Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
“Only on Tuesdays,” I say, then immediately wince. “And apparently only when the universe decides I need to meet the most attractive man in Halo City by ruining his shirt. Hi. I’m Anniston. Anniston Wells. Professional coffee terrorist and current candidate for most embarrassing human alive.”
I’m still holding the empty cup like an idiot. I shove it into the nearest trash can, then pull out a crumpled pack of tissues from my purse that I definitely stole from the last hotel I stayed at. I start dabbing at his chest without thinking, which is when I realize I’m touching a complete stranger’s very firm pectoral muscle.
I snatch my hand back like he’s on fire. Which, to be fair, he might still be. Oat milk burns are real. I’ve read the studies.
He catches my wrist gently, not hard, just enough to stop my frantic dabbing. His fingers are warm and surprisingly calloused for someone who looks like he could star in a boardroom drama.
“Banks Hawthorne,” he says. His eyes flick over my shoulder for half a second, scanning the plaza like he’s cataloging exits. Then they come back to me, softer this time. “And I have had worse things spilled on me. Usually blood. This is an upgrade.”
I laugh, a startled little burst that sounds way too loud for public. “Blood? Okay, that is either the coolest or most terrifying introduction I’ve ever heard. Are you a spy? A hitman? Please say yes so my romcom brain can justify how unfairly hot you are.”
He raises one eyebrow, and I swear my knees actually weaken. Traitors.
“Not a hitman,” he answers, lips curving just enough to make my heart flutter like a caffeine addicted hummingbird. “Private security. New contract in the city.”
Private security. Of course he is. Tall, lethal looking, and apparently now my personal dry cleaner. This is exactly the kind of man my mother warned me about while secretly hoping I would bring one home.
I realize I’m still standing way too close to him. Close enough to smell whatever woodsy soap he uses and the faint vanilla now mixed in. I step back, smoothing my pencil skirt like that will somehow restore my dignity.
“Look, at least let me buy you a new shirt. Or coffee. Or a new shirt and coffee. There’s a boutique right there that does rush tailoring for important meetings. I know the owner. She owes me for not publishing her very messy divorce details last year. Long story. Involves a yoga instructor and too much tequila.”
Banks looks down at the massive wet stain across his chest, then back at me. Something shifts in his expression, almost like he’s deciding something important.
“Deal,” he says. “But only if you let me carry that bag for you. It looks like it’s trying to stage a coup against your shoulder.”
I glance at my overstuffed laptop bag, which is currently unzipped and flashing the corner of a very illegal USB drive I probably should not be carrying in public. I zip it fast.
“You don’t have to. Really. I’m a strong independent woman who only occasionally tries to murder attractive strangers with beverages.”
He takes the bag anyway, slinging it over his own shoulder like it weighs nothing. His fingers brush mine again and I feel it all the way down to my ridiculous sparkly toenails.
We start walking toward the boutique, the morning sun catching on the glass towers around us. For the first time in weeks I’m not constantly checking over my shoulder. I’m too busy sneaking glances at the man beside me who looks like he could bench press a sedan but is currently listening to me ramble about how I once spilled soup on a federal judge during a deposition.
He doesn’t laugh out loud, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, and that feels like winning the lottery.
Maybe today isn’t the worst Tuesday after all.
Maybe it’s the start of something that’s going to get me in a lot more trouble than just a ruined shirt.
And the scariest part? I think I might be okay with that.
THREE
BANKS
I know exactly who she is the second her coffee explodes across my chest. Anniston Wells. The whistleblower. The woman whose file is still open on my tablet back at the safe house. The assignment Halo Protective Group slipped me under the table this morning with a fat retainer and a single line of instructions: Keep her alive. Don’t let her know you’re on the payroll until it’s necessary.
I like this anyway.
I like the way she’s rambling at warp speed, cheeks flushed pink, blonde hair sticking to her forehead from the morning humidity. I like how she dabs at my shirt like she’s trying to erase the last thirty seconds of her life. I like that she has no idea the man she just baptized in oat milk is here to stand between her and whatever shadow is hunting her. She’s cute in a way that should not hit me this hard. Bright. Chaotic. The kind of light that makes the gray zones I live in feel a little less dark.