Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
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.
Chapter Five
Knox
Three hours since the Strand, and I’m sitting in my apartment replaying five seconds of contact like a man possessed. Which I suppose I am.
The leather notebook lies open on my kitchen table, but I can’t make myself pick up the pen. I should document everything. Her face when our fingers touched. The catch in her breath. The way her pupils dilated, just slightly, when I told her everything looks good on her. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve been doing for months. Studying her. Writing down observations that read like confessions.
But tonight was different.
Tonight wasn’t data.
It’s not the sweater.
I said that. Out loud. To her face. And she looked at me with those dark eyes and her cheeks flushed and for one perfect, terrifying moment, I thought she might close the distance between us.
She didn’t.
Now the ghost of her fingers against mine is the only thing I can think about. The way the touch rewired something fundamental in my nervous system.
I scrub a hand over my face and check the time: 2:47 a.m. Her light went out an hour ago. I know because I drove past her building on the way home, just to make sure she got there safely. Just to see her window one more time.