Page 27

Who the fuck is this woman?

I follow her, my feet carrying me to the other side of her car before I have time to think better of it. I should probably be more concerned that she has categorically refused to answer my questions.

Instead, I’m grinning like an idiot because apparently being told to fuck off is significantly more entertaining when it comes with a critique of the laws of thermodynamics.

Her friend steps in front of me, holding up a hand to stop me. “I don’t know any self-defense beyond kicking you in the balls, but I’ll do it without hesitation and feel zero guilt about the children you’ll never have.”

I look down at her.

“Noted.”

She narrows her eyes.

“And, for what it’s worth, extremely convincing.”

“Good.” She doesn’t move.

I look over her head and pull a business card from my pocket. “If you change your mind—” I hold it out for her to take. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“We don’t just hand those out.” Her friend is on her tiptoes now, moving with me when I try to look around her. “There’s a form.”

I look down at her again, still holding the card out past her shoulder.

“A form?” I will fill out a form.

“Yes.” For some reason, she has appointed herself gatekeeper, and despite being roughly a foot shorter than me, she seems remarkably confident in the appointment.

I lift the card a little higher.

“You’re bold for a man one move away from a groin injury.” She smiles without humor.

I lower the card.

Slightly.

Osteology Barbie finally yanks it from my hand, and the relief I feel is palpable.

“Serena.” That’s it. No follow-up, no clarification, just the name—calm, final, devastating.

She slips the card into her pocket and gets into the driver’s seat, leaving me standing there holding nothing but my own audacity. I try to convince myself this is good. Great, even. A clean exit. Memorable.

Until her car refuses to cooperate.

She turns the key, and instead of a smooth engine purr, the car emits a series of indignant chirps.

I watch her through the glass, her silhouette stiffening as she stabs at the console with visible, mounting fury.

Her friend doesn’t help. She just leans her head back against the headrest and starts laughing—a deep, wheezing sound that I can hear even through the window.

Something feral and protective sparks in my chest that makes no sense given the circumstances. I am, against all reason, completely gone on a woman who just used the word subterranean to tell me to screw off.

I stand there, rooted, watching this person who carries herself with a formidable, bone-deep confidence temporarily defeated by a mid-range security system.

It should not be charming. It absolutely is.

I see Serena’s mouth move—a string of syllables that look suspiciously like a cluster of four-letter words—before she finally kills the noise.

Her friend shoots me a don’t-you-dare look through the back window. I am certain to be one smirk away from being tackled.