Page 46 of Can't Stop Watching

Dane: Thanks. Removing extra zeros from your invoice for the attitude.

Milo: Worth it.

Dane: One more thing. Look into a company name Veritas, ties to journalism.

Milo: Got it.

I toss the phone onto my passenger seat again and rub my face with both hands. The gritty sensation of stubble against my palms grounds me, reminds me I'm still human despite the monster I'm becoming.

This thing with Lila... it's a fucking tailspin. One minute I'm a professional with boundaries, the next I'm planting bugs in a woman's apartment like some deranged mother fucker. The line between protection and predation blurs too easily for comfort.

But that's the dirty secret about darkness, isn't it? It doesn't announce itself with fanfare. It creeps in through the cracks you didn't even know were there until you're neck-deep and can't remember how the hell you got there.

Time to get my shit together. Langford isn't going to surveil himself, and Claire isn't paying me to psychoanalyze my own fucked-up psyche.

I check my watch. If his office schedule—a courtesy of Milo's hacking skills— hold, Langford will be leaving home soon for a day of golf with clients. Perfect time to pick up the trail and see if that's not code for something more nefarious.

Back to hunting that bastard.

15

LILA

Tuesday it's here, and my reflection stares back at me from the polished glass of Veritas's lobby doors—a nervous stranger in Tessa's borrowed charcoal suit. I tug at the sleeves one more time, adjusting the fitted jacket that hugs my body in all the right places. The tailoring screams "professional journalist who definitely knows what she's doing," but my insides are pure jelly.

"Get it together, Marks," I mutter, taking a deep breath that doesn't quite reach my lungs.

The Veritas building towers above me, all sleek glass and steel, practically reeking of prestige and power—exactly what I need for my resume. If I can just land this internship, I might actually have a shot at becoming a real journalist instead of perpetually explaining the difference between whiskey and bourbon to eternal drunks.

My phone buzzes in my bag, startling me out of my mental pep talk. I fish it out, expecting a good luck text from Tessa.

Instead:

Dane: Good morning. What did you decide about me?

My stomach does that annoying little flip it's been doing since our date—hell, since the moment he walked into The Old Haunt with that penetrating stare that strips away my every defense.

What did I decide about him? That he's dangerous in every way possible? That when he pressed me against my wall, I wanted him until I didn't? That the second he backed off when I panicked, he proved he was nothing like Mr. Colton?

I stare at the message, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

In the middle of something important. Talk later.

No. Too dismissive.

Still thinking.

Too vague.

About to walk into an interview, can't talk now.

Better, but still not right.

"Fuck it," I whisper, silencing my phone and shoving it back into my bag without sending a reply. Dane Wolfe and his questions can wait. This interview can't.

I straighten my shoulders, crank up my confidence to at least a six out of ten, and pull open the door to my future.

The lobby hits me with a blast of climate-controlled air that smells faintly of money. The receptionist, all perfect blond waves and impossibly white teeth, directs me to the 22nd floor with a fake smile.