Mariah knew why she wasn't sleeping at night, why her work was lackluster, why she noticed children everywhere. She wanted a child, and a dependable man to love her.

She strode to Rafe, who was nothing like her dear old dad or her brother. "Take me home. And don't worry—I want nothing to do with writing your story."

She gave him no chance to reply, stomping to his truck before turning.

Her breath caught. Rafe stood on the highway, the incessant breeze tugging his hair, his clothes. He stared after the departing storm, clearly craving to give chase again.

He was crazy.

And she was crazy for wanting him.