I dress like a woman who has something to hide: high-collar blouse, navy slacks. No necklace to draw eyes.
The little mark is well hidden beneath my clothes, but it doesn’t stop me from being paranoid.
I should be panicking. I should be listing consequences in order of career-ending potential. I should be drafting the world’s most humiliating recusal memo in my head. Instead, I just… continue getting dressed. Breathe.
It happened. I let it happen. I wanted it, and that is the part I can’t excuse as an accident or an ambush or a lapse brought on by wine and exhaustion. I wanted him. I want him now, which is the part that scares me more than anything else.
Halfway to the kitchen, I smell something in the air.
Coffee?
I pad into the kitchen and stop. The little drip machine I barely use is humming, red light on, steam fogging the under-cabinet.
I didn’t set that.
I stare at it, bewildered. There’s an obvious answer, but it doesn’t stop my mind from racing with possibilities.
My throat tightens. Luca made coffee for me.
Something warm and traitorous fills my stomach.
Lawrence’s voice runs in my head: no outside food or drink. Control what you can. The coffee in the pot is… mine. My machine. My water. My grounds. But my mind has already attached it to his hands, his timing, his mouth at my ear.
If he wanted to kill me, I reason, he would’ve last night. I gave him plenty of opportunity.
My face reddens, and I bury it in my hands.
I gave himso muchopportunity. I let him tie me up, make me helpless.
He could’ve strangled me at any point.
But he didn’t.
He could’ve, but he didn’t.
He said he got me the latte because he wanted to, and… I believe him. I don’t know why, but I do.
I reach for a mug, then stop. I take a breath, pick up the carafe, and pour a cup. The smell punches me in the face, dark and tempting. My fingers tighten on the handle.
I lift the mug and take a careful sip.
It’s strong without being harsh, the kind that hits the front of your tongue first—dark chocolate, a little smoke—then smooths out as it goes down. No burnt edge, no watery afterthought.
Warmth blooms in my stomach and spreads, loosening my aching muscles. I take another sip, bigger this time.
How the hell did he do that? I’ve been trying to get this machine to make good coffee since I got it.
Well, he probably doesn’t just dump grounds and pray, but… I don’t even need sugar. I don’t reach for milk.
It tastes… perfect.
A stupid sound catches in my throat. I set the mug down, steady my hand on the counter, and swallow one more mouthful just to feel that calm slide through me again.
“Damn it,” I whisper, because it’s delicious and because that makes this harder.
I finish the cup anyway. Then I pour the rest of it into my travel mug because there’s no way I’m wasting a drop of this. It would be worth dying for.
Chapter Fifteen
