Cole paced in front of Meg’s apartment building in Venice. How could one man be so incredibly stupid? Meg made a suggestion—a good one—and he became a raging maniac. No wonder she walked out nearly barefoot, wearing only a pair of flip-flops. Where was she? She didn’t answer her cell. He’d sleep on her front steps if he had to. How could he have possibly been such a complete and utter boob? Because she’d gotten to him. Meg was under his skin, in his house, in his bed, and running a piece of his company. The most frightening part of that equation was that he couldn’t imagine his life without her in any of those positions. Life without Meg. The warmth drained from his heart with that perilous thought. She was sunshine and teasing fluttering kisses that woke him up each morning. To return to life without Meg was to shut out the sun and trudge the frigid tundra of lonesomeness. Family situations caused Cole pain.
