to know tiny bits about him.
“Yeah, he’s a good guy. Set to be the next chief. A well-deserved promotion.” He nods and steps
back when Ghost bumps into his legs, looking for daddy’s attention.
“Cool.” I don’t know what else to say. It’s more than I’ve spoken to anyone besides my family and
Josie. My social skills are nonexistent at this point, and I forgot how people usually do small talk.
He feels awkward too; I can tell. Maybe he’s reconsidering his offer.
“Look, I can just go home. It’s fine.”
“No.” He cuts me off and pauses before adding more gently: “No, stay. It’s fine. You can take my
bedroom. I just changed the sheets.” He points at the bedroom door. I know because mine is made the
same way.
“No way,” I answer, carefully eyeing him. This close, he looks even more massive than he was
entering my door sideways. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” Because the couch is closer to the door.
“Take the bed.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, looking tired. “We can spend all night arguing,
or you can go to bed, and I can sleep here.” From his body language and the true exhaustion written on
his face, I can tell he’s being a knight by offering me his bed, not a creep.
“All right. Thank you.” I contemplate saying something else, anything to dissolve this
awkwardness, but nothing comes to mind. “So it’s in there?” I nod toward the bedroom door.
“Yeah.” He lets out a loud yawn. “I’m wiped. If you can let Ghost out to the backyard tomorrow
and let him back in, that would be great.”
“Of course,” I promise, but he’s already headed toward the couch. He falls on it, folding his arms
under the pillow and turning away.
Well, I guess this is it. I search for a switch and find it in the same place as mine, by the kitchen. I
turn it off and walk to the bedroom, curious to see what will greet me there.
I can’t help but gasp when I step into the room. Where did he find furniture like this? It’s amazing!
A huge king bed takes up almost the whole room, which is tiny to begin with. The headboard is made
of dark oak and has the most incredible and detailed artwork. I walk closer, wanting to see what it is.
Are those Celtic symbols engraved into the dark wood? It’s the most beautiful bed I’ve ever seen,
and I’m actually happy he didn’t let me argue. Even if I felt bad—still do—about taking his bed when
he clearly isn’t very comfortable on the couch, it is clearly a little too small for him. I’m glad I got to
see this. There’s no other possible scenario where I can witness his bedroom.
No. Other. Scenario.
I will not be seeing anyone else’s bedroom beside mine, and I’m okay with it.
I kneel on the bed and touch the carvings, tracing the symbols with my finger. Its smooth,
lacquered surface speaks to my skin. It’s gentle and sexy and calm and passionate. I feel like I’m
reliving the days the carver had. Closing my eyes, I feel how their callused fingers moved along the
edges, smoothing it with every stroke. I’m overcome with the urgency to sniff it, so I bring my nose to
the wood and breathe in.
The calmness of a forest with a hint of lightly burned chemicals envelopes me in a hug. That
combination shouldn’t be so wonderful, but it is.
I lean against the headboard and look around. Two nightstands with the same Celtic carvings as
the bed adorn each side. A tall, skinny eight-drawer dresser sits in the corner. All of them are clearly
pieces of the same set, made by a person with golden hands.
 Suddenly I feel a weight on the bed, and I jump. Ghost’s whine anchors me back to the present. He
settles next to me on top of the covers.
“What are you doing? Are you even allowed up here?” I rub his ears as he crawls closer. “You
look too guilty, so I’ll go with no.”
He hides his nose under the comforter and wiggles his big tail while looking up at me with the
biggest, most adorable eyes. I never really knew what people meant by puppy-dog eyes. Now I do.
“Fine. Stay tonight.” I settle into the fluffy, comfy pillows and warn him. “Don’t make me stink
like wet dog tomorrow.”
He lets out a cute doggy fart and falls asleep.
Not me though. I lie awake with my hand in Ghost’s fur, looking at the shadows dancing on the
ceiling. I don’t know what to make of it—what to make of this situation and of my weird trust in this
guy. Is it because he’s a firefighter and supposed to help me? Maybe.
I don’t feel panic with a stranger sleeping in the next room. I’m not terrified that I haven’t locked
my door, and more than that, I haven’t even checked if there’s a lock. Probably for the first time in
years.
Lying here in a stranger’s bed and looking into the darkness makes me think that despite recent
events, I might have made the right choice by trying to move on.
 Chapter Six

ALICIA

I wake in a cocoon of warmth, fluff, and fur, a woodsy scent intruding my nostrils. Not that I minded. I
take a deep breath, settling into the fur with a content sigh.
Wait. Fur?
“Ghost!” I cry, my eyes shooting open as I move the heavy head from my chest. He lets out a tired,
whiny yap. He’s whiny for a dog of his size. I look down, observing his drool all over my shirt,
forming a huge wet spot. “Ew, disgusting.” I try to wipe it clean with my hands, but of course, it’s
useless. “Why are you in bed?” I eye him suspiciously.
He stops complaining and gives me a stink eye. “Oh, c’mon!” I glare back as I stretch to grab my
phone from the nightstand.
My phone that isn’t there. I never took it with me.
I freeze. I never forget my phone. Ever.
I must have been in so much shock yesterday, I didn’t even think about it. It’s weird because every
night, when I wake in a pool of sweat, I grab my phone and scroll through social media to distract
myself.
Wait a minute—
I didn’t wake up covered in sweat this morning. I woke up well rested and dry. Well, besides the
giant wet spot from the big, furry baby next to me.
I look at him with a sigh. He glances at me for a second, his head tilted slightly, like he knows
what’s going through my brain. We connect just a moment before he bends over to lick his jewels. He
does it a lot, so I remind myself never to let him give me a sloppy kiss ever again.
What time is it? I look around and see a clock on the dresser. It’s vintage and well loved, if the
worn-out metal is any indication, matching the rustic, handmade furniture adorning the room. It shows
twenty minutes past nine.
What? I’ve never been able to sleep this late. Nightmares keep me up. Justin and I are similar in
that way. He developed insomnia too, after that night. Only, he can’t fall asleep, while I wake up after
a couple of hours, not having nearly enough rest my body needs.
He thinks I don’t know, but I do. Mom does too. She’s been super worried, but he seems better
now. Since he’s been dating Kayla, the ever-present dark circles around his eyes have all but
disappeared, and the corners of his lips don’t point downward anymore. Before her, we could always
tell no matter how much he tried to hide his unhappiness, even when he was smiling. But the sadness
isn’t there anymore.
Ghost must have sensed the shift in my mood. He crawls closer and licks my hands. Just like that,
I forget I swore to never let him just a few seconds ago.
“Aren’t you a good boy?” I ask him, my voice unrecognizably high-pitched, as if I were speaking
to a baby. I play with his ears, paying special attention to scratching behind them. It seems to be his
favorite spot. He lets out a whine and looks at the door. “Ah, nature’s calling.”
After climbing out of bed, I walk to the door and open it. The moment I do, he sprints into the
house, and I’m forced to follow him. He stops at the kitchen door, the one leading to the backyard, and
scratches at it, so I let him out. While he’s doing his doggy business, I curiously look around.
The place is pristine, a far cry from my slob brother. Before Kayla, it was dangerous to step foot
inside his place without risking stitches or breaking a limb while trying to navigate everything strewn
about. It was that bad. His place is really the only bachelor’s den I’ve seen to compare Mark’s to.
Kayla has been like a magic fairy who cleans his place and makes it livable. I’ve been to her
trailer, now parked behind Justin’s place since she’s moved in with him (don’t ask me what they’re
using her trailer for now—I don’t want to know), and it looks so cozy and homey. She seems to know
how to make everything look nice and welcoming. Unfortunately, I sure as hell don’t possess such a
gift.
I think of the state I left my home in last night and sigh. I destroy everything. Time after time.
Today I need to call all the contractors I can find, beg them to help me, and beg them not to tell
Mrs. Jenkins or my brothers. I might have to call someone from Springfield and cross my fingers that
they don’t know anyone here.
I’m awakened from my thoughts when Ghost paws the door from outside, and I let him in. He runs
to his plate and digs into the food Mark must have left before he went to work.
I watch him happily eat, looking over Mark’s house once more, and yawn. I need coffee… but not
here. Mark’s kitchen is so pristine, I don’t want to ruin anything. And I’m sure I will if I touch
something. The last two days haven’t exactly proven otherwise. Besides being an intruder—and I am
an intruder—I can’t bring myself to overstay my welcome by using his kitchen for my own needs with
my kitchen right next door.
A ruined kitchen. A submerged kitchen. Oh, man. I groan and wrack my brain, trying to remember
if I have bottled water back home. Hoping I do, I head for the door.
“Okay, Ghost, I’m leaving. See ya.” I glance back at him, already at the door. Big mistake. A big
fat mistake. Those pitiful puppy eyes peer back at me. They have the power to shred anyone’s armor
into smithereens with just one look, and I feel my heart filling with astronomical guilt.
“Oh, c’mon, don’t do that to me.”
 The corners of his eyes droop as he licks his lips and lies on the floor, placing his big head on his
crisscrossed paws and boring his sad eyes into mine. A picture of misery and desperation.
I groan. “That’s so not fair.”
He lets out a tiny whine, and my heart officially breaks.
“Fine, you can come with me.”
His ears instantly perk as he jumps up.
I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head. “You’re a good actor. I see what you did in there.” I
direct a pointed finger at him, mentally reprimanding myself for being so sapless.
I sit at the breakfast table, waiting for his majesty to finish his food, and continue to ogle my
surroundings. There’s so much art. So many beautiful wood carvings. The molding on the cabinets and
along the walls is superb. It’s detailed and pristine, like the bed. The table I’m sitting at is perfect too.
It’s so smooth, and yet it’s clearly made by hand. So much love’s poured into the carving under the
lacquer that I lean in to look closer.
It must have cost a fortune, this level of handiwork. It’s amazing. I need to ask Mark where he got
all of this because I want a chair from the same place. I’ve always dreamed of a wooden rocking
chair, an old-fashioned one from a childhood fairytale. One I can curl up on, with a book and a cozy
blanket during long Maine winter nights. My room at my parents’ place was too small, and my mom
was a bit of a control freak about what types of furniture came into the house. I didn’t want to
interfere with her design.
Well, Jake was still there too. But Jake is a guy; I’m sure he’d be happy to live in their basement
till he’s forty. I wanted my own kitchen and my own yard. My own dishes and my own mistakes. The
only thing I’ve gotten from that list so far is the latter.
Ghost nudges my hand, letting me know he’s finished and it’s time to go.
“Are you sure you want to come with me? It’s wet everywhere over there.” I give him one last
chance to save himself, but he runs toward the door, wagging his fluffy tail. I shrug and follow him.
“Alrighty. Suit yourself.”
I check the lock to make sure it can close if I click it before exiting. I make sure to do so,
understanding that Ghost is staying with me until his dad is back. I don’t like dogs. I’ve never had
them, and here I am, a babysitter to this enormous-ass monster of a dog with intelligent eyes and a
slight ball-licking habit he should kick. Josie won’t believe me.
I silently remind myself to call her. She’s been bombarding me with messages about my move
since the moment I’d made the decision. With everything going on, I’ve been only giving her
halfhearted responses. She doesn’t deserve that.
When I open the door to my house, the humid air hits me like a wall, and I almost fall back.
Probably should have cleaned up yesterday, I think with a wince. Ghost trots past me to the living
room and jumps on the couch, making brief eye contact with me before licking his jewels again. I roll
my eyes. Typical male.
The kitchen is in the same state of disarray as I left it. There’s about one inch of water covering
the floor. For what feels like the tenth time, I find myself expressing immense gratitude to the
engineers of this beautiful little home for making the thresholds as high as they are.
I change into shorts and a tank top and bring out more towels to mop the water. But before I can, I
need to figure out who will help fix this mess to make the place livable again.
I fetch my phone from my room, wincing when I see a string of unanswered messages from Josie,
and dial Kayla.
“Hey, Alicia!” Her voice cheerfully greets me after two rings.
 “Hey, Kay. I was wondering if you could help me.” I chuckle sheepishly.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Before I ask, can you promise it will stay between you and me? Justin can’t know. Please?”
There’s a heavy pause on the other end. “All right. Shoot.”
I sigh. “Do you know of a plumber who can help me with something on short notice?”
Another pause. “A plumber? You just moved in. What happened?”
“A small hiccup with the sink.” I’m not technically lying. The break is one inch in depth.
“If it’s small, Justin or Jake can fix it.”
“I can’t ask them. You know why.”
She lets out a loud exhale. “I know. All right, let me see if I can find someone. I’ll call you later
once I know something.”
“And a contractor too.”
“Alicia…” Her voice starts to remind me of my third-grade teacher, who caught me throwing
balls of paper at the boy I had a crush on. “What’s happening?”
“Kayla, please, just let me know if you know someone.” I lower myself to pleading. “Please.”
I can hear her chewing her lip. “All right. I’ll call you.”
“Thank you! You are the best sister-in-law I’ve ever had!”
“I’m your only sister-in-law.”
“Ha!” I cry out. “I knew it! You set a date finally!”
“There’s nothing to know yet. Bye!” She hangs up with a chuckle. I think Justin is running out of
patience. Kayla’s been wearing that ring on her finger for… what, a year now? And still, she hasn’t
set a date. I think he may just handcuff her to his wrist and drag her ass to elope soon.
I understand though. They’d been stuck in that wheel of hate for so long, it was hard to get out.
They did, thank God. But it was more complicated for Kayla after years of torment.
My next task to tackle is Josie. I have a dozen missed FaceTime calls from her and about two
dozen messages. I sigh as I click call.
“Bitch, you’d better be in a sex coma because that’s the only excuse I’ll accept right now!” she
yells. Her face fills my phone screen, her eyes bright, makeup perfect as always. She’s walking, her
shiny black hair in perfect sixties’ waves bouncing with each step. I touch my hair, becoming all too
aware of its current ratty state.
“I’m sorry, Josie.” I wince. “I ran into some trouble.”
“What sort of trouble stops you from picking up your damn phone to shoot me a short message? I
thought you could have died! I was about to call a SWAT team on you!” She shakes her head.
“Well, glad you asked.” I point my phone camera to show her the disaster in my kitchen.
“Oh, shit.” She whistles.
“Shit, indeed. Now you see?”
“I see it, but I still don’t see why you couldn’t pick up your phone.” She sat down, scratching her
cheek with her perfectly manicured middle finger.
I laugh and flip the camera back around. “Because I left my phone at home.”
Her eyes, previously looking straight ahead, snap toward me, closely resembling the owl I saw in
my backyard the other night. “And you were—” She clears her throat before continuing. “Where were
you?”
“At my neighbor’s house,” I answer proudly.
“As in, for the night? The entire night?” Her eyes somehow widen even more.
“Yep,” I reply, popping the P.
 “What?” She jumps from her chair with a shriek.
“What the fuck?” someone says in the background.
She turns her attention to them and says, “Oh, you shut it, party pooper,” and then back to me.
“Like you spent the whole night at her house?”
I pause for dramatic effect, knowing she’s about to lose her shit. “His house,” I tell her, a smile
playing on my lips.
“What?” she cries even louder, followed by someone’s voice in the background.
“Psycho.”
But she ignores him. I stunned her into silence, an impossible task. “You spent the night at a
dude’s house?” She nearly shrieks.
“I did.”
Her eyes turn misty. “I’m so damn proud of you, girl. So proud.” She dabs the corner of her eyes
with a white napkin she produced out of nowhere and sniffles.
“We didn’t do anything,” I assure her, sighing.
“Bummer.” She scrunches her nose. “But it doesn’t make me any less proud.” The corner of her
lips turns upward in a knowing smile.
She knows about my situation. Well, she knows what happened to me, but she doesn’t know the
chain of events that took place for it to happen. No one does. But she’s aware of my nightmares and
my fears. In fact, she’s one of the only people who actually know about them.
We met in an online book club five years ago and seemed to instantly click. At the time,
everything was still so fresh. My nightmares came often, and I was having a hard time accepting them.
It turned out she was also going through a rough patch.
Josie was born in a small town in Arkansas. It’s the kind of town where everyone conformed to
certain beliefs, and no one was allowed to show any type of original thought. They couldn’t contain
her creative nature. She has too much personality for the small town to handle. Because of this, the
locals weren’t exactly kind to her, always treating her with prejudice simply for stepping out of the
stereotype they had written in stone as law. Colorful clothes, crazy makeup, and big hair—she always
had a distinct style.
I’ve always been jealous of how she’s embraced her uniqueness with unfettered confidence. She
was my opposite, and opposites attract.
Since moving to New York City, she’s surrounded herself with people who love the same things
and have the same free spirit. She’s finally been able to be herself.
We met—online via chat, as most people seem to do nowadays—the first year there, and we’ve
been inseparable ever since.
“So, who’s the stud?” Her brow lifts as she eyes me.
My eyes narrow. “How do you know he’s a stud?”
“Please, I’ve been to Maine.” She rolls her eyes. “Everyone there is a stud. All flannel-clad hairy
men with big muscles from chopping wood all day to keep their houses warm. They all definitely
know how to use their giant, sexy hands.” She closes her eyes, pure bliss flittering across her face as
she enjoys the image.
I can feel my eyes start to bug out of my eye sockets. She’s not wrong. Mark is both hairy and
sexy. A warm shiver tingles at my thighs.
“Well, yeah, he’s super attractive.” My cheeks heat.
“Book boyfriend attractive?” she asks, waggling her brows.
I sigh dreamingly. “Yeah,” I confess.
 “Ahh!” She squeaks. There’s a mumble in the background, and Josie turns to flip them off before
returning her attention back to me. “Talk about Maine; I have a big job in Portland in a few months
and was thinking maybe it’s time we meet up.” She glances to the side, looking shy all of a sudden.
I’ve never seen Josie shy, ever.
“Portland? As in Portland, Maine?” I feel a nervous pinch in my chest.
“Well, yeah. A big-shot developer I’ve worked with in New York just bought an old house there
and is planning to completely remodel it. I’ll be spending a few months gutting the place, and I was
wondering if maybe we could meet up for a coffee or something.” She pushes a lock of hair behind
her ear. I become all too aware of how her cheeks have pinkened.
Josie is a popular interior designer whose calendar is booked for the next two years. It must be
someone close to her if she suddenly made room for them, unless she’s known and didn’t say anything
to me.
“Do you think it’s weird?” She bites the inside of her cheek, looking unsure.
“Are you insane?” I roll my eyes. “It’s about time. I want to meet you in person before you’re an
age you’ll need to wear diapers. Again.”
Josie snorts. “I was at Times Square when the ball dropped last year. Let’s not talk about
diapers.”
“Fair enough.” I giggle.
“All right then. I gotta run now, but I’ll—” A loud bark interrupts us, and Josie whips around to
face me again. “What the ever-loving fuck was that?”
I flip the camera again. “That’s Ghost, my new friend.”
“Did you get a dog and not tell me?” She rears back, sounding offended.
“I’d never do that to you!” I bring my hand to my heart, making her chuckle. “It’s Mark’s dog.”
“The hot neighbor?” She rolls her lip inward, trying to suppress whatever’s clearly on her mind.
“Yeah, that’s him.” I nod, walking over to Ghost. He lays on the couch with his posture straight,
front paws hanging off the front.
“So, the guy’s a dog dad. Does he wear flannels?”
I scour my memory but can’t remember if he has. “Actually, so far, I’ve only seen him in pants.”
Her mouth hangs open, shocked. “You go, girl,” she laughs. A loud thud behind her captures her
attention. “I gotta go now, or they’ll throw me out of this gallery. Everyone seems to have a stick up
their ass.” She rolls her eyes. “Give that pretty boy a belly rub from Auntie Josie. Talk to you soon.
And bitch, don’t disappear on me like that again!” She points a finger at me before she disconnects.
I make do on my promise and give Ghost a belly rub before turning to the kitchen with a sigh.
What a disaster.
It takes me a couple of hours to remove the water from the floor. By the time I’m done, I’m sweaty
and stinky. The floorboards are raised, so they’ll need to be replaced. It certainly wasn’t on my list of
things to spend money on, so I’ll have to dig into my savings. I was hoping to use them to put a down
payment on a house. I silently pray I’ll still have enough.
My phone rings. Kayla. I pick it up, praying for good news.
“Sorry, Alicia, we have two plumbers, and they’re both in Copeland, working on houses that
recently had a fire. They say they’ll be there for a while. I think they’re trying to fix the place next
to it too, since it was damaged or something like that. I’m not sure. How urgent is your problem?”
“That’s not urgent,” I tell her, trying to sound optimistic. Inside, I’m deflating like a spent penis.
“You sure? Maybe Justin can come and take a look?”
“No!” I say way too fast and too loud. I sigh. “No,” I say calmer, “I’ll wait until they’re done. It’s
totally fine.”
“All right. I know Justin wanted to visit you tonight. I can tag along too.”
A feeling of pure horror spreads through my chest. “Nah, I’m still unpacking,” I lie. “Let me make
it look pretty first, and I’ll have a housewarming party.”
There’s a pregnant pause on the other end of the phone. Kayla isn’t an idiot. She knows I’m hiding
something, but she also understands the desire to be left alone. “All right, there’s a new movie I’ve
been dying to see; I think I’ll make him go tonight.”
“Yeah, you should do that.” I sigh in relief. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Call if you need me, all right?”
“Will do. Thank you, Kay.”
I think she’s unofficially adopted me as a big sister. Even though we’re about the same age, Kayla
is far more mature, considering she’s been living on her own forever. Plus, I don’t know what I’d do
if I didn’t have her to avert Justin’s attention from me here and there. My big brother is super
overbearing.
I look behind me to the family room, seeing Ghost curled up. He senses my gaze, picks his head
up, and lets out a lazy yawn. I walk to him, dropping down beside him as I let out my own yawn. He
instantly places his head on my lap, and my hands dig into his fur of their own accord. I think rubbing
his ears is comfort for me more than it’s a pleasure for him.
I think about what I should do now. I have no plumbers and no contractors. I can’t call my
brothers or father because I’m scared I’ll be dragged back to my parents. It’s a shame, really, two
days after I’ve moved out.
I pull up Google, search for plumbers and contractors in neighboring cities, and make a few phone
calls. None of them are available immediately, and I needed the work done yesterday. I don’t even
have water, for God’s sake. I can’t take a shower or flush the toilet. All I have is a case of bottled
water.
Mark offered to take a look at my pipes—I make a mental note of how dirty that sounds and
promise I’ll use it later in one of my steamy series—and I just might have to accept his offer. I didn’t
want to accept it at first because it’s so embarrassing, but I may not have any other choice. And I need
a shower. But I have no water. I can’t go into town looking and smelling like this. I cover my face
with my hands and groan.
 Chapter Seven

MARK

The morning after the pipe situation, I wake up with pain in my back. That’s what happens when you
pass the thirty-year-old mark (ha-ha, a corny joke here) and sleep the whole night on the couch. The
next stage is aching knees when you stand up too fast; thank God I’m not there yet, but carrying heavy
shit all day, every day, has undoubtedly taken a toll on my body.
It feels weird not to have Ghost’s body next to me. He went to sleep with our guest yesterday, so I
woke up alone, grumpy, and in pain.
I glance at the bedroom door, trying to recall the events of the evening before and figure out how
she ended up at my place. She’s the type of girl I stay the hell away from. After everything that
happened in the past, messing with girls like her is never worth it. They are used to getting everything
handed to them from birth. Everything comes easy for them, and I want nothing to do with her—a
cold-blooded, gorgeous woman, too beautiful and perfect despite the state of total disarray I found
her in. Her head was held too high and the clothes on her confident shoulders probably cost more than
a car. She has the attitude to match. Yeah, I don’t think so.
And yet, here we are. I gave up my comfy bed for her. My perfectly made bed with perfectly fluffy
pillows and that goose-down comforter that Ghost and I love so much. I curse a little that the little
bastard still got to enjoy them.
My sigh is loud. Why? Why did I do that? For fuck’s sake, I’ve never even liked my girlfriends
staying the night. So much so that I always tried to meet up at their place. I like guests, but I don’t like
women as guests. They tend to bring too much trouble, and I have the stories to prove it.
 And yet, remembering this does nothing to bring my morning wood down. It actually does the
opposite. When I recall yesterday, my blonde neighbor appears in front of my eyes. Her see-through
shirt… clinging to her breasts. All my blood rushes south, and the sensation in my dick turns painful. I
give it a hard squeeze, hoping to ease it a little, but it makes it worse. I bury my face in my hands and
groan. I brought trouble into my own house.
I know from experience that my little situation won’t go away on its own. If I ignore it, I’ll risk
ending up with blue balls for my whole shift, which is not fun. I glance at the bedroom door one more
time and stand, hoping she won’t walk out. I sneak to the bathroom, mentally thanking myself for
keeping a spare change of clothes in the bathroom cabinet. It’s a habit from the firehouse I picked up
over the years I’ve been there, and it comes in handy from time to time.
While I wait for the water to warm, I brush my teeth and try to pee. A useless fucking task with a
hard dick that refuses to subside. I consider taking a cold shower. It would work for the time being,
but I remember the last time I decided to skip my morning jerk-off session.
I lean back, silently cursing my desperate need to get off every day to stay sane. None of my
girlfriends could keep up, and honestly, I didn’t share my problem with either of them—didn’t want to
risk sounding like a psycho.
I can’t precisely pinpoint the exact moment it started. When I was younger, I only cared about
having willing pussy at my door whenever I wanted. It’s why I went for those girls. The “good” girls
from the good side of town only wanted to see how it would be on the wild side with a guy from the
bad neighborhood.
I needed sex like I needed water. Maybe it was a control thing. I’m not sure. I’d have my way
with whoever came my way and then add a solo session at night to fall asleep.
Since then, I have learned to control it. I don’t require as much sex anymore, but I still crave it. I
love the feeling of a woman in my hands, their soft bodies, their perfect curves… My cock gets harder
at the thought. To think of it, the last memory was far too long ago, which might be contributing to the
steel rod in my pants.
These days, it’s just my hand and me. Sometimes having a girlfriend is complicated, and I ran out
of those in Little Hope long ago. My last girlfriend was from Springfield, and we broke up six months
ago. She wanted more than I was willing to give. My history is far too messy for me to be in a healthy
relationship, let alone even be in the same room where marriage is being discussed.
So the moment I realized she was pointing out rings, I was out. In my defense, I was open from the
beginning about what was or wasn’t going to happen between us, so it shouldn’t have come as a
surprise. Yet it still did. She threw a fit.
I’ll never get married and will never have kids. I don’t know shit about raising kids, much less
kids I won’t fuck up with my own issues. I raised my sister, ten years younger than me, and I still can’t
be positive she doesn’t have a few screws loose.
I step in the shower, sighing into the hot water beating down on my aching shoulders. In pain with
a raging hard-on… Not a good way to start a twenty-four-hour shift.
My dick is somewhat softer. Remembering my childhood tends to deflate everything in me. But I
know I have to get it out of the way, or the only thing I’ll think about the entire shift is how my
neighbor’s shirt clung to her the night before.
I grab the base of my cock and squeeze it, making the head turn a dark shade. Blood rushes to it in
an instant.
I squeeze some shower gel into my palm and try to recall the last porn video I watched. It works
for a moment. Two hot chicks in high heels go at each other, their tongues intertwining with intensity,
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 FERDINAND HILLER.

From a photograph from life by Eilender,

of Cologne.

Ferdinand Hiller (1811–85) followed more or less in the footsteps

of Mendelssohn, and his works, though finished in form and
pleasing, lack strong individuality, and, with few exceptions, have
remained unfamiliar except to cultivated musicians. His pianoforte
concerto in F sharp minor, and his oratorio “Destruction of
Jerusalem” are among his best works. Hiller occupied a very
influential position as a pianist, conductor and writer. His extended
and intimate acquaintance with most of the musical celebrities of his
time renders his writings of particular value. His “Aus dem
Tonleben” and “Persönliches und Musikalisches” are delightful
reading and the source of useful information.
Julius Rietz (1812–77) was closely associated with Mendelssohn
and influenced by his style. His concert overture in A major,
Lustspiel overture, and Symphony in E flat are his most successful
works. His best reputation rests on his great abilities as an orchestral
conductor and his technical scholarship.

CARL REINECKE.

From a photograph from life by

Brokesch, of Leipsic.

While Rietz was conductor of the Gewandhaus orchestra, from

1848 to 1860, he accomplished the most important work of his life,
namely, the correction of errors that had crept into the scores of the
great masters. In the complete edition of Beethoven’s works,
published by Breitkopf and Härtel, Rietz edited the symphonies. He
was also editor of the complete edition of Mendelssohn’s works. Carl
Reinecke (born 1827), the present conductor of the Gewandhaus
concerts, stands at the head of musical life in Leipsic. As a composer
he is to be considered to some extent as a follower of Schumann. He
has been productive in nearly all forms of composition, and exhibits
everywhere thorough practical experience and refined musical taste,
yet few of his larger works have won great prominence. On the other
hand, his smaller piano compositions are highly prized. His overture,
“König Manfred,” and his piano concerto in F sharp minor are
favorites.
Woldemar Bargiel (born 1828) is considered as one of the
foremost disciples of Schumann. Some of his chamber music and
especially his noble overture to “Medea” have taken high rank among
later compositions.
Adolph Jensen (1837–79) was an enthusiast for Schumann, and
took him as his model. He wrote cantatas and piano compositions
that are much admired, and his songs have made his name famous.
Jensen was a born song composer, and his melodies have rare
sensuous charm and sentiment.
Friedrich Robert Volkmann (1815–83) belongs also to the
romantic school. Schumann exercised a great influence on him in his
piano works, which bear fanciful titles.
His two symphonies and his string quartets are admired for their
solid style, yet this music is not sufficiently spontaneous in melody
and marked in style to gain universality.
Norbert Burgmüller (1810–36) and Hermann Goetz (1846–76)
were not spared to fulfil the promise of their gifts. Burgmüller left
two symphonies, an overture, and other compositions which are of
decided merit. Schumann declared that since the untimely death of
Schubert there was no more deplorable event than the loss of
Burgmüller.
Goetz was first made known to the musical world by his opera,
“The Taming of the Shrew,” which achieved a rapid success. He did
not live to finish his second opera, “Francesca di Rimini,” which was
subsequently completed by his friend Frank. His Symphony in F has
been played in Europe and America.
Franz Lachner (1804–90) was one of the most popular composers
of South Germany. He sprang from a musical family. His father was
an organist, and his brothers Ignaz and Vincenz were prominent
musicians. Like so many other “Kapellmeister” composers, Lachner
has been wonderfully prolific and facile in all forms of music, without
accomplishing anything truly original or great. His best symphonies
are those in C minor, D minor and D major. His suite in D has been
much admired. Kalliwoda, Vierling, Dorn, and Taubert belong to this
same class.
Wilhelm Taubert (born 1811) was fellow-student with
Mendelssohn under Ludwig Berger. He was a brilliant pianist and
well-trained composer. For many years he was conductor of the
Royal Opera at Berlin. His operas, symphonies and other large works
have not prominence, but his songs have a pleasing quality that has
made them universal favorites.
Mention should be made of Julius Otto Grimm (born 1827), whose
ingenious and effective “Suite in Canon form” has found a place
everywhere on concert programmes; and Salomon Jadassohn (born
1831), the eminent musical theorist of the Leipsic Conservatorium.
His treatises on Harmony, Counterpoint, Fugue, etc., are among the
best. His powers as a composer have been displayed in his
symphonies, chamber music, etc. His serenades for orchestra are
especial favorites. He shows great facility in canonic writing.
 FRIEDRICH ROBERT VOLKMANN.

From a photograph from life by Keller &

Borsos, of Budapest.

Among German composers of choral works, during the present

century, the following have been prominent:—
Friedrich Schneider (1786–1853) was eminent as a teacher and
conductor, and as a composer excelled in the church and oratorio
style. His oratorios, “Das Weltgericht” and “The Deluge,” are his best
known works. (Robert Franz was one of his pupils.) Bernhard Klein
(1793–1832) was also a worthy representative of the sacred style. His
oratorio of “Job,” his motets and other church compositions are pure
and religious in feeling.
Moritz Hauptmann (1792–1868), one of the most eminent musical
theorists of the nineteenth century, was also a composer of true
merit. His earlier compositions were mainly for the violin, in which
he showed his affinity with Spohr. His vocal works are more
important, and include two masses, motets, three-part vocal canons,
and sacred songs; these works hold a place among classical church
music.
Eduard Grell (1800–86), director of the Berlin Singakademie, was
an able representative of a capella choral music. His sixteen-part
mass is a masterpiece of polyphonic skill.
Friedrich Kiel (1821–85) is pre-eminent among recent masters of
sacred music for his depth of religious feeling and perfect polyphonic
art. His “Requiem,” “Missa Solemnis” and oratorio, “Christus,” are
noble and profound works.
Albert Becker (born 1834), the well-known Berlin conductor, is the
composer of a “Reformation Cantata” and “Mass in B flat minor”
which take high rank among compositions of their class. Among
numberless works for male voices, none have been more highly
esteemed than those of Carl Friedrich Zöllner (1800–60) and
Heinrich Esser (1818–75). The latter is distinguished for his refined
and melodious style. His numerous songs and part songs are
universal favorites, and are held in high esteem by cultivated
musicians. His symphonies and suites are also well known. Wagner
entrusted Esser with the arrangement of his “Meistersinger” for the
piano. Esser’s arrangements for orchestra of Bach’s organ
“Passacaglia” and “Toccata in F” are skilfully done.
The lighter style of opera has been well represented in Germany,
during the present century, by Lortzing, Flotow, Von Suppe, Brühl,
Johann Strauss and others.
Albert Lortzing (1803–51) is known and loved by all Germans in
his operas, “Die beiden Schützen,” “Czar und Zimmermann,” “Der
Wildschütz” and “Der Waffenschmied.” These are stock pieces in the
repertory of every German theatre, and never fail to delight
audiences. The “Czar und Zimmermann” is a universal favorite. His
serious opera, “Undine,” on the contrary, is a labored effort in an
uncongenial field; but it has succeeded in holding its place on the
German stage. As a composer of comic opera, Lortzing is thoroughly
delightful in his naturalness and straightforwardness. His opera texts
—written by himself—are full of movement and variety, and their
naïveté is never synonymous with dulness. His “character” rôles are
especially full of possibilities for clever actors. Lortzing’s pleasing
operas have shed the light of wholesome and lively entertainment
into many millions of lives.
 The “Nachtlager in Granada,” by Conradin Kreutzer (1782–1849),
is familiar enough to all German theatregoers, although its composer
has retained his popularity rather by his songs and male choruses.
More famous than Lortzing, though less meritorious, was
Friedrich Flotow (1812–83). Of his fifteen or more operas,
“Stradella” and “Martha” are the only ones universally known. The
artistic aim of Flotow was not high, yet his talent enabled him to
make a distinct contribution to the “light literature” of music. Certain
of the melodies of “Stradella” and “Martha” have more sentiment
than is usual with the music of this class. Nevertheless, the
popularity of these two operas seems to be on the wane, and it is
possible that Flotow may be known only by name to the next
generation.
 FRANZ LACHNER.

From a photograph from life by

Luckhardt, of Vienna.

(See page 595.)

Otto Nicolai (1810–49), director of the Domchor and Royal Opera

of Berlin, composed a number of conventional Italian operas and
other works. His “Merry Wives of Windsor” is one of the most
popular comic operas of the present time. The overture is especially
charming, and a great favorite in the concert-room.
Franz von Suppe (1820–92), “the German Offenbach,” composed
an immense number of pleasing operettas and vaudevilles, of which
his “Fatinitza” is celebrated. His overture to the “Poet and Peasant” is
one of the most popular light overtures ever written.
 Ignaz Brüll in his opera “Golden Cross,” and Victor Nessler in his
“Piper of Hamelin” and “Trumpeter of Säkkingen,” have achieved
success. Their great popularity in Germany is an illustration of the
fact that the opera public in general have a different standard of taste
than cultivated musicians.
Johann Strauss (born 1825), the younger, has won great success
with his operettas. His “Fledermaus” and “Der Lustige Krieg” are
known all over the world.
In the field of dance music Germany leads the world. The strains of
Lanner, Gungl, Waldteufel and Strauss are heard in every land. For
piquancy, sensuous charm of melody, rhythmical swing, thematic
contrast and effective orchestration, the waltzes of Lanner and
Strauss are to be classed with the most artistic productions of
modern Germany.
Since Schubert’s day, the German Lied-form has been cultivated
by many composers, the noblest of whom are Loewe, Schumann,
Franz, Rubinstein and Brahms. Loewe and Franz were specialists,
but their songs are very unlike. In Germany, Loewe has been
especially popular with the masses, while Franz, by his exquisite
taste and feeling, appeals more strongly to cultivated musicians. In
certain respects Franz and Schumann share with Schubert in the
fulfilment of the highest ideal of the German Lied.
Carl Loewe (1796–1869) was a productive composer in various
fields of music, but his reputation rests on his merits as a ballad
composer.
The number of his ballads which have gained universal popularity
is very great. Among them may be mentioned “Edward,” “Herr Oluf,”
“Abschied,” “Goldschmieds Töchterlein,” “Der Wirthin Töchterlein,”
“Die Braut von Corinth,” “Heinrich der Vogler,” “Erlkönig,” and “Die
Gruft der Liebenden.” His musical style is remarkable for its
dramatic picturesqueness and justness of declamation. With him
everything is made to contribute to a full rendering of the meaning of
the text. His works have become very popular, and their popularity is
by no means on the wane. It is remarkable, however, that beyond the
boundaries of Germany his ballads are but little known.
The musical productiveness of modern Germany has been
displayed in no single branch so overwhelmingly as in songs. It may
truly be said that every composer, great and small, has produced his
sets of Lieder, though it has been vouchsafed to only a chosen few to
merit distinction in this over-crowded field. Among the multitude
who have composed songs in a light style are several whose services
to popular music ought not to be underestimated. The most
prominent of this class are Heinrich Proch (1809–78), Friedrich
Kücken (1810–82), and Franz Abt (1819–85). Of these, Abt is the
ablest and the most widely known. Most of his songs are trivial in
character, but a few, like “When the Swallows Homeward Fly,” have
touched the popular heart and deserve their widespread fame.
The preceding brief account of the minor composers of Germany,
belonging to the “classical” and “romantic” periods, may serve to
show that in art as well as nature the “survival of the fittest” seems to
be the governing principle of evolution. Comparatively few works of
musical art are monumental, and survive the changes of fashion, the
inconstancy of the public, and the ravages of time. Among the crowd
of masters who are grouped around the central figures are some who
merit a better fate than has befallen them. Some day, no doubt, their
now forgotten works will be revived, just as those of neglected poets
and painters have been. Surely fame is to some extent the accident of
fortune. The case of Sebastian Bach is the most striking illustration.
Of the majority of imitators or epigones, however, it may briefly be
written, as the abstract of the historian’s page,—they lived—and died.
 SALOMON JADASSOHN.

From a photograph from life by

Naumann, of Leipsic.

(See page 595.)

We come now to the more recent and widely celebrated

composers, Raff, Brahms, Rubinstein, Goldmark, Bruch and
Rheinberger, who form the subject of special articles in this work.
These masters are not to be classed with the new movement
inaugurated by Berlioz and Liszt in concert music and by Wagner in
the music-drama, but with the “classical-romantic” masters. Raff, it
is true, wrote “program” music, but he differs from Berlioz and Liszt
in holding almost strictly to the regular construction of the
symphonic form. Though Raff, in his earlier days, was a warm
advocate of the ideas of Wagner, his own music bears little relation
to the great works of the musical dramatist. Raff has a style of his
own. He never repeated himself, notwithstanding the enormous
amount of music he composed. This fertility of ideas was in fact a
source of weakness, since it rendered him careless in the choice of
themes, and blunted his feeling for what was truly refined and
elevated. He often failed to keep to the high level of the true
symphonic spirit and style. His “salon” style crops out here and
there. The “Lenore” and “Im Walde” symphonies are his most
celebrated works.

MORITZ HAUPTMANN.

From a portrait loaned for reproduction

by C. Weikert, of New York.

(See page 595.)

No living German composer represents the tragic and intellectual

side of modern subjective music so impressively as Brahms. The
strong outlines of his character are impressed on all his music. He is
entirely opposed to the so-called “new German school” of Liszt and
Wagner, and adheres strictly to the classical forms. No comparison,
however, ought to be made between him and Wagner, as Brahms has
never turned his attention to dramatic music. Brahms defends his
own art-principles on the ground of absolute music. His love for the
strict, logical process of thematic development proves his affinity
with Bach. The leading theme is the germ of the whole movement;
and notwithstanding the episodes and secondary themes, he is not
usually drawn away from the main idea. Brahms has no living peer in
the art of developing themes; here he shows wonderful ingenuity and
infinite skill. In general, however, his themes do not captivate us like
the heaven-born melodies of Schubert and Schumann. Strength,
purity, nobility and profundity of thought, rather than sensuous
beauty, grace, lightness, naturalness and spontaneousness, are his
leading characteristics as a composer. A certain heaviness of spirit
and gloom, nay, asceticism, prevail in his music. He appears at his
best in his “German Requiem,” which many musicians consider to be
his greatest work. His symphonies and other instrumental
compositions occupy the foreground at present. Although musicians
are still divided in opinion as to the ultimate position of Brahms
among the great masters, no one can deny that his music is gaining
public appreciation year by year. He is universally recognized as the
foremost living composer of Germany.
The so-called “musical reform,” inaugurated in Germany more
than a generation ago, was not incited by Germans, but by the
adopted composers, Berlioz and Liszt. Their aim was simply to make
poetical ideas the motive and governing principle of the form and
material of their tone-works. The idea of “program” music, however,
was not original with them; in fact, it is centuries old. Beethoven was
the first great master to write elaborate program music; but his
“Pastoral Symphony” was, in his own words, “more expression of
emotions than tone-painting.” In this short statement of his faith he
has clearly defined the true scope of descriptive music. He gave
poetic titles to certain other works, as, for instance, the “Heroic
Symphony,” the “Passionate” and “Farewell” sonatas, which serve to
indicate in a general way the poetical motive that swayed his
imagination. Spohr, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Raff, Rubinstein and
other later composers have followed Beethoven’s example. Most of
the program music of these masters does not modify the traditional
form of musical construction. Berlioz went much further, and
conceived the idea of using elaborate word descriptions to give a
detailed and minute exposition of his pseudo-symphonies. Berlioz
shot beyond his mark. Berlioz made his program serve as a kind of
running commentary on the music. Liszt did not attempt this; his
aim was a simpler and a better one. Symphonic Poem is the happy
name for an original form which he created in orchestral music.
Some character or event was chosen as a poetical motive easily
realizable in music; as, for instance, the Lament and Triumph of
Tasso, in which the passion and struggle of the great poet are vividly
portrayed, or the wild ride of Mazeppa, which, as in Victor Hugo’s
poem, has a symbolical meaning. Mazeppa represents the gifted
man, or genius, tied down by fate, but destined to free himself and
ultimately to triumph over evil. The galloping horse is suggested by
wild triplets, and the final triumph is expressed in the march with
which the work culminates.
The symphonic poems of Liszt, and those who follow strictly his
example, are not divided into a number of distinct, separate
movements like the symphony, but the changes of tempo or
movement follow each other without break. Liszt made a prominent
use of the Leitmotiv (leading-motive) principle, which he adopted
from Wagner. It will be observed that the result, however, is wholly
different, for Wagner in the course of one of his music-dramas uses a
variety of dissimilar and strongly contrasted leading motives. His
music, therefore, is based on the polythematic principle, whereas the
symphonic poems of Liszt are generally monothematic. The leading-
motive is one thing in connection with the drama, another as
employed in the concert-room. In the latter case it serves the same
purpose that it has in the fugues of Bach (mostly founded on one
theme) or in certain movements of symphonies. It is simply the
working up on the imitative principle of a leading idea, which is
modified, enlarged, curtailed and varied according to the conditions
of counterpoint, harmony, rhythm, etc. So far as thematic imitation
is concerned, the symphonic poem is an offshoot of the symphony or
overture. What the symphonic poem has gained in conciseness of
form it has lost in grandeur and impressiveness. The symphonic
poem relates to the symphony as a noble and beautiful church does
to a grand, awe-inspiring cathedral. In treating his grandest subjects
—“The Divine Comedy” of Dante, and “Faust” of Goethe—Liszt
returned to the general outlines of the symphony.
 ALBERT LORTZING

(See page 595.)

The symphonic poem is a welcome addition to modern music, but

it is capable of further development both in form and character.
There is no reason why the polythematic principle should not be
applied to it, or why the movements should not be extended. In the
future the symphonic poem may rival the symphony, but is not likely
to supplant it. The symphony has undergone many changes of detail
since Beethoven, and in the course of time it is probable that new
forms of instrumental music will be invented, but it will be difficult
to reach as high an ideal as that attained by the great masters of the
symphony. In grandeur, emotional intensity, thematic variety,
contrast of movements, the symphonies of Beethoven, Schubert,
Schumann, Brahms and others stand on a higher plane than the
symphonic poems of Liszt, Saint-Saëns and many less conspicuous
composers who have cultivated this form.
 It would much exceed the narrow limits set by this article to
attempt to discuss the far-reaching questions connected with the
great musical and dramatic reform of Wagner. This forms the subject
of an able special article, to which the reader is referred. Wagner’s
world-wide influence has not been confined to the dramatic stage.
His bold independence of thought and creative originality served to
break down the barriers of formalism and conservatism, which held
back German music after the death of Mendelssohn and Schumann.
The Napoleon of music cleared the way, not only for himself, but
other young composers who were struggling for recognition. Since
his death no German has yet appeared able to follow in his footsteps,
or to strike out a path for himself in dramatic music. At the same
time all serious dramatic composers, Italian, French, etc., of the
present day, have consciously or unconsciously been affected by
Wagner’s musico-dramatic ideas.
Among all the German composers who have gathered inspiration
from the theories and music of Wagner, only a single one seems to
have produced a musical drama which bears the stamp of real genius
and clearly defined individuality.
 FRIEDRICH von FLOTOW.

From a steel portrait engraved from a

photograph by Weger, of Leipsic.

(See page 596.)

Peter Cornelius (1824–74) first became prominent at the time

when Liszt at Weimar was doing so much for the advancement of the
so-called “new German school of composition.” Cornelius at once
identified himself with this modern movement. It was on account of
the indifference of the court and the public toward Cornelius’s “The
Barber of Bagdad” that Liszt gave up his directorship of the theatre at
Weimar in 1858. In the same year, Cornelius’s opera, “The Cid,” was
produced at Weimar. The completion of a third opera, “Gunlöd,” was
prevented by his death, which occurred at Mayence in 1874.
His comic opera, “The Barber of Bagdad,” gives Cornelius a unique
position among the composers of the new German school. This
seems to be the only work of genius which has been produced in
Germany as a result of the Wagnerian cult; and it remains the single
but the sufficient ground for a denial of the charge made by
disbelievers, that the theories of Wagner can lead to nothing
beautiful and good in opera. The opera-poem is by Cornelius himself,
and is a marvel of bubbling humor and literary ingenuity; and the
music is of exceeding complexity and intensely difficult to render.
The methods of treatment are distinctly Wagnerian, but there is not
a suggestion of Wagner in the character of the melodies or in the
instrumentation. All is delightful and individual, in short, the work of
a genius. On the other hand, in the “Cid,” a tragic opera founded on
Herder’s poem, Cornelius was not so successful. It is certain that
“The Barber” will ultimately be appreciated; for its sparkling wit and
delightful music are irresistible, matched only among German
composers by the “Figaro” of Mozart.
Cornelius was far from being a Wagner, but he has done one thing
which Wagner probably could not have done: he has written an
opera libretto which is considered superlatively witty and
entertaining by other people than Germans, and set it to music which
is noble, charming and characteristic.
Anton Bruckner has also been prominently identified with the new
German school. In his heavy and massive instrumentation and style
of writing he is pronouncedly Wagnerian, but he has not endeared
himself to the lovers of sweet sounds.
Another prominent disciple of Liszt and Wagner is Felix Draeseke,
born 1835, who became enthusiastic for the new school, and
contributed to the literature devoted to the propagation of the ideas
of Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner. He was one of the few who were openly
praised by Wagner. His numerous compositions consist of
symphonies, chamber music, songs and piano pieces. Draeseke has
written two operas, “Herrat” and “Gundrun,” the latter of which has
been performed with success. Among his latest orchestral
productions are two symphonic preludes to dramas by Calderon and
Kleist.
Jean Louis Nicodé (born 1853) is another staunch believer in the
new tendencies in modern music. His compositions for orchestra
include “Symphonic Variations,” the symphonic poem, “Maria
Stuart,” Suite in B minor, Introduction and Scherzo. He has written
piano and chamber music, and several large choral works. His
“Symphonic Variations” are especially admired. Nicodé manifests the
most astounding technique in composition, and delights in
producing startling orchestral effects.
Edward Lassen (born 1830), though a Dane by birth, has been
identified with music in Germany for the greater part of his life. He
was first made known as a composer through the kind offices of
Liszt, who produced on the Weimar stage Lassen’s “Le Roi Edgard,”
“Frauenlob,” and “Der Gefangene.” These operas met with a decided
success. Lassen succeeded Liszt as chief director of the Weimar
opera, and still holds that position. His published works include the
music to Hebbel’s “Nibelungen,” Sophocles’ “Œdipus,” Calderon’s
“Circe,” and Goethe’s “Faust” and “Pandora,” “Fest Cantate,” “Te
Deum,” and several symphonies. During the last few years he has
occupied himself principally with the composition of songs, which
are much admired. His latest work of importance is his violin
concerto.
Another worthy representative of the new German music is
Alexander Ritter, the composer of numerous vocal works, including
operas. There is no doubt concerning the seriousness of his artistic
endeavors, nor of his great abilities; but, as with Nicodé, he has large
utterance, and but little of real importance to say.
 FRANZ von SUPPE.

From a photograph from life by

Luckhardt, of Vienna.

(See page 596.)

By far the most interesting and the most promising of this class of
modern composers is Richard Strauss. He is not related to the
Vienna Strauss family. Young Strauss is now Lassen’s assistant
director at the Weimar theatre, and has shown remarkable ability
both as an opera and concert conductor. Although not yet thirty
years old, he has produced a considerable number of large works and
numerous smaller ones. His earlier efforts show the influence of
Brahms, but for the last few years he has adopted the Wagner-Liszt
manner. Three symphonic poems, “Death and Redemption,”
“Macbeth” and “Don Juan,” as well as a symphonic fantasia, “In
Italy,” have been greatly admired. Evidently this young composer has
a more promising future than any of his young contemporaries.
Felix Weingartner, the talented conductor of the Royal Opera of
Berlin, is a young composer of promise. Besides numerous songs and