Page 90 of Keller

He passes without slowing.

I wait until his footsteps fade before looking at the screen again.

He left before six this morning. The note he left in the kitchen said he had an early flight, so I assumed he wouldn't be back before tomorrow at the earliest. Now he's already headed back.

A day trip. Private flight out and back in under twelve hours.

He didn't have to tell me. He didn't have to promise anything. He could have waited until he landed, or until tomorrow, or not at all. We don't have rules. We haven't defined what this is.

But he's thinking about me. Before he's even touched down. Before whatever pulled him away is finished.

Something warm and buoyant settles over me, loosening the tightness in my neck the meeting left me with.

I read his message a third time. I can't help but wonder what a meeting out of town for a man who runs private gambling tables looks like. Does he go to poker conventions to learn the latest tricks in the business?

Or does he go to Vegas to gamble himself on a day trip?

Keller Stone is allowed to have a life I don't know about. We've been on a handful of dates and spent two nights together. He owes me nothing.

But I don't like not knowing. It's instinct, carved into me by years of training. Details matter. Gaps in information are where problems hide.

I lock the screen without responding. He's in the air, anyway.

I tuck the phone back into my bag and head for the elevators to meet Leah at Audubon Park. We're going for a run, and I could use the miles.

The humidity hitsthe moment I step outside. Thick and wet, like the air has weight. It settles over my shoulders before I even reach the curb.

I catch the St. Charles streetcar just as it rattles up, green and humming. The wooden seats creak under shifting bodies. At least half of the people on here are Tulane students I track due to their backpacks.

We ride it down beneath the canopy of live oaks. I lean my head back and watch the light flicker through the branches in long stripes across the windows.

The ten-minute ride is exactly what I needed to clear the meeting from my head.

I hop off near Audubon and walk through the St. Charles entrance. The park is different from downtown—quieter, shaded, wide loops of gravel and packed dirt curving under ancient oaks. Joggers pass with headphones in. Someone walks two golden retrievers that are clearly walking him instead.

I spot Leah near the iron fence, one leg propped on the base of a lamppost, a coral workout set practically glowing against all the green.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?” She switches legs without looking up.

"Sorry I'm a little late. The budget meeting ran over."

"Gave me time to people watch." She straightens, shaking out her arms. "Ready?"

We start moving along the paved loop, falling into the flow of runners. A pair of Tulane kids jog past us in matching neon shirts that read, "TULANE BID DAY," arguing about something that sounds like an exam they both forgot about.

Leah angles us toward the inside of the loop, cutting across a stretch where the oak branches knit overhead and filter the light into shifting patches across the pavement. Spanish moss hangs low enough that I have to duck slightly as we pass beneath it.

Leah glances sideways. Her eyes narrow.

"You're smiling. You are never smiling at the end of a work day, especially after a budget meeting."

"No I'm not."

"You absolutely are." She jabs a finger toward my face. "You're totally getting some on the regular, aren't you?"

I keep my gaze forward. My cheeks feel warm, and it has nothing to do with the run.

"Maybe."