Page 106 of Hard Pass

Dublin’s place.

It wasn’t hard to find. I knew the name of the condominium complex from the utility bill that fell out of her tote, and all it took was to find her car and the number painted on the asphalt to correlate with what unit number.

Yes, I feel like a stalker, but desire is a hell of a drug. And the woman inside the end unit with the light on in the windows even more so.

I sit with my engine still running, staring at her place like I’m giving myself one last out. Leave. Drive away.

Let her have her space.

Let this cool off.

But that is bullshit and I know it.

I kill the engine and climb out with no other purpose besides the lie I’m telling myself—that I’m just making sure she got home okay. That she’s okay after that kiss.

Because I’m sure as hell not.

Not with what she said. Not with what she found.

Someone’s been watching me—close enough to matter. And possibly for an extended period of time. For a man who lives on a stage in front of thousands, the only thing that freaks me the fuck out more than knowing that, is that this person’s money-making “habit” has led to not only this investigation but also added a footnote that will forever be associated with my career.

Even my dad believed I was fucking guilty.

And of course, the only person who went beyond the patterns and the numbers, who has truly looked at me like I’m innocent (beyond the guys, of course), is also the one person I can’t stop fucking thinking about.

Or wanting.

And regardless of how much I see it in her eyes or read it in the way she reaches out to touch me and then jerks her hand back, she still refuses to admit she wants me too.

My feet move where I swore they weren’t going to go, but when they land on her doorstep, I knock anyway.

The door opens slowly, and when she looks up at me, it’s there—that flicker of surprise, awareness, and something deeper she doesn’t want me to see. Excitement.

“You followed me home?” Her voice is controlled but with a tinge of surprise.

“No. Yes. I tried to stay away but . . .” I motion to her like she should understand why I need to be here, and then I lean one shoulder against the doorframe. “Besides, you followed me home.”

She barks out a laugh. “Um . . .”

“And you’ve been showing up where I am for the last week.”

That earns me a dubious look, but she doesn’t shut the door on me.

“You mean your work?” She lifts her brows. “I don’t exactly think showing up where we both need to be justifies this. You. Stalking,” she says, but takes a step back.

That’s all the invitation I need to follow her inside.

Her place is exactly what I expected. A lot of ivory and tan with pops of light orange. The space is clean. Intentional. Everything where it belongs in an organized fashion.

Except her. Because she’s standing in the middle of the family room, like she doesn’t know what to do with me. Or herself. Her fingers linked in front of her and twist as her eyes dart everywhere but at me.

She’s nervous.

I didn’t think anything made Dublin Locke nervous.

“Cole.” She swallows but doesn’t say anything else as her eyes flutter back to mine, desire and caution warring within them.

“I tried to respect your boundaries,” I say. “If they’re important to you, then they’re important to me . . . You’re important to me.”