He leaned in—just a fraction, but enough to make my brain fuzz out for a second. “You’re shivering,” he said, voice pitched for my ear alone. “Next time, wear a heavier coat.”
Next time.
The words lodged in my chest, threatening to become something inconveniently hopeful.
He pressed a card into my hand, grazing the web between my forefinger and thumb. It was matte black with sharp corners, nothing but a phone number embossed in silver. No name, nologo, no clue. He withdrew his hand, slowly, as if letting go of a bet he was confident would pay off.
“If you ever need a ride…” The pause was a dare. “Call me direct. The app takes too much.”
Under the portico lights, his eyes flickered blue like the base of a flame. He towered over me—ridiculously so, like he could have picked me up with one arm and not broken stride. His presence was like a vacuum, forcing the air out of my lungs, leaving me faint.
I wanted to say something smooth, a closing line, but the words scattered in my chest.
He watched me long enough to see the hesitation land, then stepped back into a half-bow that felt both mocking and oddly deferential. “Alex,” he said, savoring my name as if he’d been rolling it around on his tongue the whole drive. “Goodnight.”
Before I could say another word, he pulled back, spun, and slid behind the wheel in one fluid movement. The door thunked shut with a finality that felt like a verdict. I clutched his card until the edges bit lines into my fingers. My body was still vibrating with the echo of his voice, and I had to will myself to move.
I shoved the card into my tote, yanked my flimsy jacket tighter around my ribs, and ducked into the glassy hush of the hotel lobby. Inside, the world resumed its regular programming—suitcases, concierge smiles, a bored bellhop tapping his phone in the corner. I wanted to believe I’d imagined the last half hour, but my brain wouldn’t let me up for air.
The elevators were at the far end of the vaulted space, but I veered toward the velvet bench near the entrance, bracing for the cold slap of routine. I pulled up the rideshare app, my thumb fumbling more than I’d admit.Thank you for riding with Luka.Five stars, of course. I tipped him twenty pounds—halfout of guilt, half out of superstition, as if largesse might buy me insurance against whatever the hell I’d just set in motion.
Only then, as I tucked my phone away, did I risk a glance out the glass doors. His car was still there. I saw his silhouette—one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the open window. The cigarette’s ember found me first, then his eyes in the side mirror. I couldn’t see the rest of his face. Didn’t have to. I saw enough to know this man wasn’t done with me yet.
Nor did I want him to be.
chapter
two
An hour later, in the comfort of my suite—“home” for the next six weeks—Luka’s voice still clung to my skin like smoke.
The kettle hissed to life as I rolled my aching shoulders.
My phone chimed.
London number. Not in my contacts.
You left your scarf in my car.
I checked the number against the matte card the he’d pressed into my hand. The digits matched.
Of course they did.
I typed back, partly to shovel the heat off my chest, partly to see if he was fucking with me.
Luka, right? Pretty sure I wasn’t wearing a scarf. Don’t even think I own one. Must be someone else’s. But thanks anyway.
Not sure whose else it could be. Haven’t had any other female passengers tonight.
My pulse beat in my ears as I watched the dots appear, vanish, and reappear.
If you like, I can return it to you at your hotel. I’m not far.
I set my phone face down on the desk, palms damp against its smooth case. The air in the suite felt dense, as if it had thickened around my ribs. It took a full minute before I turned the screen over.
How did you get my number, anyway? I thought the app kept that confidential.
A lag this time. Then: