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In a week, I’ll take an oath to uphold the law, to hold the citizens of New York City to its tenets in all honesty and fairness. I can do that. I can do that well.
I run faster, needing it to hurt. Everything is soft and white, a winter kingdom, and I’m not the monster’s prey; I am the fucking queen. I veer onto Bridle Path and find a little trail that’s nice and snow-packed, moving northward, toward the Ravine.
As I run through glittering trees, I think of Jace, my pretend fiancé—who’ll become my husband if need be. I think of Dani, who kidnapped me from my house last Saturday night and set up a wine sampling for us in her kitchen. I think of Ree, who took nine months off from her job as an investment analyst at JP Morgan-Chase to run my campaign—and did it like a boss. I think of my dad, who moved into a one-room condo in a modest building where he and his friends play blackjack on the rooftop every Friday. He told me last time we talked that he had a date with someone he met at the post office. The post office!
I tell myself that life is magical.
I’ve got the Foo Fighters bumping in my EarPods when they die. I’m not good at changing their settings, so I hit something that triggers the white noise feature, and then I can’t turn it off. I can still sort of hear my footfall, hard and rhythmic, as my snow cleats beat the ground. A cloud of fog rolls over my path, unfurling in tendrils between the sparkling, leafless trees.
Something like excitement kicks in my chest—at the journey coming my way soon. Serving as D.A. will be both challenging and interesting. It’s a public service, in a sense. My mind flits back to Luca, but I push those thoughts away. I slow a notch and get some deeper breaths. I’m almost to the Pool. In a minute, I’ll run past a lemonade stand, shuttered at this time but permanently stationed there beside two long, iron benches.
Making lemonade from lemons…
I picture the tiny glass of lemonade tattooed near my ankle. That’s what I’m thinking about when the rhythm changes. I’m so hypnotized by the swirling snow and my footfall, rocked gently by endorphins, that it takes me a moment to realize there are steps beside mine.
No, not beside me.
Someone is behind me.
Deep breaths, Elise. There are other runners. I’ve already passed a guy wearing bright orange and some hottie with a lip ring. I slow my pace, letting the person pass. And Luca moves into my frame of vision.
Such a shock. It moves through me like a shot of some drug—even as my legs keep pumping. Luca is beside me, running right here with me.
My eyes move over him, and then again. My body throbs as my head buzzes. He’s got scruff. His face is wider, harder, older…but his eyes, his brows, his mouth—they’re the same.
I don’t plan to stop. I notice a sensation like I can’t breathe, and then I’m jogging in place, gulping cold air.
He stares at me.
I gape at him.
“Hi there,” he says softly.
Tears sting my eyes—tears of shock. “Mr. Galante.”
“Madam D.A.”
“That’s not my name.” I dart off, gaining speed with each stride. I fly over cobblestones and under icy branches, past streetlamps and benches and the shuttered lemonade stand. But I can’t outrun him.
“I know your name.” It’s a low growl.
I run harder, but he’s like a shadow. I don’t even hear him breathing. I’m panting now, can’t get enough air. I slow my pace and whirl to find him looking stricken, all blue eyes and troubled brows and that mouth. He used to come with me on top of him when I would bite that mouth.
“What do you want?”
“What do you have?” he asks, quiet as the snow.
I have nothing—nothing for him—so I push myself still harder, gaining speed again as I approach the white sheet of the Lake. I’m aware of his presence beside me. Sturdy, heavy. My body feels like something thawing—cold and hot and stricken.
“I don’t have anything for you.” I’m dizzy. I’m aware of my watch beeping for some time before I slow to a jog.
What the heck? I push at the screen. It’s a smart watch, and it’s never done this. My eyes are too blurry to read the screen. I blink twice and…it’s a small, black heart. The heart is flashing—because my heart is beating too fast!
This has got to be a joke.
I rub my thumb over the screen and press my fingertip against the icon. Then he’s standing close enough so I can feel his heat. He takes my wrist in his hands—big hands, cool and careful. A second later, the sound stops.
I open my eyes, not realizing I’d closed them until that second. I open my eyes to find his on me. “Okay?” Soft and rough. It’s so Luca—the deep voice and everything about the way he asks that question, with concern that’s cloaked in something quiet and somber.
