Access.
He was in Charleston. That wasn’t nothing. Whether he was connected to my story or not, he was something. A variable. A potential danger. You didn’t ignore a live grenade just because you didn’t like the way it looked.
A few minutes, I told myself. I could give a few minutes. Pick his brain. Gauge his presence. Confirm he was a coincidence and not a symptom.
And then I could walk away.
“Fifteen,” I said.
He tilted his head. “You bargaining up?”
“Fifteen,” I repeated. “And you answer my questions. As many as I can ask in that time.”
He hesitated, then nodded once. “Done.”
“Fine,” I said. “Then we’re finished. For good.”
Even as I said it, something in me knew I was lying.
He stepped aside, gesturing toward the breakfast area with one gentlemanlike sweep of his hand. “After you.”
I brushed past him, refusing to acknowledge the way the proximity made my skin buzz. His scent hit me—soap, clean sweat, faint trace of something cooler, like he’d stepped out of an air-conditioned car.
The hostess greeted us with a too-bright smile, clearly intrigued by whatever weird tension we were radiating. “Table for two?”
This is a mistake, every cell in my body chorused.
“Yes,” Levi said.
We were led to a table by the window, away from most of the other guests. Sunlight spilled across the tablecloth, illuminating a basket of pre-wrapped muffins and a laminated menu.
I took the seat facing the room, back to the wall, habit more than thought. Levi slid into the chair across from me without comment, leaving his backpack at his feet.
The waitress appeared, pen poised. “Can I start you off with drinks?”
“Coffee,” I said. “Black.”
“Same,” he said.
She jotted it down and disappeared.
For a moment, we just sat there, the silence bleeding into awkwardness.
This was stupid. I should’ve stayed in my room. I should’ve pretended I hadn’t seen him. I should’ve remembered the last time I’d trusted this man with anything.
6
LEVI
Istill couldn't believe she was here.
Amelia Emerson. In Charleston. Inmyhotel.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
She settled into the chair across from me, spine straight, shoulders back, every inch of her radiating controlled hostility. The morning light caught in her hair, turning the dark strands almost bronze at the edges. No makeup. Sleep-deprived eyes. Cotton shorts riding up her thighs.
Fuck.
