Chapter 2 #2
She frowns. “Yeah, right. Who should I have picked?”
Me.
I don’t say it, but I want to.
“Someone better,” I say instead. “Someone who shows up for you.”
Something sad crosses her face, and my chest twinges.
“I don’t think that person exists.” She hesitates, then keeps going. “I used to date a lot. They were all jerks. I thought maybe they were just too young. Immature.”
I nod.
“So I stopped,” she says quietly. “Spent a couple of years focusing on loving myself. Like everyone says you’re supposed to.”
Another nod.
“Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I figured I’d try again.” She exhales a sad little laugh. “Guess nothing’s changed.”
My chest tightens.
“I’m so stupid,” she adds. “I had this dream last night. A dumb one. Marco, the guy who was supposed to take me out, showed up with my favorite flowers. A bottle of wine. Chocolates in a box with a big red ribbon.” Her voice wobbles. “He smiled and told me I looked pretty.”
She sniffles.
And just like that, I’m back to wondering how hard it is to hire an assassin. Is there a job board for that? LinkedIn, but for murder? I rub my jaw, narrowing my eyes as I seriously consider it.
“You know what I miss?” she asks suddenly, clicking on her turn signal.
“What?” I watch the streetlights play over her profile, slide along her cheek, and shadow her nose.
“Sex,” she says, almost wistfully. “It’d be nice to have sex again.”
I blink.
Then blink again, sure I’m hallucinating.
Did Hannah Johnson—sweet, earnest, talks to her cat like he’s a baby—that Hannah Johnson just tell me she misses having sex?
I turn and look in the back of the car, sure I’m going to find a mischievous half-naked cupid back there holding a bow and aiming it for my head, but no. Nothing but some crumpled napkins and a fuzzy, gray cardigan.
“What about you?” Hannah asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Why don’t you have a date tonight?”
Her eyes dip to my biceps, thighs, then back to my face.
I stay still. Let her look.
My heartbeat picks up. Not from panic this time, but from something far more dangerous.
She wets her lips.
My cock twitches.
Stop, I order it, mortified.
But she said sex, it answers back.
I turn toward the window. Voice low, I answer her question. “I’ve never had a serious girlfriend.”
“You haven’t?”
I hear her surprise but don’t look back.
“I mean, I’m not totally inexperienced,” I add quickly. “A few short flings. Nothing that stuck.”
I shrug, embarrassed. “Then work took over. Routine got comfortable.”
I sigh, that admission landing harder than I expected.
“I guess I stopped trying,” I say quietly. “It was easier to observe. Watch everyone else live without risking anything myself.”
Hannah nods.
And I know she understands.
Hannah
“We’re here,” I tell my neighbor. A stranger, but not as much as he was an hour ago. I think back to our conversation in the car. It was strangely…intimate, but not uncomfortable. He’s easy to talk to, I realize as I search for a parking spot.
“Um, I feel like I should have said this sooner, but I’m Hannah.” I spin the wheel and expertly parallel park on a side street across from the restaurant where my phone tells me Marco is at. The same restaurant he was supposed to take me to tonight.
Maybe Marco got confused. Thought we were supposed to meet here.
I discard that idea fast, before hope can take over. I’m not that na?ve.
I turn to my neighbor. He gives me a small nod of approval.
“Nice parking job,” he says.
My chest warms. I duck my head, embarrassed by how much that tiny compliment affects me.
“Damian,” he says, sticking out his hand like he’s about to shake mine. He lets out a soft laugh. “Sorry. I probably should’ve introduced myself before barging into your car.”
I take his hand. His palm is rough. Warm.
“I already know your name,” I admit. “Damian Salvanti.”
His brows lift as he tilts his head.
My cheeks heat. “It’s on your mailbox.”
He chuckles. “You’d make a good detective, Hannah Johnson.”
My breath catches when he says my name. Not from the words, but how he says it. Soft and careful. Like it’s a spell or a prayer.
“It’s on your mailbox, too,” he adds softly, and my breath catches.
Did he look at my mailbox? Wonder about me the same way I wondered about him?
He’s still holding my hand. He releases it when I glance down, and I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat.
“Guess it’s time,” I say, forcing steadiness. “Let’s go see what’s up with Marco.”
Damian nods, his gaze serious.
We don’t talk as we cross the street, but he grabs my elbow when we hit the icy sidewalk. He steadies me when my foot slips and I wobble.
An hour ago, I was furious he got into my car.
Now, I’m oddly comforted that he’s here.
There’s something calming about Damian. It’s partly his size and the knowledge that he could handle anything or anyone that threatens me, but it’s more than that.
It’s his composure. The way his eyes scan the street, alert without being frantic.
The way he keeps close without crowding me, his presence a quiet shield.
At the doorway to the restaurant, he comes to an abrupt halt and puts his hands on my shoulder, spinning me to face him. He has to bend slightly to bring his piercing blue eyes down to my level.
“Hannah,” he says in that deep, gravelly voice of his, “I’m asking you one last time not to do this. I’m telling you. Marco isn’t who you think he is. You’re better off just walking away.”
Anger stirs, burning deep in my belly. I shake off his hands. “What do you mean I don’t know who he is? How would you know?”
Damian sighs, unable to meet my gaze. “I just do,” he says quietly. “I can’t tell you how, but I wish you’d trust me.”
For a minute, I almost relent. Almost.
Because I don’t know Damian, but in some weird, unhinged way I do trust him. It’s the misery in his face, the way I can tell that he’s struggling with himself to not just pick me up and drag me away.
But I can’t give up now. I need to see Marco, to let him know how I feel.
That I matter.
I square my shoulders. “I’m going,” I say. “You can stay out here if you want.”
Then I turn and push through the doors without looking back.
Because something in me already knows—
He’s going to follow.