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The stiff presence across the table did not share her sentiment. Nathan perched on the edge of his chair, the seatback shoved against the farthest corner of the room where he kept an invariable yet subtle eye on their surroundings.

A server bustled by, trailing fumes of garlic from his raised tray. Her mouth watered. “I’m starving.”

He glanced at her. “You need to eat more.” His focus returned to the crowded dining room. “And you should cut your hair.”

She rolled her lips between her teeth and bit down. He could bitch all he wanted. She told him daily to go live his life. Not that she wasn’t grateful for his protection and his company. He was the brother she never had. With his parents long passed and Noah…all they had was each other. And he was going to blow his fucking top when he found out her agenda for choosing that specific restaurant.

“Dammit, I know why you won’t cut it.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes as if wiping away images. “God, I know. It’s just…” He looked at the mop stringing around her shoulders and whispered, “With all that red hair, you’re too noteworthy.”

She twisted a finger around a lock. She hadn’t dyed it, hadn’t cut it in three years, and had no plans to. A small rebellion against the fuckhead who liked it short.

Their server approached the table and slid vibrant colored plates of elote and carne asada tacos between them. She flared her nostrils, inhaling the aroma of chili and lime. “I love New York City. Where else can you get authentic Cuban food?”

“Miami,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Or Cuba. Why don’t we go there?”

She’d chosen New York for a reason. What he didn’t know was she’d spent three years stalkingThe Burnon the Internet. She analyzed every song. Maybe she was nuts—was probably certifiable—but the lyrics seemed to be written about her, for her.

By the time she left the isolation of the penthouse, the band had reached stardom. They weren’t just popular. They were untouchable. Jay, Laz, Wil, and Rio were each iconic in their own right. They monopolized the cover of every magazine andTonightshow with miniscule activities about where they ate, vacationed, and who they slept with. Given their short careers, they should’ve been ranked among the rising stars, butThe Burnhad become legendary.

Jay was the least public of the four. No gossip or pictures of girlfriends. In fact, photos of him were difficult to dig up.

The band lived in L.A. but visited New York monthly. A couple days earlier, she tattooed a guy who had a friend who knew a roadie for the band. This roadie claimed thatThe Burnfrequented theEl Sabor Outpostrestaurant on Friday nights.

It was Friday night, and her hope was as bright as the neonEl Sabor Outpostsign above the bar. Oh God, Nathan was going to kill her.

She bit into a corn cob and the kernels squirted with sweetness. “So good.” She raised her eyes, watched him watch her eat. His lean frame, defiant posture, and bright blue eyes consumed her with painful nostalgia. She shook it off with a roll of her shoulder. “Why do you hate New York so much? We’ve only been here a couple months. Give it a chance.”

Another glance around the room. “He owns too many businesses in this town. Hell, he might even own this restaurant.”

“Bullshit. You’d know if he did, and we wouldn’t be dining here.”

He ran his private investigation business remotely, though most of his time was focused on gathering evidence against Roy. He’d made little progress in three years, and his frustration radiated from his pores. It seemed Roy Oxford’s payroll extended to members of the FBI and law enforcement in most major cities.

“Fine. He doesn’t own this one.” He squeezed a lime over a taco and dug in. “Yet,” he amended around a mouthful of shredded beef and dragged his sleeve over his clean-shaven chin. “We need to stay hidden until I can gather enough evidence to nail him.”

Screw hiding. She longed to confront Roy on the street and oust him where the oblivious world could bear witness. “I used to be a girl with ambitions and fanciful dreams, you know?” Her dream of teaching children to paint might not have been fanciful, but the notion still caught in her throat. “He took that from me. Now my only aspiration is running as far and fast as I can. I’m tired of it.” Damned tremors crept into her voice.

“Shh. I know.” He reached over the table and patted her hand. “I need more time. We have to be smart about this, and I’m regretting this move to New York. Three thousand miles doesn’t make us safer, sweetheart. He’s buying up corporations from coast to coast. He’s everywhere. And his”—he dropped his voice—”arms-trafficking activities are headquartered on this coast. Please be mindful of that.”

She slunk down into the seat. He was her voice of practicality and her only comfort. He was also an ever present reminder of the man she lost.

Despite her pleading, Nathan refused to return to his life in St. Louis. Roy was looking for an overweight, bearded man named Matthew Linden, not a thin, clean-shaven private investigator and Marine. And Nathan excelled at his job, covering his aliases and securing his connections. He was certain Roy hadn’t connected Matthew Linden to Winslow Investigations, which meant he didn’t need to be on the run with her. Yet here he was, taking care of her in some kind of noble dedication to Noah.

He picked up his fork. “How much money did you make today?”

Two tattoos. Not much, but inking out of his temporary PI office in the Village didn’t exactly tantalize would-be customers. “A hundred and fifty dollars.”

Laughter barreled from across the room and stole his attention. His eyes cut back to her, and they were stone-like in resolve. His you-don’t-need-to-work lecture was imminent.

She held up a hand. “Don’t say it. I earned this money to see Duke again. I made an appointment for tomorrow. Will you take me?” She straightened her backbone and waited for his disappointment. Just saying Duke’s name brought out his overprotective tension.

His face paled, and he pushed his plate away. “There are other kinds of therapy.”

The deadness in his tone raised her hackles. “The normal kind, you mean. And what exactly would I talk about with a psychiatrist?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That I was held as a slave and I’m on the run because my captor is too powerful to bring down? How many red flags would that raise? How much bribe money would it take for the therapist to turn my confession over to the man hunting for it?”

A swallow bobbed in his throat, and his eyes darted between her and the rowdiness across the room. “Thentalktome.”

She leaned over their plates and closed the distance between them. “I do talk to you. I tell you everything. And goddammit, you’ve seen it all firsthand.”