Given a choice, I’d date a woman who doesn’t know who I am. Like the blue-eyed woman I meet on sidewalk, tears streaming down her cheeks. The one who triggers what my overprotective older brothers call my “Everhart Complex”—the uncontrollable urge to erase someone else’s pain.
This little character flaw could shred me if I let it. That’s why I don’t do family law. But it’s who I am. Who I became after my parents died.
Nothing says “successful adult” like living with my grandfather and having my little sister as my boss. But with my acting career stalled and my checking account in single digits, playing receptionist at Beesley Enterprises is a bearable humiliation.
Until he walks into the office. The man I met on the sidewalk on the worst night of my career. Mr. I’m-Going-To-Fix-Your-Life—as if I’d let him. Because just for a moment, I felt safe. I felt something besides numbness. And dammit, if I let my ice queen façade crack, I’ll be worse than back to square one. I could fall off the edge entirely…