Chapter 21 Phoenix
PHOENIX
After closing up the shed, I followed Rose Flower up her sloping backyard, and while I kept one eye surveying the woods, the other kept drifting to her curves. Who would have thought. Of all the people, I was catching feelings for my therapist.
There had been an immediate, visceral reaction the first moment I saw Dr. Rose Floris.
A normal reaction considering the woman was smoking hot, but what wasn’t normal was the dip in my stomach the second our eyes met.
Nerves, but something deeper. Something that I was certain I hadn’t felt with another woman.
But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the moment she told me she was being stalked.
The fire that had ignited inside me was so intense, it reminded me of being in a war zone.
A protectiveness that rivaled what I felt for my own brothers.
A possessiveness that flicked a switch in me, a dangerous desperation to keep her both safe and to eliminate anyone who challenged that.
Anyone who challenged me.
Who challenged what was mine.
Mine.
My Rose Flower.
I didn’t like what this woman was doing to me.
I knew I was stubborn. Knew I had a short fuse—always had. But after waking up from the coma, that temper had mutated into something monstrous. Like everything else in me, it was unstable. Raw. Out of control.
Like my feelings for her.
That was the part that unnerved me.
Rose Floris had me swinging on a pendulum—lust, annoyance, disdain, respect, admiration… and whatever the hell happened in my stomach when she looked at me. A kind of heat. A kind of pull.
It was unsafe.
And around her, I was unsafe. Unpredictable. Charged. Like every part of me that I couldn’t control was drawn to every part of her that wouldn’t be controlled.
I didn’t like it. I needed to manage it. I needed to put it in a box, on a shelf, behind lock and key.
Because above all else, someone needed to keep this fiercely independent, maddeningly stubborn, and insanely beautiful woman safe.
And that someone was going to be me.
I made a mental note of the single lock on her front door—not enough—and followed her inside.
I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
Based on her designer wardrobe, luxury handbags, and sleek BMW, I imagined modern furniture, velvet throw pillows, and maybe a few pink-accented rugs tossed around a glossy white floor. Probably a shelf full of rom-coms and scented candles named after emotions.
What I got was… minimal. Earthy. Surprisingly masculine.
Everything was arranged with precision—angles sharp, spacing exact.
The place was spotless. Not just clean—surgical.
A plaid loveseat sat across from a structured leather couch, a red afghan folded neatly at one end.
A woven beige rug anchored a cherry oak coffee table so polished it gleamed.
In the center: a stack of coasters. Of course.
I almost laughed. If she saw where I slept—on hay, next to a horse—she’d break out in hives.
The fireplace was clearly the centerpiece, flanked by long-stemmed candles burned only to the tip. No random clutter. No half-finished mugs of tea.
No photos.
That part hit me harder than it should’ve. No framed family pictures. No shots from girls’ nights or birthday dinners. Nothing that gave away a history.
Just like that, the psychologist became the mystery.
From the kitchen, she flicked on the overhead light, eyeing me with that same cautious curiosity she used in session.
I lifted my foot to step forward—
“Wipe your shoes,” she said without looking up.
I froze. Recoiled. Wiped.
“May I come in now?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
I stepped past the entryway, glancing at the black heels she’d kicked off beneath a painting—white horse, windswept mane, standing in a storm.
It looked just like Spirit.
“You like horses?” I asked, surprised again.
She looked over her shoulder. “Why?”
“Painting looks like mine.”
She paused, then nodded once. “Yes. I do.”
I didn’t push. But I filed that away with everything else I’d just learned.
Because for someone who made a living unraveling people, Rose Floris had walls that even I couldn’t scale yet.
And God help me… I wanted to try.
She tossed me a towel. I caught it midair and began wiping myself down as she did the same.
“Do you want something else to put on?” She asked. “I think I have some large t-shirts somewhere, and maybe some sweat pants that might fit.”
“I’m good.”
“Okay. And, yes. I’ve always loved horses. Magical creatures, they are. You?”
“Same here.”
She slipped out of my leather jacket and her oversized rain coat and began wiping down my jacket.
I took the towel from her, nudged her out of the way and picked up where she left off.
She watched me for a moment before saying, “Horses can be very therapeutic, you know.”
I thought of all the times I’d felt a connection to Spirit. Riding her through the woods seemed to be the only moments of contentment, of peace, I’d felt since waking up from the coma.
I glanced over my shoulder where Rose was reaching on her tiptoes for a bottle of wine above the fridge. I pulled it down for her, our bodies brushing against each other.
“Thank you.”
Her demeanor had shifted. The fight was gone, the adrenaline rush from seeing a dead body was beginning to take its toll. Her hand shook as she grabbed the corkscrew.
“Here.” I took the wine, opened it, and poured her a glass.
She leaned against the countertop, sipped.
I leaned next to her.
A heavy silence settled over the room. I’d seen plenty of dead men in my life, but assumed she hadn’t. The first were always jarring. The images tend to replay on a loop in your head. But it fades. Like everything around us, it fades.
Keeping her gaze ahead, her hand drifted to my side and lightly grabbed my T-shirt, the touch like fire through the cotton. We didn’t look at each other, simply stood motionless, with her gripping the end of my shirt like a child.
A terrified little girl.
My hand drifted over hers. I willed my brain to say what any normal man would say in that moment. Something sweet, something profound, something right.
You’re going to be okay.
But the words remained on the tip of my tongue, locked in some caveman-brain that was incapable of rising to an emotional moment of a woman in need.
She dropped her hand.
Dammit.
I failed. I was officially incapable of consoling a woman.
My teeth ground as I pushed off the counter.
Growing up in a family of Marines, “consoling” involved a bottle of whiskey, or a swift slap in the jaw.
Neither would suit this woman. The old Phoenix could easily sidestep an emotional conversation and hypnotize a woman with a couple of tequila shots and the words “special ops.” Over the years, I’d found that women were predictable, if nothing else.
But not this one.
This one had a way of turning me into a blubbering Neanderthal.
“Oh.” She seemed to snap out of her daze. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even offer you—would you like some wine?”
Yeah, the entire bottle. But a buzz was the last thing I needed around this woman.
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
She nodded, then shifted her focus again to the rain outside. Her hands trembled as she took another sip, her expression glazed over. Rose was a mess and I was standing there like a idiot. I’d never felt like less of a man as I did in that moment.
The anger—the disappointment in myself—began to simmer, the frustration of my failure as a man. The beginning of a tornado I knew I couldn’t control.
Dr. Rose Floris was too good for a guy like me. That much was obvious. It was also obvious I needed to get out before I made even more of a fool of myself.
As if on cue, she looked at me and said—
“You can check the house. I’m fine. Do your perimeter check, or whatever you call it.”
Thank God. “Okay. First, where’s your internet modem?”
“Laundry room.”
I shifted my focus away from the disappointment in myself to something I could do, I could control, and began a security scan of her house.
I disconnected the internet, ensuring that any more hidden cameras were now useless to her sick stalker.
“Don’t turn the internet on again until I’ve confirmed there are no more cameras in the house. In fact, leave it off for a while.”
I expected an argument, but didn’t get one. I felt her eyes burning into me as I checked each window.
“Where are you staying tonight?” I asked.
“Here.”
I stopped cold, looked over my shoulder. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” Her voice was firm, defiance flickering across her face.
Shock snapped through me, followed by something deeper. Hotter. “No. You’re not staying here until I secure your house.”
“Fine. After I take you home, I’ll swing by the store and get some more locks.”
“You’re not taking me home. My brother’s already on his way.” He wasn’t. Yet. But the second I grabbed my phone, he would be. I didn’t like her chauffeuring me around. I didn’t like her unprotected. I didn’t like any of this.
“Well, you’re not staying here,” I repeated, firmer now. “Period.”
“Oh, okay, King Steele.”
My brow rose. “Had that one bottled up for a while, didn’t you?”
“I don’t like being ordered around.”
I turned back to the windows, trying to rein in whatever the hell I was feeling. It wasn’t just shock. It wasn’t disbelief. It was desperation.
“What about the girl you work with? Red hair, nose ring. Can you stay with her?”
“I can’t get ahold of her.”
My eyes narrowed. “Did you really try?”
“Yes. I called her from Andrew’s, waiting in the car. No dice.”
“You’ll stay with me, then.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Thank you, but no. I like my job.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Staying with a patient would get me fired in an instant. I’m not risking that.”
“But you’ll risk your life?”
“You’re being over the top, Phoenix.”
My jaw ticked. “I’ll book you a hotel room.”
“No.”
This woman.
My patience slipped another notch. She was fearless, reckless, stubborn. A damn sitting duck in a house someone had already broken into.
“What about other friends? Family?”
She shook her head.
Unbelievable.
From the kitchen, she tried to change the subject. “How’re the windows looking?”
I let her pivot. For now.
“Windows two and five need new locks. I’ll get those ordered. We’ll drill peepholes in both front and back doors, reinforce the side entry. You need motion lights and a security camera by the driveway.”
Rattling off security measures grounded me. Gave me something to hold on to—something I could fix.
Until I walked into her bedroom—
And saw the flowers.