Chapter 2
Jemma
The thing about working at a coffee shop is that you start to notice patterns.
And then there's him.
Scary Hot Regular is what I call him in my head.
Sarah from the evening shift calls him "your boyfriend," which is ridiculous because (a) I don't have a boyfriend, (b) he's never said more than six words to me, and (c) he looks like he could kill someone with his bare hands and feel zero remorse about it.
The guys I've actually dated: a study partner in sophomore year, that friend-of-a-friend setup that lasted three uncomfortable dates, the barista from the other location who was nice but boring, none of them ever made me feel anything close to what I feel when this man walks through the door.
But there's something about the intensity in his eyes when they briefly meet mine. The way he moves through space like he owns it. The sheer presence of him that makes my pulse kick up and my palms sweat and my brain short-circuit in ways that real-life men have never managed.
The heroes in my books suddenly make sense. I get it now. I understand why the heroines throw logic out the window for men who look at them like they're the only thing in the world that matters.
Not that he looks at me that way. He barely looks at me at all.
Also, he's terrifying.
Also, also... I may have thought about him while reading certain scenes in certain books that I will take to my grave.
It's 2:07 PM and he didn't come in this morning.
I notice this. I'm noticing that I notice this. I'm aware that this is a problem.
"You keep checking the door," Sarah says, wiping down the espresso machine. "Waiting for someone?"
"No." I grab my book and water bottle. "Just taking my break."
"Mmhmm. Your 'break.'" She air-quotes with suspicious enthusiasm. "Where you go read your little books in the alley."
"They're not little books. They're full-length novels."
"With shirtless men on the covers."
"Not always shirtless. Sometimes they're wearing suits."
"Oh, well, that's completely different then."
I shake my head and open the back door. The alley behind Bean & Leaf isn't picturesque, but it's quiet and I have fifteen minutes before I need to be back on the floor.
Fifteen minutes to escape into a world where brooding men in expensive suits do terribly inappropriate things and somehow it all works out.
The west-coast December air is cold but not unbearable. I settle onto the metal stairs, pull my cardigan tighter, and open my book.
Taken by the Thornes by Sienna Cross. I'm on chapter twenty-three. Aleksander Thorne just cornered Lily in his office after she tried to quit, and he's about to tell her exactly why that's not happening. The tension is excruciating. The man is unhinged in the best possible way.
I'm three paragraphs in when I hear footsteps.
Not the usual sounds of the alley—trash trucks, delivery drivers, the occasional person cutting through from the street. These footsteps are purposeful. Deliberate.
Coming toward me.
I look up.
And my brain short-circuits.
It's him.
Scary Hot Regular is standing at the mouth of the alley, and suddenly that nickname feels inadequate.
He's tall. I knew that, but seeing him outside the context of the coffee shop makes it more obvious.
Six-three at least. Broad shoulders under a black wool coat that probably costs more than my rent.
Dark hair with silver at the temples catching the December light. And those eyes.
Ice-blue. Intense. Fixed directly on me.
My body reacts before my brain catches up. Pulse kicking into overdrive. Breath catching. That low pull of attraction I've been ignoring for months suddenly impossible to deny.
He's beautiful in a dangerous way. Sharp edges and controlled power and something lethal in how he moves toward me.
Oh God.
This is bad. This is very bad.
"Jemma Dean."
My name. He says my name.
In a voice that sounds like gravel and smoke and things that happen in the dark.
"Um." My brain struggles to form words. "Hi?"
He takes three steps closer.
I should move. I should run. Every self-defense class I've ever taken is screaming at me to get up, get inside, put distance between myself and the strange man in the alley.
But I don't move.
Because part of my brain—the stupid, romance-novel-addled part—is caught up in the details. The way he moves like he owns the space he's in. The intensity of his focus. The size of his hands. The fact that he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
Heat floods through me, unwelcome and inappropriate.
My body has apparently decided that fear and attraction can coexist, and right now they're fighting for dominance while I sit here like an idiot.
"I know this isn't ideal," he says, stopping a few feet away. Too close. Not close enough. My brain is malfunctioning. "But I need you to come with me."
I blink. "What?"
"There's a situation. I'll explain everything. But we need to leave now."
"I'm on my break. I have ten more minutes."
Did I really just say that? Did I really just cite my break schedule to the terrifying man who somehow knows my full name?
Something flickers across his face. It might be amusement. It's gone too fast to tell.
"Your break is going to be extended," he says. "Indefinitely."
The book slips in my hands. I catch it before it falls, which feels important somehow. Like if I can hold onto my book, this situation will make sense.
"I don't understand."
"I know. I'm sorry about that." He takes another step forward. "This will be easier if you don't fight."
That's when I see the cloth in his hand. White. Small. Innocuous.
And suddenly every crime procedural I've ever watched, every self-defense tip I've ever read, every instinct I have is screaming RUN.
I drop the book and bolt.
But he's faster.
His arm wraps around my waist before I make it three steps, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing. I open my mouth to scream, but the cloth is already covering my face, and there's a smell that’s sweet and chemical and wrong.
"Shh. Easy. I've got you."
His voice is gentle. Calm. Like he's soothing a frightened animal.
I try to fight. Try to kick, to claw, to do anything. But my limbs are getting heavy. The world is tilting. Going soft at the edges.
"Don't fight it," he murmurs against my ear. "I'll keep you safe. I promise."
The last thing I register is the feeling of being carried, held against a chest that's solid and warm, and the distant thought that this is exactly like one of my books.
Except in my books, I always knew the heroine would be okay.
I'm not sure about me.
Then everything goes dark.
***
I wake up to softness.
That's the first thing I notice—whatever I'm lying on is comfortable. Expensive-feeling. Not the metal stairs in the alley or the cold ground.
The second thing I notice is the headache. Dull, throbbing, sitting right behind my eyes.
The third thing I notice is that I have absolutely no idea where I am.
I sit up too fast. The room spins. I catch myself on the edge of what turns out to be a massive bed with white sheets and about seventeen pillows.
The room is huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing a city view I don't recognize. Modern furniture that probably costs more than my entire apartment. Soft lighting from lamps I didn't turn on.
This is not my apartment.
This is not anywhere I know.
Panic hits like ice water.
"You're awake."
I spin toward the voice and immediately regret it when the room tilts again.
He's sitting in a chair by the window. Still wearing the black coat. Still watching me with those intense blue eyes.
Scary Hot Regular.
Who drugged me in an alley.
Oh my God. Oh my GOD.
"Stay there." His voice is calm. Steady. "You're still unsteady."
"Stay—STAY?" My voice comes out high and panicked. "You DRUGGED me!"
"Yes."
"YES? Just YES? That's all you have to say?"
"The dosage was carefully calculated. No long-term effects. The headache will fade in an hour."
I stare at him. Try to process. Fail completely.
"Where am I?"
"My home."
"Your—" Deep breath. Another. "I need to leave. Right now."
"I understand why you feel that way."
"Then let me leave!"
"I can't do that. Not yet."
The panic is building. My hands are shaking. "This is kidnapping. This is actual, literal kidnapping."
"Yes."
"You can't just—you can't—" Words are failing me. My social work training is screaming protocols at me. Stay calm. Don't antagonize. Look for exits. "I want to leave."
"I know."
"So let me leave!"
"No."
The finality in that word hits like a slap.
I slide off the bed, putting distance between us. My legs are unsteady but they hold. I back toward the door.
"I'll scream."
"The building has excellent soundproofing."
"I'll call the police."
"With what phone?"
I pat my pockets. Empty. Of course they're empty.
"You took my phone."
"Security precaution."
"SECURITY—" I stop. Breathe. Try to think. "Okay. Okay. I'm leaving. Right now. And if you try to stop me, I will fight. I will make this as difficult as possible."
He nods. "I respect that."
I turn to the door. Try the handle.
It doesn't budge.
I try again. Harder. Nothing.
"Biometric lock," he says from behind me. "Only approved individuals can open it."
I pound on the door with my fist. "HEY! ANYBODY! HELP!"
Silence.
"They won't come," he says. "They have instructions."
I turn back to face him. My heart is racing so fast I feel dizzy. "You can't keep me here. People will look for me. My coworkers saw me leave for break. They'll notice I didn't come back. The police will—"
"I called your manager. Family emergency. You needed to leave immediately. She was very understanding. Extended your time off through the New Year."
The room tilts again. "You... you called my work?"
"I'm thorough."
"You're insane."
"I prefer 'detail-oriented.'"
My legs give out. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. This can't be happening. This cannot be happening.
He's still sitting in his chair, watching me. Not threatening. Not advancing. Just... watching.
Like I'm something interesting he found.
"Why?" My voice breaks. "Why are you doing this?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I need a date for Christmas."
I blink. "What?"
"My mother told my extended family I'm bringing a girlfriend to their Christmas gathering. She lied. But now I have four days to produce one, or humiliate her in front of the family." He pauses. "You're going to be that girlfriend."
"You kidnapped me... because you need a date."
"A fake girlfriend, specifically. For five days. December twenty-first through December twenty-sixth. Severny Harbor. The family estate is quite comfortable."
"You. Kidnapped. Me. For a DATE."
"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds unreasonable."
"BECAUSE IT IS UNREASONABLE!"
"I disagree. You were available. You're age-appropriate. My mother would approve of you." He pauses. "And I want you."
The words hang in the air.
"What?"
"I've wanted you since the first time you smiled at me.
I've spent months imagining what you'd look like in my home, in my life, what you'd sound like when you say my name.
Whether you'd taste as sweet as you look.
" His voice is matter-of-fact. Calm. Like he's discussing the weather.
"This situation gave me an excuse to stop restraining myself. "
I can't breathe.
"You can't just... you can't just SAY that."
"Why not? It's true. I've been patient for months. I'm done being patient."
"This is insane!" I'm on my feet again, backing away. "I'm not a—a thing you can just take because you decided you want me!"
"I'm aware. Which is why I'm compensating you."
I laugh, unable to believe it. "Compensate. Right. How much does kidnapping pay these days?"
"Fifty thousand dollars."
I stop laughing.
"Wire transfer," he continues. "Untraceable if you prefer. Or check. Full amount paid upon successful completion of the five days."
"Fifty... you're offering me fifty thousand dollars?"
"Yes."
"To pretend to be your girlfriend."
"Yes."
"For five days."
"Correct."
"You think this is normal."
"I think it's a mutually beneficial arrangement. You need money—student loans, correct? This would clear that debt and give you time to find better employment."
My face goes white. "How do you know about my student loans?"
"Background check. I ran it eight months ago." He says it like it's perfectly reasonable. "I needed to know if you were safe. If anyone was taking advantage of you. If you needed help."
"Eight months?" My voice is faint. "You've been stalking me for eight months?"
"Eleven months, actually. But I only ran the background check eight months ago. It seemed prudent."
"Prudent. Right. Of course." I press my hands to my face. This is a nightmare. This has to be a nightmare.
"You have until morning to decide," he says, standing. "But know this—I'm going to Severny Harbor for Christmas. And you're coming with me. The only question is whether you come willingly and collect fifty thousand dollars, or whether I have to keep you sedated for the duration."
"You wouldn't—"
"I would prefer not to. But I will do what's necessary."
He walks to the door. It opens for him with a soft beep. Biometric scan. Like he said.
He pauses in the doorway. "There's food in the mini fridge. Water on the nightstand. Chamomile tea in the drawer. I know you drink it before bed. Your belongings are in the closet. If you need anything else, press the call button by the bed."
"I need my freedom."
"After Christmas." He looks back at me. "Five days, Jemma. Then you get to choose."
"Choose what?"
"Whether you want to stay."
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
And I'm alone.
In a locked room.
In a stranger's penthouse.
With a man who's been watching me for almost a year.
I slide down the wall again and pull my knees to my chest.
This is real.
This is actually real.
Scary Hot Regular kidnapped me.
And somewhere in the part of my brain that's been reading dark romance novels for years, a tiny voice whispers:
This is exactly like the books.
I tell that voice to shut the hell up.
But it doesn't.