Page 52 of Can't Stop Watching

Dane: Smart. Though next time, tell her binoculars are overkill.

Next time. The thought sends a little thrill through me that has nothing to do with professional accomplishments.

Lila: So there's a next time?

Dane: Ball's in your court, Marks. I'm just sitting here waiting for you to take your shot.

God, he's so fucking direct it’s disarming. No passive-aggressive bullshit, no games. Just laying it all out there.

Lila: Dinner. My place. 8 PM. I'll cook.

I hesitate, then another message pops up.

Dane: Actually, let me make it up to you. My place. I'm cooking. I don't do half measures with apologies.

I blink at the screen, surprised but not displeased by the takeover.

Lila: Fair warning: I'll judge your culinary skills harshly.

Dane: I have zero expectations beyond seeing you again.

I'm grinning like a damn fool as I enter my building. The sleaze from Brian Langford's once-over has evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more electric.

Lila: It's a date. And Dane? I'm glad you stopped when you did. That's why you're getting another chance.

Dane: Always. See you later, Lila.

I pocket my phone, suddenly feeling lighter despite. The interview, Veritas, even that creep Langford—they all matter, but right now, they're dwarfed by the twist in my gut.

Life hands you red flags and second chances in equal measure. Maybe the real skill is knowing which is which before you get burned.

Dane

I pocket my phone, a rare smile tugging at my lips. Lila's giving me another shot. Feels like a goddamn miracle.

But the warmth fades as I push open the door to some hipster coffee joint. The bell jingles, a cheery sound that doesn't match the shit I'm about to dump on Claire Langford's perfectly manicured life.

She's sitting there, all pearls and poise, nursing some fancy concoction. No idea her world's about to implode. Some doors open, others slam shut. Today, I'm the motherfucking doorman.

Her finger tap nervously on her cup. The light catches the diamond on her wedding ring. Pretty little prison.

"Mrs. Langford." I slide into the seat across from her.

"Please, just Claire." Her voice is soft but steady, like she's been practicing how to sound calm. "What do you have for me?"

I pull out a manila folder and lay it on the table between us. "I have movement. Not everything yet."

She opens it slowly, like it might bite. Inside are property records for the 72nd Street pad, legally owned by her husband, but hidden to others.

"What is this?" Her brow furrows as she reads.

"Your husband has a separate apartment he doesn't want you to know about." I keep my voice low. "Secret place, secret life."

Her fingers trace the documents. "This isn't proof of an affair."

"I've tracked him. He's meeting a college student."

Claire's eyes snap up to mine, hazel flashing green in the harsh café lighting. "You saw them together?"