When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“I love you,” she whispers against my lips.
“I love you too.”
“Even though I’m an idiot?”
“Especially because you’re an idiot.” I smile against her mouth. “My idiot.”
She laughs, the sound is watery but genuine. “We should probably get going.”
“Probably.” But neither of us moves. We sit there, wrapped around each other, stealing a few more minutes of peace before we have to face whatever’s waiting for us.
Finally, I stand, setting her on her feet. “Ready?”
She takes a deep breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
We drive to Joe’s Coffee in my truck, Olivia’s hand clasped tightly in mine. The morning traffic is light, and we make it to Fifth Street with ten minutes to spare.
The coffee shop is small, tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner. Through the window, I can see a handful of customers, but no one who screams ‘former security guard with information.’
“You see anyone?” Olivia asks, scanning the street.
“No. But let’s go inside. They said ten.”
We walk in together, and the smell of coffee and fresh bread hits me immediately. A few people glance up, recognition flickering across their faces when they see me, but no one approaches.
We grab a table near the back, positioned so we can see the door. Olivia orders tea. I get coffee. And we wait.
Ten o’clock comes and goes.
Ten-fifteen.
Ten-thirty.
“Maybe it was a prank,” Olivia says quietly, staring at her untouched tea.
“Give it a few more minutes.”
At ten forty-five, I’m ready to admit she might be right. This could be some twisted joke. Someone messing with us when we’re already down.
Then the door opens.
A woman walks in. Late fifties, gray hair pulled back in a bun, wearing jeans and a stadium security jacket. She scans the shop, her eyes landing on us, and something like relief crosses her face.
She heads straight for our table.
“Ms. Rivers? Mr. Storm?”
We both nod.
“I’m Carol Martinez. I worked security at the stadium for fifteen years.” She slides into the seat across from us, setting a thick envelope on the table. “And I know who leaked those photos of you.”
My heart kicks. “Who?”
“My nephew.” Her voice is heavy with shame. “Jake Martinez. He worked in the security office, and had access to all the camera feeds. When he saw you two together that night in the parking garage, he thought he could make some quick money.”
Olivia’s face goes pale. “He sold the photos?”
