I’m not watching from the sidelines.
And I’m not here to be sweet.
I’m here to play.
And he? He’s the prize.
I zoom in with my handheld camcorder—retro, yes, but untraceable—and capture the last few seconds of Knight talking to Dunn in the booth.
God, he’s hot when he’s furious.
Not that I’d ever tell him that.
I keep my cam on Knight as he strides toward his car. The streetlights cut sharp shadows across his face—angular and dark and pinched with frustration. He’s saying something to Arrow and typing with unnecessary force.
Someone’s grumpy.
I hit send.
: [Attachment: Video File]
Caption:Your backdoor encryption sucks, Hayes. Try harder.
It takes exactly seven seconds for Knight to freeze mid-type and check his phone.
And then? The expression.
Chef’s kiss.
He looks around like he can sense me watching.
He’s right.
I press my fingers to my lips and blow a kiss to the wind. “Don’t worry, Knight,” I whisper. “You’ll see me soon.”
After all, I know where he lives.
And I just hacked his Netflix account.
A girl’s gotta start somewhere.
THREE
SHE'S GOING TO RUIN ME
KNIGHT
The second I walk through the door, I know she’s been here.
My boots thud across the hardwood as I scan the apartment. Nothing’s out of place. The blinds are shut. My gear is locked up. My work laptop still sits on the desk, closed but notexactlyhow I left it.
Because I’m obsessive like that. I rememberexactlyhow I left it.
And now it’s been touched.
And the scent that lingers? Not cologne. Not cheap cleaning spray. No.
Vanilla.
