Page 33 of Desperate Games

I cross the living room in slow, measured steps, hyper-aware of how loud my heart is pounding in my chest.

There’s still that lingering PTSD from the rat fiasco. For weeks, I half expected to see one every time I opened a cabinet or stepped into the kitchen.

The exterminator swore they were gone.

The landlord swore it wouldn’t happen again. But trauma lingers.

I brace myself for the worst anyway.

I unlock the deadbolt.

Grip the handle.

Pull.

And then—the breath whooshes out of me.

Because it’s him.

Remy Falco.

All six-and-a-half feet of rough-cut danger and dark-suited temptation, standing in my doorway like he owns the damn night.

His tie is loose. His jaw is tight.

He’s freshly shaven and somehow still scruffy.

And the look in his eyes?

Hot. Intense. Controlled.

Like he knows exactly why I called him tonight.

And I—God help me—I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

Not when he looks at me like that. Not when he sees me in nothing but my stupid pajamas and still lets his eyes sweep over me like I’m the one seducing him.

I’m supposed to be dressed.

I’m supposed to be composed.

Instead, I’m caught between need and regret and whatever the hell this tight ache is forming in my chest.

“I have a confession,” I blurt, foregoing any normal greeting, lips parting before I can stop myself.

Remy’s gaze flicks down to my bare legs. Slowly back up.

“What’s that, Andy?”

I bite my lip.

“I don’t want to go to that gala tonight.”

A pause.

“You don’t?” His voice is soft. Knowing.

I can see it in the slight tilt of his mouth. He knows. Of course he knows.