Chapter Four #2
careful spacing that lets him pretend this is surveillance instead of obsession. Two can play that game.
I stop at the Strand.
The bookstore is one of my favorite places in the city. Three floors of books, most of them used, all of them waiting to be
discovered. At night, it’s quieter than the daytime chaos, just a handful of serious browsers and students cramming for exams
they definitely should have started studying for earlier.
I push through the doors and breathe in that particular Strand smell. Paper and dust and the accumulated wisdom of a million
stories. The warmth hits my cheeks, still stinging from the cold.
For a few minutes, I actually browse. Run my fingers along spines in the fiction section, pull out paperbacks with interesting
covers, read first paragraphs to see if they hook me. This is genuine. I love books. I love getting lost in other people’s
stories, lives more interesting than my own.
But I’m also waiting.
I move through the stacks toward the crime section, which feels appropriate given my history. The shelves here are packed
tight, narrow aisles barely wide enough for two people to pass.
I drift deeper into the stacks, toward the back corner where the lighting is dimmer and the foot traffic is sparse.
There. Military history. Three aisles over.
I catch a glimpse of him through the gaps between books. That perfect posture, the expensive suit jacket that fits him like a second skin. He’s pretending to examine a book on World War II tactics, and it might be convincing if I didn’t know better.
Time for some fun.
I make a show of browsing, letting my fingers trail along book spines until I find what I’m looking for. A hardcover with
a glossy dust jacket, the title visible even from a distance.
The Art of the Heist: A History of Legendary Jewel Thefts
I pull it from the shelf and turn it so the cover faces the aisle. Flip to a random page, pretend to read. Really, I’m giving
him time to see what I’ve chosen.
It’s a little on the nose. Okay, it’s extremely on the nose, given that my past includes several notable jewelry acquisitions
that were never recovered. But Knox doesn’t know that. As far as he knows, I’m Hailey Parker, reformed party girl with a mysterious
background, currently employed as a jewelry assistant. My interest in heist books could be nothing more than professional
curiosity.
I flip another page. Hold the book a little higher.
From the corner of my eye, I see Knox shift position. He’s definitely noticed the cover. I can practically feel his curiosity
from here, that analytical brain cataloging this detail, filing it away with all the other pieces of my puzzle he’s been collecting.
That’s right, I think. Wonder about me. Try to figure me out. I dare you.
I browse for another fifteen minutes, selecting two more books that I actually want to read. Then I head toward the registers,
timing my path to pass within a few feet of where Knox is standing.
He’s still in military history, now holding something about Special Forces operations. Probably more comfortable territory
for him.
As I walk past, I let my credit card slip from my fingers.
It clatters against the hardwood floor, landing between us.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The store hums with the quiet sounds of other browsers, the distant murmur of a cashier
helping someone, the creak of old wooden floors.
Then Knox bends to pick it up.
When he straightens, he’s closer than I expected. Close enough that I catch his scent. Something woody and warm underneath the cold night air clinging to his coat. Close enough that when he holds out the card, I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
“You dropped this.”
His voice hits somewhere below my sternum. Those pale eyes meet mine, and for once, he doesn’t look away.
“Thank you.”
I reach for the card, and our fingers brush. Just a touch. Brief. But heat blooms from the point of contact, spreading up
my arm, deep in my stomach. My breath catches, and I see his eyes darken as he notices.
Neither of us lets go.
“You’re welcome.” His thumb shifts, almost imperceptibly, grazing against my knuckle. The touch is so light it could be accidental.
We both know it isn’t.
My pulse throbs in my throat. In other places too, places that have no business responding to a man in a bookstore over something
as innocent as a dropped credit card. But there’s nothing innocent about the way Knox is looking at me. Like he wants to devour
me right here between Military History and True Crime.
“Nice sweater,” he says. There’s almost a smile. Almost.
I look down at the honking Santa I wear, googly eyes wobbling from the movement. The bells along the hem jingle softly.
“Wasn’t my choice.”
“Looks good on you.”
My skin flushes hot. “Does it?”
“Everything does.” He says it like it costs him something. Like the words escaped before he could stop them. His voice drops
even lower. “But you already know that.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I don’t know what to do with a compliment that direct, delivered in that voice, with those eyes pinning
me in place. So I deflect.
“The sweater’s doing a lot of heavy lifting.”
He doesn’t smile, but there’s a change in his face. Warmer. “It’s not the sweater.”
My thighs clench. I hope he doesn’t notice. I hope he does.
We stand there, frozen in this pocket of tension that feels like it might combust at any second. His fingers are still touching
mine. The card hangs between us, forgotten. I’m acutely aware of how close he is, how easy it would be to lean forward and
close the distance. To find out if his mouth is as demanding as his eyes.
A browser shuffles past at the end of the aisle, breaking the spell.
Knox releases the card. Steps back. But his eyes stay locked on mine, and I can see the war happening behind them. The restraint
coiled in every muscle.
“Good night, Hailey.” My name sounds different in his mouth. Rougher. Hungrier.
I tuck the card into my pocket with fingers that aren’t quite steady.
“Good night, Knox.”
I step around him and walk toward the registers, hyper-aware of his gaze tracking my every movement. My skin feels too tight.
My body hums with thwarted want.
At the counter, I fumble through the transaction, barely registering what the cashier says. Outside, the cold air hits me
like a slap, but it does nothing to cool the heat simmering under my skin.
I start walking toward the subway, toward Brooklyn, toward home.
Behind me, I hear the bookstore door open and close.
He’s following. Of course he is.
And tomorrow, we’ll pretend this never happened. Pretend we’re colleagues who happened to run into each other at a bookstore.
Pretend my body didn’t light up like a fuse at the brush of his fingers.
But we both know the truth.
This game we’re playing? It’s only getting more dangerous.
And I’m not sure either of us wants to stop.