On that first forbidden night in that motel room, a dead seed carelessly fell on the parched land that was my heart. His touch was the water I craved. His smile was sunshine. And that forgotten seed quickly started to grow. In such a short time, Mason Westbrook’s roots are now knotted in and around and right through the center of my heart. How am I supposed to run away from that? I can’t. I’ve accepted that I can’t.
