It’s almost time.
My body won’t move. The crowd flows around me, bumping my arms and muttering their rude annoyances.
Then, like a record scratch, Rhys appears a few feet away on the sidewalk. He glides out of the crowd and spots me. Seconds later, he’s standing in front of me, towering over me, his frame blocking the sun.
“Fallon, what’s wrong?” His eyes cut across my face like he’s hunting for whatever knocked me off balance.
“Nothing,” I say, my voice sounding far away.
His gaze narrows, unconvinced.
I can’t keep falling apart.
I’m an assassin’s girlfriend.
I’m supposed to be unshakable.
“You look cold. Are you heading back to the building?” He tries to get my attention.
“Yeah.” I move away from Bill’s cannabis shop.
Whether or not Rhys knows it belonged to the guy who harassed me, I’m not sure. But as the man who put Bill in the hospital, it’s best he doesn’t hang around nearby.
“You sure you’re all right?”
I force my shoulders back, and my knees remember how to work and stand strong. “Just thinking about the holidays.”
“Aye. Those again,” Rhys grunts like I just mentioned tax season.
“Mmm,” I hum.
He glances at the white bag in my hand. “What’s that?”
I blink and feel terrible that I didn’t get him something for breakfast, too. “A muffin. Do you want some?”
He puts his arm around me and herds me down the sidewalk toward our block. “No. I had breakfast at a diner with Connor.”
“Your cousin, right.” I scan every inch of Rhys, checking for tiny hints of blood splatter from his collar down to his shoes.
Nothing.
We walk back to our building, his boots and my sneakers striking the pavement in mismatched rhythm. Rhys greets our doorman, who glances down at me with concern. I hope he doesn’t tell my father I’m dating an assassin. Daddy pays for my apartment, and while he calls me once a week, I often wonder if he sends one of his spies to check on me.
I act indifferent and stroll to the open elevator that is waiting for us.
It whirrs as it flies up in its narrow silo. Rhys vibrates with energy, his mood dark and coiled. By the time the elevator door slides open, I’ve folded my panic into a neat invisible square and tucked it into my pocket.
In the hallway, we amble toward our apartments, mine then his. Flat… He calls his place a flat because he’s from Ireland.
“See ya,” I say lightly when we reach my door.
“Sure.” His eyes burn a hole in my back as I work the key.
I glance over my shoulder, and he watches until I’m inside. “Bye.”
“Bye, Fal.” His towering frame vanishes as I close thedoor.
I click the lock shut, press my back to the metal, and exhale. But the date flashes back in my mind. The calendar is waiting for me.
