Of course he’d push.“Columbus Circle.By the fountain.”
“When?”
Knowing he’s going to insist on taking a car, I estimate the travel time on clogged city streets.“Thirty minutes?”
“Heading out now.”
I arrive at the Circle ten minutes early and scout the scene.The usual horse-drawn carriages are lined up down the street across from the park-facing apartment buildings and hotels.An artist sells his work, but judging from his easily moveable stand, I’d guess he’s lacking the required permits.
Residents speed by at quick clips, while tourists hold out phones, either to take photos or to check for directions.A police officer on a bicycle passes and turns onto the black asphalt path that leads into the park.Leaves scatter across the ground, and the sweet smell of sugared almonds from the nearby street vendor mixes with the faint scent of exhaust and horse manure.
Waiting for him, a memory ambushes me—not linear, but sensory fragments that refuse to stay buried.
The yacht deck at dawn, cool against my bare back.Salt air mixing with his sandalwood cologne.His voice, rough with desire.“You’re fucking gorgeous when you come.”
The way he’d watched me afterward—not like a conquest, but like I’d surprised him.
Later, in his cabin, silk sheets that smelled like him.My hands trembling as I reached for his belt—not performance, just want.The shock of that: actually wanting someone while undercover.
“I’m going to do everything I can to ensure you never forget me.”
He’d said it like a promise, and I’d let myself believe it for exactly one night.
His fingers in my hair, his voice commanding: “Don’t belittle this.”The way he’d taken me apart with a precision that felt like devotion.That impossible fullness, his body over mine, his breath hot against my neck.
And afterward—the part that broke me—when he traced patterns on my shoulder and asked, “Tell me something true.”
Drowsy and unguarded, I’d whispered, “I’ve never felt anything like this before—it’s unsettling.”
His arm had tightened around me.“Good.Then I’m not alone in that.”
Even then, I’d known: whatever came next would require me to leave him behind.
The wind knifes through the city, dragging me back to now, cutting through my sweater and sending dried brown leaves scattering across the sidewalk.I step back, aiming to distance myself from the street, and bump into a hard, firm chest.On instinct, my arm bends, elbow poised—then the familiar hint of sandalwood reaches me, and my muscles relax into recognition.
“No coat?”He’s shrugging out of his black trench—cashmere-lined, probably costs more than my rent.
“I’m fine.”But he’s already draping it over my shoulders, his hands lingering just a second too long at my collar.
The lining is still warm, the weight of it unmistakably his.
I should shrug it off.Instead, I pull it tighter.
“Better?”His voice is low, intimate despite the public setting.
“We’re supposed to be professional.”
“And I’m professionally concerned about hypothermia.”The corner of his mouth lifts.“Humor me.”
The hustle and bustle of the city slips away, and the wind’s chill is replaced with a buzzing warmth.I clear my throat, stepping back, and gesture to the path that leads into the park.
“I have news.”
He quickly matches my stride, and I wait until we’re far past the fountain, and in a section with no one too close to speak.Watching him closely, I say, “Eddie Thorne entered the server room.”
His jaw flexes slightly, barely noticeable beneath his trimmed beard, and his thick lashes flicker for the briefest of seconds.“Did you uncover what he’s doing?Who he’s selling to?”
“The only thing we know for certain is he’s sitting in the server room.He hasn’t accessed anything.”
