“You’ve figured out the formula.”
I took a sip of camping stove coffee, which tasted exactly as romantic as it sounded. “Please. After selling five hundred thrillers, I could write one in my sleep. Chapter one: someone dies mysteriously. Chapter two: everyone has secrets. Chapterthree through twenty: red herrings everywhere. The end: it’s always the person you suspected in chapter five but talked yourself out of.”
“Cynical.”
“Experienced. There’s a difference.” I gestured with my mug, warming to my subject. “The real twist is that there are no twists anymore. Readers are too smart. We’ve all seen every possible configuration of murder suspect.”
“So why keep reading them?”
“Because we’re all masochists who enjoy being one step behind fictional detectives?”
Lightning illuminated the room in stark white, and in that split second of clarity, I caught him staring at me. Not at the shop, not at the storm, but at me. His expression made my stomach do gymnastics that would score tens across the board.
“What?” I asked softly, the word barely audible over the rain hammering the roof.
“You have foam on your lip.”
I automatically went to wipe it with my hand, but he leaned forward slightly. “Other side.”
My tongue darted out to lick it away, and his eyes tracked the movement with an intensity that made me forget about the storm entirely. He leaned closer, more than just a fraction this time, and suddenly the space between us shrank to inches. His breath fanned across my face, carrying the scent of coffee andrain and danger. I could see the exact shade of gray in his eyes, darker now, pupils dilated in the dim light.
My lips parted slightly, and his gaze dropped to them. The air between us crackled with tension that had nothing to do with the storm outside. He leaned in another inch. I tilted my face up, drawn by invisible strings. Our mouths were so close I could feel the warmth radiating from him, could almost taste the coffee on his breath. Just one more inch and...
Thunder crashed directly overhead with enough force to shake the building. He jerked back so fast I wondered if I’d imagined the whole moment.
“Storm’s letting up,” he said roughly, but his hands weren’t quite steady as he set down his mug.
I looked at the windows currently being assaulted by rain with enough force to qualify as water torture. “That was literally the loudest thunder we’ve had all night.”
“Right. Letting up.”
We sat in silence for a moment, both pretending that whatever just happened hadn’t happened. The emergency lighting gave everything an underwater quality, and I focused on my coffee to avoid looking at him.
The lights flickered once, twice, then blazed back to life with shocking brightness. We both blinked in the sudden illumination.
“Power’s back,” I said brilliantly.
“I should go.” He stood in one fluid movement, all casual grace despite having spent the last hour sitting on a concrete floor.
He grabbed his still-dripping jacket from the hook, and I followed him to the back exit that led to the stairs to my apartment. He paused at the door, one hand on the handle, and turned back to me.
“Lock the door. Promise me.”
“I always lock my door.”
“Lina.” The way he said my name made it sound important. “Promise.”
“I promise,” I said, confused by his intensity. “Door locking will commence immediately.”
He studied my face for a moment longer, then nodded once. “Good night.”
Then he was gone, disappearing into the rain that had definitely not let up even a little bit. I stood there watching him go until the darkness swallowed him completely.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment on unsteady legs, my back against the door once I’d locked it (as promised). My heart hammered against my ribs with more violence than the rain against my windows. I could still feel the ghost of his breath on my lips, the phantom heat of his almost-kiss.
This was insane. I was being insane. He’d helped me with a door. Made sure I got inside safely. That was just basic human decency, not... whatever my body thought it was.
I headed for the shower, peeling off my soaked dress with relief. The hot water should have helped calm my scattered thoughts, but it only made things worse. Now all I could think about was how his shirt had clung to his chest, outlining muscles that belonged on magazine covers. How his hands had looked fixing my door, competent and sure.
