Mostly, I was annoyed at the idea of having to find a new coffee place because, apparently, it’s perfectly acceptable to give out information about a federal prosecutor to literally anyone who asks.
I slide plates on and move on to the overhead press. Three sets of five. The movement makes you honest—no legs to help, no place to hide. On rep three, my shoulders burn. Good.
I keep seeing the name on the cup. PANINI, written in black marker, like it was some sort of stupid joke. It made me smile when I was out of Chen’s sight, and then I hated that I smiled.
I put the bar down and take a step back. Roll my wrists. Pick it up again. Press.
He had to know I wouldn’t drink it. He knows damn well that I wouldn’t drink it. So what was the play?
Seeing how I would react to him getting information on me so easily? Or did he just want to see if I would refuse?
Of course not. Refusing would’ve made me look silly and petty.
I re-rack the bar and move on to my next workout.
I set the weight down and take a long drink of water. My pulse is steady now, except when I replay the half-second of contact when the cup exchanged hands. Which is happening often. Fingers brushing fingers. The heat coursing through me.
It’s ridiculous. I’m not a child. I’m a grown ass woman of thirty-two. A badass prosecutor.
Doesn’t stop me from being angry at myself. I don’t want to notice his strong hands as he passes me the cup, the way hewatches me with his dark, unreadable eyes. I don’t want shivers running down my spine when he says, “For you,” in that rich, deep voice.
Giving it up hurt in a stupid way. Not because I thought he poisoned it. I know he didn’t, and I know he knows that.
He went through all of that, dangled it in front of my face, knowing full well I wouldn’t be drinking it.
But it doesn’t change the fact that he did it. He didn’t just give me any cup of coffee. He took the time to learn my favorite drink.
Why? Did he just want to make it that much worse for me, knowing I couldn’t drink it? Or was it something else?
I let the weights drop to the floor with a frustrating sound, earning myself a dirty look from someone on the treadmill.
I need to stop now. I’m going around and around in circles and not making any damn sense.
I rerack my weights, wipe down the bench, and toss my towel in a basket on the way out.
I stand in the hallway of my apartment, looking around at the chaos that’s living in it right now.
My apartment is still half new. I moved fast, packing up quickly and taking the first apartment available in my price range. One bedroom, big windows, and a kitchen I don’t really use except to microwave leftovers. Boxes are stacked against the hall wall.
It should embarrass me to have a team of U.S. Marshals sweeping it right now, but I’m too worn out to care after such a long week.
They came early this morning and started right in.
The man in charge—Lawrence—meets me in the hallway.
“Bedroom?” he asks.
“Go ahead.” I gesture for them, too tired to be properly embarrassed at whatever they might find.
They check under the bed, the frame. Nightstand drawers. The sliding window. “These latches are fine for normal life,” one of them says. “We’ll be adding a secondary bar.”
“Okay,” I say. Just like I have with every other change they want to make.
They move through the hall again and stop at my front door. The deadbolt is new. The chain is old.
“We’ll replace this,” one says, pointing to the chain. “Chain is theater. We’ll leave you a door wedge alarm for nights.”
“Fine.”
