"Knowing how to fight and looking like you enjoy it are two different things," I mutter.
"You'd prefer if the guy saving you from handsy douchebags was reluctant about it?" The eye-roll is audible in her voice.
I groan, flopping back against the cushions. "I know how it sounds, okay? I just... my radar's been off before. Way off. And look where that got me."
The line goes quiet for a moment. Tessa knows exactly where it got me… crying to the police and the principal while everyone whispered that I was making it all up for attention. Only my parents believed me, but they had no power to do anything.
"I hear you," she finally says, softer now. "Just remember, not every intense guy with boundary issues is Mr. Colton. Sometimes they're just awkward dudes with overdeveloped caveman instincts."
"Or serial killers," I add, but my voice has lost its edge. "Promise you'll write a scathing exposé if I end up as tomorrow's headline? Maybe 'Hot Bartender's Mysterious Demise: The Truth Will Shock You!'"
Tessa's laugh filters through the phone. "Girl, you're officially cut off from true crime podcasts. "Anyway, I'm outside the Chinese place. What do you want? Lo mein? Those dumplings you're obsessed with? Or should I just get the usual hungover special, extra spicy General Tso's and fortune cookies?"
I sink deeper into my couch. Food. Right. I should probably eat something besides panic and regret.
"Lo mein sounds good. And those dumplings. And maybe some hot and sour soup?" My stomach growls, finallyremembering it exists. "Actually, just get whatever. I trust your judgment."
"So... everything. Got it." Tessa's voice softens. "Hang tight. I'll be there in twenty."
"Thanks, Tess. For everything." I hesitate. "Love you."
"Love you too, disaster child. Now go put on your rattiest sweats so I don't feel bad about mine."
Her voice has that polished Manhattan lilt that betrays her Upper East Side upbringing, no matter how hard she tries to disguise it. It's almost comical that Tessa even owns anything that could be described as "ratty." Her father's on the board of three Fortune 500 companies, and her mother's family has a wing named after them at the Met. The Monroe heiress shouldn't rightfully own anything less pristine than cashmere loungewear, but she keeps these threadbare NYU sweatpants from freshman year like some bizarre trophy of normalcy. I saw her mother's face the one time she caught Tessa wearing them, like someone had committed an actual crime against fashion. But that's my best friend, slumming it with the peasants while her trust fund quietly accumulates another million.
We hang up and the apartment falls silent again. Too silent. The kind that lets your thoughts get loud.
I wrap the blanket tighter around me, but the chill isn't coming from the outside. The image of Dane waiting in his car hits me again, and something cold slithers down my spine.
What if he did followed me home? What if he's outside right now, watching my window?
I bolt to my feet and peek through the blinds, half-expecting to see that sleek black Charger parked across the street, those steel-gray eyes staring up at me.
There's nothing. Just the usual shitty street with its usual shitty streetlights flickering like they're trying to decide whether to work tonight.
"Get a grip, Lila," I mutter, letting the blinds snap shut. "Not every man with control issues is out to get you."
But the doubt lingers. The way Dane moved when those guys came at him... that wasn't self-defense class 101. That was the kind of efficient violence that comes from practice. From comfort with hurting people.
I've seen that before. In Mr. Colton's eyes when he thought no one was looking. That predatory calculation.
Dane watched me from his corner. Studying me. Like I was prey. Didn't he?
"Or maybe," I say to the empty room, "he's just a decent guy who saw someone in trouble and helped. Novel concept, I know."
But decent guys don't lurk outside your workplace until you leave. Do they?
I sink back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. No matter how good he looked or how nobly he acted, Dane sets off every alarm bell I've worked so hard to install. And I'm not about to ignore them again, not even for biceps that could probably bench-press my entire existence.
5
DANE
The Charger's leather seat creaks as I shift my weight, keeping the camera trained on the entrance of Le Bernardin. Three hours and nothing. Rich boy Brian Langford hasn't moved from what appears to be a business lunch. On a Saturday of all days.
Through the lens, I catch a glimpse of his perfect hair, perfect suit, perfect smile as he gestures to the waiter. Everything about him screams old money, the kind that makes problems disappear.
The more I watch him, then more he sets off every tripwire in my damn head.
