Finding Jackson Brooks in my office wasn't on my Monday agenda. Except it is. The country music god who destroyed me four years ago just manipulated an eight-figure book deal to force me into editing his memoir. I should tell him to go to hell, but I can't refuse without destroying my career. Instead, I'm drowning in those sinful hazel eyes while he talks about "deep collaboration" like the charming devil he is. Four years ago, he chose platinum records over me. Called me a liability. Left me shattered. Now he's back, all raw magnetism and that voice that has women throwing their panties on stage, acting like he can charm his way back between my thighs. And damn him, it's working. I'm falling all over again. Except I've got a four-year-old secret with his eyes who hums daddy's songs like prayers. When he walks into my favorite coffee shop, I'm sitting frozen, watching my world collapse. My blood turns to ice as he hears a little boy's voice. I can't breathe when those hazel eyes widen and lock on mine. When he whispers the words that could destroy everything. "My son."