The Darkest Sunrise (The Darkest Sunrise #1)

I could barely breathe, much less talk. And, when I didn’t say anything, she answered her own question.

“No. No. Of course you didn’t.”

I gasped for air as I fought the sudden urge to puke. “Why the hell would you set me up with a man who has kids?”

“I didn’t set you up with him! Trust me. I learned my lesson about trying to make you happy.”

“Then how did he find me at the hospital!” I yelled, my traitorous voice breaking at the end.

“Jesus. Calm down. He’s been calling the office to get an appointment for his son. I told him you didn’t see children, but he was adamant.” She lowered her voice. “I felt bad for him, Char. From what I can tell, he’s seen every other pulmonologist in a two-hundred-mile radius of the city. He said he’d do anything. So…” She paused, and I could almost imagine her nervously twirling her hair around her finger. “When I found out he owned a restaurant, I told him that, if he catered the Fling, I’d get him a consult with you.”

I laughed, but only because it was either that or acknowledge the searing pain in my chest.

Yeah. Porter Reese was amazing.

An amazing fucking liar.

“Did you tell him about Lucas?” I asked, my voice shaking almost as much as my hands.

She gasped. “Absolutely not. You know I would never—”

“Then how the fuck does he know about the darkness!” I boomed.

It was one lunch, a dinner, three conversations, a chaste kiss on the lips, and then some humorous text exchanges. It was way too soon for my heart to be breaking.

But it was. Wholly and completely.

And not because Porter was a master fucking manipulator.

But because, once again, hope had become my greatest enemy.

Hope that I could change.

Hope that I could move on.

Hope that other people like me existed.

Hope that, even if it was only for a few hours, I wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.

No questions.

No judgment.

No faking it.

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

Forget about the way my nipples had peaked when he’d trailed his callused thumb over my cheek and the way his clean, masculine scent had overwhelmed my senses to the point that it had chased a thrill up my spine. And that heady combination of lust and loneliness that had hung in the air between us until I couldn’t decide if I was suffocating or breathing my first breath of fresh air.

My immense physical reaction paled in comparison to the way his words had penetrated my mind and stripped me bare.

Porter Reese understood me.

Not in sentences, but in the silence.

Or so I’d thought.

“I have to go,” I whispered.

“I swear, Charlotte. I didn’t say anything. I figured he’d cater the Fling and you’d tell him no about the kid. No harm, no foul.”

With the exception of March seventh, I didn’t cry often. Tears were usually spurred by emotion, and I went to great lengths not to feel any of those.

Good. Bad. Happy. Sad.

Numb was always better.

But I’d felt something with Porter. It was small. But, when your entire world was pitch-black, even the tiniest flicker looked like a lighthouse.

Without another word spoken, I ended the call.

Then I started my car and drove home.

All while doing my very best to ignore the twin rivers that dripped from my chin.





* * *





She never showed for lunch at Antojitos.

My mom had the kids, so I sat at that table and waited for over three hours.

I called. They went unanswered.

I texted. She never replied.

I was beyond worried.

Something had to have happened. There was no way she’d been planning to disappear on me. Not after she’d melted into me after dinner, pressing up onto her toes when I’d bent to touch our lips, her breathing labored. She’d been scared out of her fucking mind but clinging to my forearm as though she never wanted to let go.

Yet, as Sunday turned into Monday—and then into Tuesday—it appeared that was exactly what she had done.

I’d spent the weekend with the kids, using every possible distraction to keep my mind off her. But any time I’d laugh or smile, she’d infiltrated my thoughts.

I called again. This time leaving what I hoped was a witty voicemail.

Then, like the true stalker I was starting to fear I was, I texted her again complete with various pictures of Sloth, asking if she was interested in maybe a date with my brother instead. All I got was radio silence.

I told myself to erase her from my mind. It was so absurd that I didn’t even know where to start. A few meals and countless smiles didn’t constitute a connection. For all I knew, she could have been Catherine all over again. And, if I was being honest, that was what scared me the most.

No. For my own sanity, I had to let it go.

For fuck’s sake, I had two children depending on me. I couldn’t get lost chasing after a woman. They deserved more than that.

Travis was doing better—temporarily. It happened like that after he got out of the hospital. They’d jacked him up on steroids, giving his fragile body the strength to fight, but within a week, he’d crash back down to baseline, if not lower.

And, because of my insane obsession with Dr. Mills, where I’d asked her to dinner instead of for an appointment for my son, we didn’t have a plan for when that happened.

Even knowing that, I still couldn’t get her off my mind.

Tuesday morning arrived with a bright sunrise. Various shades of orange and peach danced across the horizon as I got the kids up and dressed. And warm rays of sunlight streamed through the windows, forcing me to lower the blinds so Travis could see what his tutor was teaching him. It was a truly beautiful day. Hannah had conned my mom into taking her outside to play on the swing set the moment she’d arrived.

I left for work a few hours later, and as soon as the front door closed behind me, the night fell regardless of the time.

The soft opening of The Tannerhouse was only days away, and we were slammed. Between training the staff, finalizing the menus, and putting the finishing touches on the dining room, there didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day.

But, as I sat at a stoplight, staring at the same sign for the interstate as I had every day since we’d bought the building, I couldn’t bring myself to take the exit.

I’d told her no questions. But I needed the answer to why she’d stood me up.

Okay, that was a lie.

I just really fucking wanted to see her.

Flipping my blinker on, I merged into the other lane and headed toward her office without the first clue about whether or not she’d actually be there.

Or, worse yet, how she was going to react to my showing up.

Whatever. I could worry about that when I was sure she was okay—and, if I could possibly swing it, wearing one of those secret smiles that spoke to my soul.

Twenty minutes later, I opened the door to North Point Pulmonology.

The gray-haired receptionist slid the glass window open when she saw me approach. “Sign in here, sugar.” She pushed a clipboard in my direction.