CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
She steps away from him.
My breath fogs the glass. I wipe it clean with my sleeve, careful not to make a sound.
Not abruptly. Not like she's fleeing anything. Just a quiet shift—weight transferring, balance returning, the moment easing its grip on her body one controlled inch at a time. The precision of it catches my attention.
Rafe stays where he is, stretched out on the lounger, head tipped back, staring at nothing. He doesn't reach for her again. Doesn't call her back.
I lean closer, fingertips barely touching the cool window. Interesting. Whatever passed between them appears to have settled, contained, finished for the night—but not for me.
She pauses at the edge of the patio, adjusting the hem of the shirt she's wearing. My fingers tighten imperceptibly against the windowsill. Her movements are deliberate, like someone stepping out of a costume rather than a compromising position. She doesn't look back at him. Doesn't look toward the house—toward me—either.
She looks composed. Too composed.
I remain perfectly still in my shadowed vantage point, breath shallow, pulse quickening. The blinds are angled precisely forty degrees—I measured—giving me an unobstructed view of the pool, the loungers, and the abandoned party debris. Not a single light behind me to betray my silhouette. Not a single reflection to catch her eye.
I've learned where to stand. I've learned how to watch.
She disappears inside. I lean forward, barely breathing. The night exhales for me. Rafe finally shifts then, sitting up, rolling his shoulder once. He reaches into his pocket, and I go still. The brief flare of fire illuminates his face for one perfect second before darkness reclaims him.
I catalog this moment. File it away with all the others.
Earlier tonight, I tracked her with Gage. My fingertips had pressed harder against the glass then too. She'd laughed with him, touched his forearm, his shoulder. Not calculated movements. Not careless ones either. Something about the way she leaned into his space made my pulse quicken. Gage's eyes followed her—invested. I've rarely seen him so unguarded.
My fingernails dig into my palm. Her with Rafe—not Gage or Cruz—reconfigures everything. I lean closer until my breath fogs the glass again, studying how the smoke curls around his face, how his eyes narrow slightly at whatever thought has captured him.
I've watched him dismiss women with less than a glance, seen the precise way he creates distance without seeming to move at all. But tonight, his stillness tells me more than movement would. He allowed her to enter his space. Allowed her to leave it on her terms. I press my forehead against the cool window, pulse quickening. This deviation matters. My reflection ghosts against the darkness, invisible to them both.
She’s an unpredictable variable, and they can be dangerous.
But they can also be incredibly useful.
The pool area empties in slow motion. Rafe stays out there until his glass is empty, then stands, stretching his arms above his head as if waking from a trance. He stubs his joint out in the ashtray, waiting just long enough to watch it stop burning. It’s unnecessary, that extra moment, but I understand. He’s measuring the effect. He’s confirming the reality of what just happened.
I allow myself a single, measured breath, and then I step away from the window. My mind spins with all the new information.
My plans are pliable. She wasn’t part of mine, but it’s becoming clear that I now have to account for her.
I don’t know yet whether she will complicate things or refine them. Whether she’ll destabilize what’s already in motion or sharpen it into something cleaner.
That’s fine; I have time.
And time, in my experience, has a way of clarifying what people end up costing.
35
GAGE
The salt hangsin the air at San Onofre this morning, stinging my nostrils with each breath. Gray mist crawls over the water, leaving droplets on my windshield that catch what little light filters through. The parking lot gravel crunches under only a handful of tires—two white-haired men in faded wetsuits moving with the slow precision of decades on the water, a kid with bed-head hair smearing wax in clumsy circles, three regulars hunched over steaming cups, passing a thermos between them in reverent silence.
I park where I can see the entrance and sit there a beat longer than necessary, hands loose on the steering wheel. My jaw tightens as the image flashes again—Bellamy's hair spilled across Coco's table, her back arched under the dim lighting. Rafe's fingers splayed possessively against her throat, his lips claiming territory. Then me, pressing her against the wall later, her nails digging half-moons into my shoulders, the taste of tequila and want on her tongue as I swallowed her gasp.
Two weeks. Fourteen mornings of waking up with my thumb hovering over her contact, the screen going dark before I can press call. Fourteen nights of replaying the heat of her backagainst that wall, the catch in her breath when my hand found her hip. The weight of Rafe's stare burning between my shoulder blades.
And fourteen afternoons of pulling up the tracking app under the guise of being curious.
Which is how I know she’s nearly here, her little blue dot less than a minute away.
