Chapter 5
Five
Lane
I glance at my big-mouthed best friend, shooting her a pointed look as we weave through the crowd. Heat radiates from the press of bodies, sweat and perfume tangling in the air while colored lights strobe across the dance floor.
“Do you always have to just blurt out whatever you are thinking?” I hiss, the sting of embarrassment still lingering on my skin.
She grimaces, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear. “I’m sorry. You know my filter doesn’t work. Why didn’t you tell me you met a guy?” she asks, hips already swaying to the beat of the music.
I stop and cross my arms, planting my boots against the sticky wood floor. “Because I didn’t ‘meet a guy.’ I served him a drink, and he barely spoke two words to me.”
What I don’t tell her: I can still feel his stare on my skin, the way his eyes lingered like he was memorizing me.
The man is seriously sexy. And that fucking nose ring? It just adds to the vibe he has going on. Pure sex and danger.
It’s the danger part I’m worried about.
I risk a glance over my shoulder, and through the blur of movement and flashing lights, I see him.
His gaze is locked on me, heavy and unyielding, like a tether pulling tight.
My breath catches, and I quickly look away, only to find Kam staring at me, head tilted to the side, an amused smirk on her lips.
“Seems like he wants to do a whole lot more than talk to you,” she teases, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “He can’t keep his eyes off you. I say go for it. He’s fucking gorgeous. Besides, it's been months since you and Luke ended things.”
“There was nothing to end, it was just sex,” I muttered just loud enough for her to hear.
She rolls her eyes dramatically and hauls me into a messy spin. “I know, I know. You don’t date. All the more reason to take him up on what his eyes are offering.” She nods to the table we just abandoned. “That man is fucking you in his mind right now.”
Laughter bubbles up in my chest despite myself, mingling with the vibration of the bass under my boots. Kam is ridiculously off her rocker at times, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
I let her spin me around the dance floor, our laughter blending with the beat of the music, but every time I turn, I feel him. Eyes locked on me. Like the rest of the bar doesn’t exist.
I let the music drown out my thoughts, getting lost in it, but it does nothing to drown out the weight of his gaze.
The song slows, flowing into the next. I brave a glance at Jameson, only to find his chair empty. He may be gone, but the heat his stare left on my skin remains.
“Shots?” I yell over the band.
Kam’s eyes light up. “Hell yes!”
I need to drown out the image of him. Those eyes, that stare. Burning through me like he already knows every secret I hide.
The next morning, I wake up groggy, and full of regret.
My head throbs in time with my heartbeat, each pulse sharp behind my eyes and I wince against the sunlight spearing through the room in hot, accusing stripes.
Groaning, I drag myself out of bed, the wood floors cool beneath my bare feet as I stumble to the kitchen.
The bitter tang of tequila still clings to the back of my throat.
How many did I take?
Four? Five? Too many.
I shake two Advil from the bottle and wash them down with a gulp of water. Leaning on the counter, I glare at the coffeemaker, willing it to drip faster. The smell of fresh grounds blooms into the air; dark, earthy, a promise of salvation. I’m definitely getting too old for shots.
Finally, mug in hand, I sink into my well-loved forest green reading chair in my oasis. Otherwise known as my living room. Cream-painted walls glow in the morning light, the dark walnut floors rich and warm.
I curl up with my current read, a cute workplace rivals Rom-com1, but after rereading the same paragraph five times, I give up and set the book on the armrest with a frustrated sigh.
Jameson Crowe.
Even his name sounds dangerous.
Not even tequila could blur the memory of his intense stare and the way his eyes lingered on mine. The lust was obvious, yes, but under it something sharper gleamed. The kind of look that made my skin prickle, like he was peeling back my layers one by one, searching for whatever I was hiding.
The hunger in his gaze wasn’t soft or tender. It was dangerous, a predator’s interest. I felt it coil around me, heavy and suffocating, leaving me torn between the instinct to run and the pull to stay right where I was.
I haven’t felt this strong an attraction since Byron. This is different. He scratches at something beneath my skin. Something I can’t control.
I shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter what he scratches beneath my skin. I don’t do relationships. Not after the hell Byron put me through.
We met during my junior year of college. It started like a meet-cute from a cheesy rom-com. I ran into him at a coffee shop, literally, spilling my caramel iced latte all over both of us. He laughed it off and bought me a new latte. By the time I finished it, he’d charmed my number out of me.
He was older, successful, and handsome. Everything I thought I wanted…until he showed me the monster beneath the charming smile he wore.
My hand wraps tighter around my mug, the warmth sinking into my palms. I exhale slowly, shaking away the ghosts of my past.
My phone lights up, snagging my attention, the memory blowing away like smoke.
Kam.
“I hate tequila,” I groan into the phone.
Kam laughs, light and teasing. “It was your idea.”
“How do you sound so chipper?” I mutter, sinking back into my chair, the worn cushions molding around me.
“Because I got a new shipment of dark romance at the store,” she purrs, knowing how to bait me.
That perks me up despite the pounding in my skull. Being Kam’s best friend means I get first pick at Between the Pages, her gorgeous little bookstore. After I help unpack the boxes, of course.
“I also got fantasy romance,” she adds a moment later.
I sigh dramatically, already scrambling to the bathroom. “Give me an hour.”
The second I step into Between the Pages, the familiar scent of old books and lavender wraps around me, grounding me instantly.
Mahogany shelves line deep-blue walls, the fourth wall a giant picture window letting in sunlight that dances across the sleek black-and-gold marble counter.
The place hums with warmth and quiet magic, like stepping out of reality and into another world.
Reading became my escape after my Dad passed away. It started with the typical young adult fantasy but evolved once I got to college and discovered romance books, specifically the smutty ones. I was instantly hooked. Reading everything I could get my hands on. Until I met Byron.
According to him, fantasizing about fictional men was the same as cheating. But the long history of porn websites I found on his computer? Totally fine.
I stopped reading. Just like I stopped doing a lot of things that made me happy.
The first thing I did after leaving my old life? Bought myself a new copy of my favorite romance novel.2 Now every year, on the anniversary of when I escaped, I buy myself a new copy.
“Iced matcha latte with oat milk and cold foam,” I announce, sliding her drink across the counter.
“You’re an angel,” she moans after the first sip, her fingers wrapped around the plastic like it’s her lifeline to existence.
I dig into one of the boxes, grabbing a book off the top. The cover is smooth under my fingertips, the colors bright and enticing.
Reading the blurb aloud, I grin. “Haunted by her sister’s death, a newly licensed psychologist is pulled into a web of deception, desire, and danger—where the man who sees through her may be hiding the darkest secret of all.”3
Kam leans forward, arms braced on the counter, eyes glittering. “Sounds amazing, doesn’t it?”
She hands me another one, the cover is a stunning mix of greens and golds.4 “This one is a fantasy, about a young girl discovering a whole fairy realm in her grandmother's backyard. She turns out to be one half of a prophecy to destroy the evil in their kingdom.”
“Say less.” I set the books aside to buy before I leave.
Her chuckle rings out, bright and airy, as she hefts a box, carrying it toward the back wall. “Do you think Jameson will come in during your shift tonight?”
I roll my eyes, following with another box, our footsteps scuffing faintly against the floor. “You couldn’t even wait, could you?”
“Nope,” she says, emphasizing the P as she sets the box on the floor beside a circular table dedicated to indie authors.
I drop the box with a muted thud and fold my arms. “Doesn’t matter to me if he shows up or not.”
Her brow arches, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Then you won’t mind if I shoot my shot?”
Heat sparks in my chest, quick and sharp. Jealousy, hot enough to burn, before I can smother it.
She pins me with a knowing stare. “Thought so.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to shelving the books, but her words linger like smoke curling in the back of my mind.
Later, I step outside, a brown paper bag with the Between the Pages logo on the side hanging from my fingers. The balmy summer air wraps around me, sweet with blossoms drifting from Petal the prickle along my neck, sharp and undeniable.
I know it’s him before I even lift my eyes.
Jameson sits at a table outside Brewed, his forearms resting casually on the tabletop, one hand wrapped around a to-go cup. His steely gaze holds the same intensity as last night. Curiosity. Apprehension. Heat.
The air thickens, and the hum of traffic fades into the background, leaving only him and me.
I don’t know how long I stand there, frozen in place, trapped in his stare. Finally, I tear my eyes away and force my legs to move, my keys clenched tightly in my hand, biting into my palm.
My pulse thrums in my ear, sharp and steady. Part fear, part arousal.
I reach my car and glance back at him. His eyes are still locked on me, his head tilted to the side like he’s trying to figure out two things at once; whether I can be trusted, and what position I'd look best in.
Heat floods through me, quick and traitorous.
Why does that thought send a surge of electricity straight to my core?
I shove the feeling away. He’s a stranger. And strangers are dangerous.
I yank the car door open and slide behind the wheel, the sun heated leather warm against the back of my thighs. I risk one last glance toward Brewed. He’s gone.
The growl of an engine has my head snapping up. Parked down the street is the green Ford Bronco I saw yesterday. My guts twist.
Does it belong to Jameson?
I quickly look away, slumping lower in my seat. The Bronco pulls out, and even though I can’t see him through the tinted windows, I know it’s him from the weight of his gaze sliding over my skin.
Who the hell is this man?
Pulse still hammering, I pull out my phone and type his name into the search bar. Jameson Crowe. New York.
No social media. Just a LinkedIn profile. Odd. Most people our age have something; Instagram, Facebook, even TikTok. Then again, I don’t either, but that’s because I have something to hide.
Does he?
I click on the LinkedIn profile. It lists his current city; Brooklyn, along with his certifications, license, and photos from previous jobs all over the country.
Normal. Boring. Just like he said.
What is it about him that has me so on edge?
I blow out a shaky breath. Why am I being this paranoid? It’s been five years, and nobody has come after me.
Jameson is just a gorgeous man with a boring job, passing through.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But the truth?
When he looks at me with that intensity, I want to throw away every rule I made for myself.