And everything… swims—shifts.Blurs.
Because something’s wrong.
The heat from earlier has cooled.His expression is off—tight around the eyes.Not cold, exactly.Just… fragile.
Haunted.
“Ready to go?”he asks, and his voice is soft in a way that instantly makes my stomach bottom out.
“Already?”I glance at the ornate grandfather clock in the corner.“Connor hasn’t even cued the embarrassing slideshow.”
“I need to…” He swallows.“Can we go?Please?”
It’s the ‘please’ that slices through me.
Luke Sterling doesn’t saypleaselike that—gentle and wrecked.Like the word itself is cracking under the weight of whatever he's carrying.
“Of course,” I say, setting my untouched champagne on the tray of a passing server.
Mac gives me a raised-brow look that saysWhat the hell?but I can’t answer.
Not when Luke’s hand is on my back again, guiding me gently toward the exit.The same hand that gripped my waist against the terrace wall now feels… unsure.
Hesitant.
The valet is waiting with his personal car—a sleek electric Porsche that hums like confidence on wheels.He opens my door for me like a gentleman, but the look in his eyes is anything but romantic.
"Luke, you're scaring me.What's wrong?"
"Just...get in.Please."
The drive starts in silence.
I can see my date tonight gripping the steering wheel, his jaw working like he's having an argument with himself.And the drive that should feel like a continuation of magic instead feels like a countdown.
“Did something happen?”I ask.“With work?With Nana Sterling?”
His voice cracks on my name.“Sage.”He exhales like it hurts to speak.“I know about the inn.About the foreclosure.Two weeks from now.”
Everything inside me stills.
“I—” I can’t even form words.
“I also know about the profile,” he says softly.“My profile.The fifteen forced matches.”
Silence detonates in the car.
The only thing I can hear is my heart trying to crawl its way up my throat.
“You hacked it,” he says, his voice like frost over cracked glass.“You hacked me.”
“No—yes—I mean, it’s not what you think?—”
He pulls the car over without warning, tires crunching against the gravel shoulder of a scenic overlook.Below us, Seattle stretches out like a promise we’ll never get to keep.
He turns to me.His eyes—those brilliant, arctic-blue, cutting eyes—are raw.
“Was any of it real?”he asks.“Tonight?The terrace?Any of this?”
