Like love came with conditions.
I didn’t sleep with him.
Not because I’m a saint, not because I’m saving myself for anything, but because every time he touched me, I felt like I was being measured.
And I never measured up.
My throat tightens and I shove the memory away before it can ruin what little air I have left.
I shift in the passenger seat, bag wedged against my hip. The flash drive is in there, a weight I can’t stop thinking about.
That has to be the real reason someone broke into my apartment.
Not me.
Not my laptop.
Not my sad crackers.
The drive.
My stomach twists and I press my palm against it, like I can hold the panic down.
Knox glances at me, quick. His eyes go to my face and then back to the road.
“You alright?” he asks.
His voice is low. Calm. Like he expects the world to be dangerous, and he knows exactly what to do about it.
I force a breath. “Yes. Of course.”
The lie tastes bitter.
He doesn’t call me on it. He doesn’t push. He just nods once like he’s filing the information away for later.
Which makes me even more aware of him.
Of how composed he is.
Of how easily he took control in that stairwell.
Like he does it all the time.
Like kissing women is a tool in his belt, right next to whatever weapons he keeps hidden and the instincts that let him move through danger like it’s an old friend.
The thought stings.
Because a man like him definitely does not kiss a girl like me and feel anything.
Why would he?
He’s… him.
Tall. Rugged. Scarred and confident in the way men are when they’ve survived things that would break most people. He takes up space like he was born knowing he deserves it.
And I’m Sierra Hayes Quinn, marketing degree, tiny rental apartment, curvy body I’ve spent years trying to hide under “flattering” clothes that always feel like a compromise.
Even now, I can hear Cole’s voice like it’s carved into my brain.
