Page 108 of Lady and the Hitman

I stood there for a beat too long, heart racing. Then I grabbed my keys again, slipped back out the front door, and made my way down the steps.

The street was quiet, but not quiet enough. A car rolled by in the distance. Somewhere nearby, someone’s wind chimes stirred with the breeze, soft and eerie. I hesitated at the bottom step, a ripple of anxiety working its way through me. Anyone could see us. A neighbor. A student. A colleague from the university or a friend of my mother’s, one who liked to gossip over gardenias and wine.

This was my real life. And he didn’t belong in it. Not in this setting. Not out here in the open where someone might recognize me, might ask who he was, might see something in the way he looked at me.

But I stepped toward him anyway.

Ronan didn’t say anything at first. Just watched me with that look that stripped me bare faster than his hands ever could.

I folded my arms. “Were you just … waiting out here?”

“I was watching,” he said simply.

“Watching what?”

“You.” His jaw ticked. “At the coworking space. Through the window.”

My heart skipped. “You followed me?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to see you. Figured you might try to avoid me.”

“I wasn’t?—”

He took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “Who was on the phone?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Just now,” he said, voice tight. “Who were you talking to?”

I stared at him. “Does it matter?”

His eyes darkened. “It matters.”

I swallowed. “It was Trevor.”

A beat.

Something cold flickered behind his eyes. Not rage. Not jealousy, exactly. Just … calculation. Like he was recalibrating something. Like the name told him more than I meant it to.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said quickly. “It was just a call.”

“Trevor,” he echoed, like he was tasting the name and finding it bitter. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

“You wouldn’t have.” I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly too aware of how casual I looked, barefoot in leggings and an oversized shirt. “He’s not important.”

His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then lower. “He’s someone.”

I hesitated, then exhaled. “He’s the kind of guy I used to date.”

Something sharpened in his expression.

“Safe. Predictable. Soft,” I said, more to myself than him. “He works in policy research. He’s always on time. Drinks oat milk lattes and volunteers on Saturdays. He’s nice.”

Ronan raised an eyebrow. “Sounds riveting.”

I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Exactly.”

He stepped closer. Just enough to make the street feel smaller, the air denser. “Is that what you want?”