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“You’re not supposed to be here, sweetheart. The center is closed.”

“I know, I just—I didn’t see anyone at the front desk.”

The footsteps retreat, lured by her bait.

“Wait here.”

She—in fact—does not wait.

At least she ignores whateveryonesays. Not just me.

She tiptoes as quietly as possible to the closet. I open it just as she arrives, and she startles like she didn’t know I’d be in here.

“What is your fucking problem?” I whisper, wrapping my arm around her waist and hauling her inside.

“Son of a mother-trucker, I am saving your booty,” she mutters, steadying herself with both hands on my chest. “You’re welcome.”

She feels perfect in my arms, and I’m struggling to remember the English language.

“No one can take you seriously when that’s how you curse.”

This woman actually sticks her tongue out at me like a seven year old.

I don’t want to let her go, but we’re on a mission.

“Let’s get this over with.” I hand her the transmitter now that she’s occupying what little room is left in here.

“Get over there, shorty.”

She snatches it from me, fire flashing in her eyes.

Tiny green lights flicker to life.

“Signal reestablished,” crackles in my earpiece. “We’re live again.”

She heard it too. We both nod, ready to get the fuck out of Dodge.

But before I can reach for the knob, the sound of voices returns.

“Hold your positions.” The techs directive is low in our earpieces.

Steps come closer.

“We can’t afford random clients running around tonight.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Calm down, Don.”

“The mayor’s supposed to be here,” one says, and my stomach knots.

Poppy’s eyes shoot to mine, wide. “So it better fucking go perfectly.”

The space barely fits one body, let alone two. She’s nearly pressed against me. I feel her breath on my chest—quick, too quick and shallow. She’s starting to panic.

“Hey,” I whisper, tipping her chin so she’s looking at me. She presses into me, trembling.

I wrap my arms around her waist, murmuring low against her temple.