“Good to know,” I reply, as if I’m grateful but not too grateful.
I walk toward the doorway at a normal pace.
Not rushed. Not slow.
Bishop watches every step.
When I pass him, his voice drops low, casual, lethal. “You do good work, Evan.”
My pulse kicks hard, but I keep my expression blank. “Thanks.”
Then he adds, “Don’t get curious about things that aren’t your job.”
I stop like I’m considering snapping back.
Instead, I turn my head slightly, meet his eyes, and give him a bored look. “I’m not paid enough to be curious.”
Bishop holds my gaze another beat, weighing me, or, fuck, diagnosing me, considering he’s a damn doctor. Then he nods once. “Go ahead.”
I walk to the maintenance closet. It takes me all of five seconds to open the box and reset the breaker. The lights come back on. When I exit the closet, Bishop’s still there, still watching.
I try to ignore him, though his eyes make the phone in my pocket feel like it weighs a ton. I give him a wave, then head to the garage.
I head to my tools and finish cleaning up, put away my flashlight, and pretend my hands aren’t shaking.
From the corner of my eye, I see Bishop step into the garage doorway.
He says nothing, just watches me.
And when he finally turns away, the weight doesn’t lift.
Because I know that look.
I didn’t get caught.
But I was seen.
And in this world, being memorable is the first step toward being dead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Molly
After my shift, I don’t even pretend I’m going home to be responsible.
Not after what Evan did. Not after he stood in front of the room, threw my rules in my face in the hottest way possible, and claimed me as his.
No, there’s no pretending. There’s just the truth. Which means the only option is to go home and do something that would make The Bloodhound Gang blush.
I lock the bar, toss Riley a distracted wave, and walk out of The Noble Fir with my pulse already sprinting. The night air is damp and sharp, laden with the scent of pine and asphalt, and punctuated by my headlights smearing across the darkly wet pavement. My truck starts on the first try — purrs like it’s proud of itself, which it should be, coming back to life after nearly dying on me a while ago, though the reason it’s still alive is because of some work Evan did, which he told me about with a wink and a smirk — and the gentle, comforting rumble of my truck’s aged engine should calm me down.
It doesn’t.
Because the entire drive home I’m thinking about Evan’s hands. His mouth. The way he looks at me like I’m something only he’s allowed to want.
And how he’ll fight like hell to keep it that way.
By the time I’m climbing the stairs to my floor, my nerves are humming like a live wire dipped in gasoline.
