"Of course."
I turn to go and catch myself smiling despite everything. Donna turned fifty last week. The streamers I'd hung to surprise her are still up, draped across the top of her monitor infestive defiance of time. Knowing Donna, they'll stay there until Christmas. Possibly longer.
I can't help it. I love going overboard for birthdays, even for people I barely know. Five minutes out of a day to make someone feel seen is never wasted. It's one of the few things I'm certain about.
The building wraps around an open courtyard, offices stacked above and the café sitting below like an afterthought. I take the stairs down to the mail room, a space barely larger than a closet, metal boxes lining every wall, a dented drop slot beside the door.
I shove the stack through and turn too fast.
I walk directly into something solid.
A hand catches my arm before I go down.
"Watch it." Not loud. Just sharp.
"I'm so sorry." Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "I didn't see you."
I look up. Mistake.
His eyes find mine and stay there. Dark brown, nearly black, but threaded through with flecks of gold that catch the light. Not warm exactly. Assessing. Like he's already arrived at a conclusion and is just confirming it.
He drags a hand through thick dark curls, pushing them back from his forehead, and I catch it underneath the faint trace of tobacco. Something sweeter. Vanilla, maybe.
My stomach does something it has no business doing.
Then he rolls his eyes, releases my arm, and jogs toward the café without another word.
I stand in the doorway of the mail room and watch him go.
Rude.
I exhale through my nose and follow at a reasonable distance, because I also need the café and I refuse to let a stranger with good bone structure reroute my morning.
The barista behind the counter looks barely old enough to be here.
"What can I get you?"
"A smoothie — whatever Donna usually gets — and a matcha latte."
While the blender runs and the milk steams I find myself thinking about the way he steadied me. The automatic quality of it, the hand at my arm before I'd even registered I was falling. The hard line of his jaw. The brief, absent pressure of his grip and the way he'd looked at me like I was a problem he'd already solved.
"Harvee."
I take the drinks. Head for the elevator.
The scent of tobacco and vanilla follows me all the way upstairs, and I don't entirely mind.
CHAPTER 9
DIEGO
Adjusting my running schedule was all it took. Now I just happen to pass through the commercial complex where his firm is located, sneakers on pavement, another guy logging miles in the Miami heat. Nobody clocks a runner twice.
The courtyard at the center is almost too perfect. Tropical plants, manicured hedges, Birds of Paradise lining one side like they were planted for a magazine shoot. Beautiful in the way that makes you aware of the contrast. I'm here to watch a man and figure out the quietest way to end him, and the scenery looks like a resort brochure.
It's warmer than my usual dawn runs, but I slept in this morning. Coffee with Ma. A normal hour before stepping back into this. Worth it.
I round the corner and someone walks directly into me.