Tonight is different. Tonight when she closes her eyes, she doesn’t see a young girl playing in the sand beside her grandmother’s beach chair, nor does she picture the way the early-morning sunlight pours into the east side of her house, warming her skin and waking her. She isn’t seeking comfort, nor does she crave simplicity.

Tonight she craves him.

So she doesn’t indulge that half of her brain, the sensible half, the part that warns her, that knows all too well the extent to which men like him use women like her. Instead, she focuses on how he made her feel—how with only a quick brush of his lips against her knuckles, her pulse quickened, the muscles in her skin contracted, and the fair hair dotting her arm stood at attention. Though his touch was cold, he made her feel warm and alive.