I'm three paragraphs in when I hear footsteps.
Not the usual sounds of the alley—trash trucks, delivery drivers, the occasional person cutting through from the street. These footsteps are purposeful. Deliberate.
Coming toward me.
I look up.
And my brain short-circuits.
It's him.
Scary Hot Regular is standing at the mouth of the alley, and suddenly that nickname feels inadequate. He's tall. I knew that, but seeing him outside the context of the coffee shop makes it more obvious. Six-three at least. Broad shoulders under a black wool coat that probably costs more than my rent. Dark hair with silver at the temples catching the December light. And those eyes.
Ice-blue. Intense. Fixed directly on me.
My body reacts before my brain catches up. Pulse kicking into overdrive. Breath catching. That low pull of attraction I've been ignoring for months suddenly impossible to deny.
He's beautiful in a dangerous way. Sharp edges and controlled power and something lethal in how he moves toward me.
Oh God.
This is bad. This is very bad.
"Jemma Dean."
My name. He says my name.
In a voice that sounds like gravel and smoke and things that happen in the dark.
"Um." My brain struggles to form words. "Hi?"
He takes three steps closer.
I should move. I should run. Every self-defense class I've ever taken is screaming at me to get up, get inside, put distance between myself and the strange man in the alley.
But I don't move.
Because part of my brain—the stupid, romance-novel-addled part—is caught up in the details. The way he moves like he owns the space he's in. The intensity of his focus. The size of his hands. The fact that he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
Heat floods through me, unwelcome and inappropriate.
My body has apparently decided that fear and attraction can coexist, and right now they're fighting for dominance while I sit here like an idiot.
"I know this isn't ideal," he says, stopping a few feet away. Too close. Not close enough. My brain is malfunctioning. "But I need you to come with me."
I blink. "What?"
"There's a situation. I'll explain everything. But we need to leave now."
"I'm on my break. I have ten more minutes."
Did I really just say that? Did I really just cite my break schedule to the terrifying man who somehow knows my full name?
Something flickers across his face. It might be amusement. It's gone too fast to tell.
"Your break is going to be extended," he says. "Indefinitely."
The book slips in my hands. I catch it before it falls, which feels important somehow. Like if I can hold onto my book, this situation will make sense.
