The Darkest Sunrise (The Darkest Sunrise #1)

Antojitos wasn’t your average restaurant—it was an experience. The whole place was decorated like a quaint road in Mexico, and waiters wandered around dressed as street vendors offering a plethora of authentic Mexican fare. Every day, the menu was different, but people raved about it. It was always delicious. They didn’t take reservations, so there was usually a line wrapped around the block.



Me: That’s not fair. You can’t tease a girl with Taco Bell and then try to use Antojitos as a sad second choice.

Porter: I know. I know. And to make it up to you, I’d be willing to eat your tacos in bed on our FIFTH date.

Porter: Also…I JUST realized how filthy that sounded. I swear I didn’t mean it like that.



I barked a laugh and paused my fingers over my keyboard when I saw the text bubble pop up. He was typing again.



Porter: I mean…unless you did. In which case, we can do tacos in bed any time you’d like.

Porter: Unless you were talking about real tacos, in which case the crumbs sound like a nightmare.

Porter: Actually, can you do me a favor and delete the last four messages from me without reading them? M’kay thanks.



Tears—actual tears—were in my eyes. I was laughing that hard.



Porter: Christ. Why aren’t you responding now?

Me: Because it’s more fun to watch you sweat.

Porter: Are you laughing?

Me: Yep.

Porter: That makes it almost worth the embarrassment.



Yeah. Okay. We were talking about eating tacos in bed (which was only slightly less horrifying than sitting on the same side of the booth), but I’ll be damned if that warmth didn’t fill me again.



Me: Antojitos sounds amazing. I have to swing by my office in the morning, so I’ll meet you there at noon.

Porter: Sounds good. Sleep tight.

Me: You too.



I sighed all dreamy-like and started to put my phone down on the nightstand, but the text bubble showed up again. I waited. And waited some more. Boring holes into my phone for at least three minutes until finally his message appeared.



Porter: Confession: I wish I would have kissed you tonight.



My heart stopped and my stomach dipped as I read it three times before finding the courage to reply.



Me: You did.

Porter: No. Not like that. I’m talking about one where you’d spend the rest of your night touching your bruised lips, and I’d spend the rest of mine desperately trying to memorize the way you tasted.



My whole body came alive with a hum, from the tips of my fingers to my peaked nipples and everything in between. The sweet ache of arousal. I threw my head back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. I’d been with men over the years. After all, sex was just as much about biology as it was about emotion. But, when the orgasm faded, so did my interest in the other person. Looking back on those encounters, I remembered the release—the brief moments when I’d allowed myself to let go and actually feel something with another person. But not once in ten years had I remembered being kissed. I’m positive it had happened, but it hadn’t been enough to trigger a memory.

Yet there I was, staring at a text describing a kiss that hadn’t happened, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt I’d never forget it.



Me: Confession: I wish you would have done that too.

Porter: Tomorrow, Charlotte.



It was a promise.

One I had every intention of letting him keep.




I spent the morning in the office, catching up on the mountain of paperwork I’d let pile up while I’d been trudging through in the hell of March seventh. I was so behind that it was a wonder I could see over the top of my inbox. By ten thirty, I was still drowning in files, but I could at least see my desk, so I chalked it up as a win and called it a day. The paperwork could wait; Porter would not. Well, I mean, he probably would have, but I didn’t want him to. Or, more accurately, I didn’t want to have to wait to see him.

I’d barely locked the door to the office when my phone started ringing in my hand. Rita’s name flashed on the screen, reminding me that I needed to have a nice long chat with her about her taking another stab at the matchmaker game.

“Just the person I need to talk to,” I answered.

“And hello to you too,” she replied in her typical sugary-sweet tone. “What are you up to this fine Sunday morning?”

Wedging the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I opened the door to my car and climbed inside. “Leaving the office.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Meh. I’m caught up for the most part. So at least it was productive. Which is more than I’m going to be able to say for the next few days while I’m off burying your body.”

“Oh lordy. What did I do this time?”

“Porter Reese,” I said pointedly, the mere mention of his name bringing a smile to my face.

The line went silent.

“Shit. Did you talk to him?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“And?”

“And I went to dinner with him.”

“Oh God,” she gasped. “Was he holding you at gunpoint?”

I laughed softly. Then I screwed my eyes shut and dropped my head back against the headrest. “I’m terrified.”

“Oh God!” she cried. “Please tell me he didn’t really have you at gunpoint.”

“No. I was a willing victim. We’re having lunch today too.”

“Holy shit. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied simply.

But there would be nothing simple about it.

Porter was wrong. I was emotionally unavailable. Because letting people in meant risking I’d lose them too.

My fears about dating weren’t about the actual act of eating food with someone. It was about lowering my skillfully crafted walls and exposing myself to the elements that raged outside of them.

What if I panicked and couldn’t get them back up?

Or what if it only gave reality another chance to ruin me?

But, then again, what if it eased the unwavering hollowness in my chest?

Or what if, at some point over the years, the sun had risen again and I’d just been too guarded to see it?

“Holy shit!” Rita exclaimed. “How the hell did he convince you to leave the convent?”

“He’s…intense.” I bit my lip to stifle a laugh.

And then it died in my throat.

“Does this mean you’re going to treat his kid?”

My whole body jerked, and my stomach dropped. Not a dip. Or a flutter. It was an all-out free fall. “I’m sorry. What?”

“I told him you weren’t going to do it. But I swear the man wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Sweat broke out across my forehead. “His kid?”

“Wait…he mentioned this, right?”

“No, he didn’t fucking mention this!”

I wasn’t stupid; most men my age had children. And, for obvious reasons, it was a deal-breaker. But, then again, there had never been a deal before. At least, not a deal I wanted to keep.

“That piece of shit,” she grumbled. “God, why are men such assholes? Oh, right. Because they think with their dicks. Shit…you didn’t put out, did you?”