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PROLOGUE
AVA
Ialways remember to lock my front door when I’m home alone, but tonight it must have slipped my mind.
How else could my ex have let himself in while I was busy in the kitchen, putting my dinner dishes away before I went up to bed?
I wasn’t with Joey Maglione long enough to get to the “exchanging house keys” stage of the relationship, let alone moving him into my house. I never even visited his place, and considering our three-month relationship consisted of dinner dates and that was about all before it fizzled out toward the end of the school year, he’d barely been to mine.
But there he is. Sitting on my couch, legs spread, arms crossed over his chest, he’s staring at the swinging door that separates my kitchen from my living room as though he’s been waiting all night for me to notice him.
I’m used to seeing him in casual wear. Polos. Button-downs. Khakis or pressed pants. He told me he worked in sales, and he dressed like did. His tight black t-shirt, dark denim jeans, and construction worker books aren’t what I’m used to, but I know that handsome face with his steely blue eyes and sandy brown hair.
The smirk, though? That’s new, and I stop a few steps past the threshold.
The door swings into my back. I barely notice.
“Joey? What are you—”
Then I see the gun perched on his thigh and my heart just about stops.
Gun? I don’t know what Joey’s doing here, but I have no idea why he would have brought agunwith him.
My eyes fly up to his face, and his smirk widens. He knows I saw his gun—and, for some reason, that amuses him.
“Hey, Ava, baby. Good to see you again.”
I pointedly refuse to acknowledge his weapon, almost as though I could make it disappear by pretending not to see it. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”
It’s almost eleven o’clock at night. Normally, I’m in bed before ten. I have to be up early to get ready for school, but we’ve been out for two weeks now. During summer break, my schedule gets a little off, though I’m still an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of girl whether it’s September or July.
Joey knows that. It’s one of those little things that added up to the point that we both had to admit that we were incompatible. Despite being in his mid-thirties like me, he enjoyed the night life while I’ve never been a fan. He had to have thought I was sleeping, and yet he’s here—he’s here with agun—and I have no idea why.
I try to ignore it. That’s impossible when he snatches it up, holding it easily in his hand as he gets to his feet.
“Oh, I know it’s late. Saint Ava… just can’t stomach the idea of having a man in your house after dark, huh?”
It’s the tone of voice that catches my attention first. I remember Joey as having a kind yet undeniably suave manner of speaking. A gentleman. He always respected my pace, never pushing me for more than I was willing to give, and was sweet about it.
Not now.
He has a dark edge to his words, part sneer, part scoff that’s only highlighted by the way he looks me up and down.
I’m in my nightclothes: an oversized t-shirt, no bra, and a pair of sleep shorts. I’d changed earlier while I was snuggled up with a blanket on the couch, watching some mindless television. When I was ready for bed, I turned off the TV, went and put away my dishes from dinner, and was just about to head for my room when I found Joey waiting for me.
His lip curls when he sees the outline of my boobs against the thin fabric. My nipples are poking through, courtesy of my air conditioner being on full blast, and he can’t take his eyes off of them.
Me? I’m staring back at him, too.
“What did you call me?”
Saint Ava… long before Link left me for a life of crime, I was always the goodie goodie to his bad boy rep. Only we knew the truth about the other, and while those school-age teases proved pretty apt—Link, with his criminal empire, and me, teaching first-graders at Springfield Elementary—when he called me ‘Saint Ava’, it was my first boyfriend’s pet name for me.
My ex says it like it’s a curse… but he shouldn’t know that nickname at all.
Joey doesn’t answer me, though his smirk develops a cruel edge as his expression darkens.
My stomach twists. Oh, I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit.
