The way he said my name—my full name—sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. No one called me Cecelia except him, like he was staking some kind of claim on the syllables.
I knew that stubborn set of his jaw well enough to recognize it was pointless arguing. With a huff, I turned and marched through my building's entrance and up the stairs toward my apartment. All the while I was acutely aware of his presence at my back, tall and imposing and far too composed.
At my door, I automatically reached for the spare key I kept hidden under the corner of the welcome mat. Rafe's hand shot out, closing around my wrist before I could retrieve it.
“You're kidding me,” he said, disbelief coloring his voice. “You hide your key under the mat? In this neighborhood?”
I yanked my arm free. “Some of us don't have doormen and state-of-the-art security systems.”
“Some of us apparently don't have common sense either.” He crouched down and retrieved the key himself. “This is how people get murdered in their beds, Cecelia.”
I flinched at his words, more stung than I wanted to admit. “Give me that.” I snatched the key from his fingers and shoved it into the lock. My apartment door stuck slightly—it always didwhen humidity was high—and I had to shoulder it open. I didn't bother inviting him in. He'd follow regardless.
“Nice place,” he said, his tone making it clear it was anything but.
My studio apartment, which had always felt like a cozy sanctuary to me, suddenly seemed painfully small and cluttered. The futon couch that doubled as my bed was still open from this morning. Dance clothes hung from a drying rack in the corner, bills and papers were scattered on almost every surface.
And there, in a chipped glass on the windowsill, a single rose. Withered now, its dark red petals curling inward like beckoning fingers.
My stomach dropped at the sight of it. The fifth one this month, always appearing when I wasn't home. I'd thrown the first four away, but kept this one as evidence, though for what, I wasn't sure. The police hadn't cared—no forced entry, no threatening notes. Just flowers from an admirer, they'd said.
Some admirer.
“What’s with the dead flower?” Rafe asked, his eyes missing nothing.
“It’s nothing,” I said a little too quickly. “It's old. I forgot to throw it out.”
He didn't believe me—that much was clear from the way his eyes narrowed—but he let it go and moved further into my space. I fought the urge to hide the stack of rejection letters or the past-due notices pinned to my corkboard.
Hugging Rafe's jacket tighter around me, I wished I could disappear into it. “I need to change.”
His dark eyes swept the room, taking in every detail with that calculating precision I'd always found both fascinating and unnerving. “Go ahead.”
Grabbing the first clothes I could find—leggings and an oversized sweater—I ducked behind the folding screen thatseparated my “bedroom” from the rest of the space. Even with the screen between us, I could feel his presence.
“So,” his voice came from near my window, “are you going to tell me why you owed Santiago enough money to buy a small car?”
I yanked the sweater over my head, grateful for the barrier of cloth between me and those penetrating eyes. “My rent was overdue. I needed to make it up quickly.”
“Try again.” The dismissal in his tone made my cheeks burn.
I emerged from behind the screen, chin lifted in defiance despite the humiliation churning in my stomach. “What do you want me to say, Rafe? That I'm a failure? That I can't make ends meet? That after two years in New York, I'm still scraping by on teaching beginner ballet to tone-deaf toddlers while every audition ends with 'thank you, next'?”
My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated myself for it. Hated him for witnessing it.
Rafe stood by my window, silhouetted against the city lights, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine in his tailored suit and perfect posture. His eyes drifted to my desk, where a stack of rejection letters sat in plain view. Next to them, my latest bank statement showed an alarming negative balance.
“How long?” he asked, his voice softer now.
Needing to move, to do something with the restless energy coursing through me, I paced. “How long what?”
“How long have you been this desperate?”
“I'm not desperate,” I snapped. “I had a temporary setback. I was handling it.”
“By dancing for Santiago.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “He offered me a solution. Six months of dancing would clear the debt.”
