Chapter
Two
“Tell me again,”Charlotte says as she drives me home from the police station, having somehow convinced the cop to not press charges. We both know it’s a good thing my juvenile records are sealed; otherwise, she might not have been so lucky.
I heave a sigh. “I was trying to save his life,” I say, for the eightieth time. “I know how it looks. I know you don’t believe me.”
My best friend rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m your lawyer, and you sure as hell needed one. But damn, girl, it’s not even 8:00 a.m. Did you really have to throw a hot undercover cop in the path of a bus before I finished my coffee?”
There’s no point in trying to explain myself to Charlotte. That’s the nature of my curse: to see the future at unpredictable times and never, ever be believed. Me in a Nutshell: Rune Whitlock, Unreliable Seer, Graphic Designer, and now, Professional Cop-Tackler.
So instead I just thank her for springing me, then run inside to change and grab my laptop for the meeting that I have exactly twenty-nine minutes to get to. I work from home for a reason.Exhibit A: this morning’s incident. But my boss insisted that I come into the office today, to discuss some new project. And if there’s one thing Ethan hates, it’s tardiness. His email signature is a line fromThe Merry Wives of Windsorthat reads, “Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.” Rumor has it he fired his last secretary for showing up to work at 9:02.
I can’t be late. I need this job.
I scrub the blood from my knees, yank my leggings over the plum-sized bruise on my butt, find my one business-casual black skirt in the back of my closet, and button my favorite lavender blouse. I do the fastest makeup job ever. Then I snatch my purse and laptop bag from the dining room table and race out the door.
I have a full gas tank. I am careful not to speed, lest I tempt fate.
But my car dies anyway, smack in the middle of Sapphire Springs’ busiest intersection (ha!), half a mile from my destination.
Somehow, I manage to coast to the side of the road. Leaping out of my crappy Subaru and grabbing my purse and laptop bag, I check the time, gulp, and start to run, as fast as I can go in my high heels. Which, for the record, is not that fast. My laptop bag bangs against my side, doubtless giving me another bruise. My purse threatens to spill its contents onto the ground. And my heels keep getting stuck—in the grass, in the cracks in the sidewalk. With my luck, I’ll sprain my ankle soon.
Eff this. I yank off my heels and, with them dangling from my hand, limp-sprint past Brew Box, where Charlotte and I would’ve had coffee this morning if I hadn’t been busy getting tossed into the clink. Past The Bookaholic, where I spend my Sundays browsing. Across the street, darting between cars that honk and swerve to avoid me. And finally, through the double doors of downtown Sapphire Springs’ tallest building, a stone-and-glass monstrosity that the historical society must’ve been paid off to allow through zoning.
“Rune Whitlock,” I pant to the grizzled guy at the security desk. “I have a meeting with Ethan Godfrey. Smashbox Analytics.”
The guy peers at me over his glasses, as energetic as the sloth inZootopia.“…Rune…” he says, running his finger down a list at the speed of slow-drip molasses. I shift from foot to foot, shifting the straps of my laptop bag and purse, desperately eyeing the elevator. Sweat plasters my hair to my face.
I cannot lose this job. It’s not like I have a safety net. Or a family to catch me if I fall.
I glance at the security guard again, then back at the elevator. There’s a man standing in front of it now, his back to me, holding a coffee from Brew Box. His dark jeans are pressed. His hair is perfectly combed. He is the opposite of me in every way: not sweaty, not disheveled, not held hostage by Sloth Security. Also, caffeinated. I hate him, right down to the depths of my cursed, cop-tackling soul.
“…Whitlock…” the guard mumbles. I’m tempted to launch myself over the desk and strangle him. But I don’t need to be able to predict the future to know that wouldn’t end well.
“Ah, here you are. You can go right ahead. Just sign your name…and you’ll need a badge…”
The elevator pings, announcing its imminent arrival. The doors open, and Mr. I-Iron-My-Jeans steps through.
I snatch the pen from the security guard’s hand, scribble something illegible on his clipboard, slap the badge he hands me onto my shirt, and charge for the elevator just as the doors begin to slide shut.
The man inside sees me coming. I know he sees me, because his eyes fix on mine and widen with something akin to horror. But does he hold the elevator? He does not.
Bastard.
I skid to a stop in front of the doors and shove my arm through the opening. I swear to God, if they close on me like monster jaws and drag me down into the elevator shaft to die a horrible death, I am coming back to haunt this guy’s ass.
Luckily for me—and him—the doors slide open. I hurtle inside and slump against the mirrored wall, my chest heaving. The doors slide shut again. And then it’s just me and Ironed Jeans, standing there in silence as the car begins to rise.
He takes me in—curly brown hair spilling out of its bun, heels looped over my finger, face flushed from running—and his eyes widen even further. They’re the darkest blue I’ve ever seen, so dark that if I wasn’t seeing them up close, I might mistake them for black.
“What floor?” His voice is low and scratchy, like he’s not used to speaking. It’s an undeniably sexy voice, which isnotwhat I should be thinking about right now. Especially not about a guy with the people skills of an ice floe.
“Five,” I huff out, but he doesn’t move. And that’s when I notice that the button for the fifth floor is already lit up.
We are going to the same place. Freaking perfect.
Well, Smashbox is a big company. With luck, we’ll never need to see each other again.
