Page 64 of Meet Me In The Dark

My pace quickens, driven by irritation and something else I refuse to identify.

I can sense him behind me without turning around. His presence is impossible to ignore, like a prickling awareness racing down my spine.

Julian hasn’t touched me since that day in my office. Aside from that one time when I lost all composure and baited him with my cleavage, every interaction since then has been just polite, professional emails. Which, inexplicably, only annoys me more.

My feet pound the pavement, rhythm matching the music as song bleeds into song. Gradually, my breathing evens out and tension eases as I find my stride.

By the time I turn into the park, I’ve almost forgotten Julian entirely… until he’s suddenly at my side.

I tug one earbud free and make the mistake of looking at him. Even in a hoodie, he’s devastating. “Didn’t I tell you to run behind me?”

He scans the area. “And you told me you weren’t trying to get murdered.”

I follow his gaze and spot the questionable figures loitering in the shadows.

“I hadn’t noticed,” I admit.

“Exactly my point.”

I push harder, nails digging into my palms. “Just stay behind me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I bite back a growl as he drops back a few paces.

We finish in charged silence as dawn paints the sky peach and lavender. Sweat drips down my back by the time we stop outside my favorite coffee shop.

And of course, because Julian Blackwood never learned about boundaries in school, he follows me inside.

“Oat latte,” I tell the barista, ignoring the heat radiating from him.

“Black coffee,” he orders with a smile.

“Like your soul,” I mutter under my breath.

He slaps a black card on the counter before I can reach for mine.

“You know I can pay for my own coffee.”

“I know, and you’re welcome.”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they stay in my head.

The barista’s gaze lingers appreciatively on him as she hands him the coffee.

Ask for his number, girl. Take him off my hands.

I cry inside when she doesn’t.

Coffee in hand, I walk toward my building.

“Just so you know,” I say, stopping short, “if you’re planning on doing this again tomorrow, I don’t run on Wednesdays.”

His eyes narrow. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

He pivots toward his car. “See you Thursday.”