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Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Like he expected me to back down.

I don't back down. Ever.

"Anything else, or can I finish packing?"

He studies me for another beat, then shakes his head.

"Just one thing."

"What?"

"Next time you're gonna lecture us about nutrition, maybe don't show up smelling like coffee and stress."

I blink. "What?"

"Your hands are shaking. You've got coffee breath. And you keep checking your phone like you're expecting bad news." His mouth curves, "For someone preaching about healthy habits, you're running on fumes yourself."

If only he knew why my hands are really shaking. I know those hands. I know what they can do. But then there's the way he said "Novak" like it was poison. Like I went from the woman who screwed his brains out to enemy territory in half a second.

Embarrassment crawls up my neck. He's not wrong. I've been mainlining caffeine since 6 AM, checking my phone obsessively for signs this whole thing is about to blow up. I hate presenting to groups, hate the way my voice shakes when twenty pairs of eyes are staring at me, hate that part of me still feels like I'm faking my way through this even though I know I'm qualified.

"I'm fine," I snap, but my voice cracks.

"Sure you are."

"I am."

"When's the last time you ate something that wasn't a protein bar?"

I open my mouth to answer, then close it. Because honestly? I can't remember.

"That's what I thought." He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "Oh, and why don't you bring your own nutrition plan to the meeting—might learn something."

Then he's gone, leaving me standing in an empty conference room with my laptop bag and the uncomfortable realization that the parking lot asshole just called me out on my own bullshit.

How the hell did the best night of my life turn into this mess?

And he's completely right.

I sink into the nearest chair and pull out my phone. Three missed calls from Griffin. Two text reminders to make sure I'm drinking enough water. And a voicemail from an unknown I haven't listened to yet.

He has a point.

I need to get a handle.

But first, I need to figure out why the hell the guy who accused me of insurance fraud is suddenly acting like he gives a damn.

Chapter thirteen

Liam

Iknowshe’sstaringbeforeI even look up.

That sniper-scope feeling—tight between the shoulder blades, crawling down the spine. I’ve felt it on the ice when some goon’s gunning for me. This? It’s not a hit I’m bracing for.

It’s heat.

The kind that prickles through your skin and settles low in your gut like a bad idea you’re about to say yes to.