One
The hunter had become the hunted. Poetic? Not really. Ten years chasing after fugitives, and the tables were bound to be turned.
Her pulse beat in her ears with the rhythm of her feet pounding the pavement. A brick wall loomed before her, blocking her escape. Left or right? A split second to decide. Right. Three strides and she realized she’d chosen wrong. The barrel of a gun inches from her forehead brought her to a dead stop. She managed to keep her gaze steady, though her breathing had grown erratic. Her eyes followed the outstretched arm, lifting slightly to peer into the cold eyes of the man she’d been trying to capture and return to jail for the past eighteen hours. Her gut solidified. If she didn’t make a move now, she’d be just another murder on the scumbag’s record.
Movement, so slight she barely perceived it. His finger on the trigger pulled back—
“Boo.”
Right in my ear, the word resounded like the report of a gun. My heart jumped out of my chest with the speed of a bullet out of a barrel. “Ah!” I bolted out of my comfy reading chair as if the murdering fugitive had snuck up behind me, my book falling helplessly to the ground. Thankfully, it landed closed and not open with its pages bent, or Tate would be in double trouble.
“Tator Tot!” I fumed. I had more words I wanted to fling at him, really I did, but at the moment they were being restricted by my attempt to get my pulse back under control. Of course that wasn’t all his fault. I could blame the author ofThe Huntressas well, since I’d been turning pages as quickly as I could mentally devour them, my heart rate a direct result of the high-stakes crime novel. His sneaking up on me had spiked my response to physical action.
I rounded on him, jamming my hands on my hips and giving him a death glare that, had I had the ability of the Force, would have rendered him utterly and completely knocked out. KO first round. Victory me.
But instead of cartoon stars circling his head, he doubled over in laughter. His rich baritone voice that had the girls swooning at open mic night filled my small apartment with his childish amusement.
Fire with fire. “Tator Tot.” This time his hated childhood nickname came off my tongue with a bite.
He lifted from his slightly bent position, his chuckles subsiding as he, hopefully, remembered he was nearing thirty, not thirteen…or even just three, for that matter. “Low blow, Emory.”
He said it with a smile, so I knew I hadn’t mortally wounded him. Like anyone could. Tate Woodby, my best—or if you’re more inclined to believe him,only—friend, was unflappable.
“You scared the stuffing out of me, Tate.” By way of defense, the argument wasn’t half bad. How had he even gotten into… Ah. My gaze snagged on the open window behind him. Of course. The fire escape. Not the first time he’d made his way into my apartment that way.
I’d left the window open to let in the cool night air coming up off the calm waters of Puget Sound. Should have known such an invitation would welcome others in as well.
Tate shook his head, his classic half smile still in place as he reached down and retrieved my fallen book. “What are you reading anyway?”
“Nothing.” I lunged forward and rescued my current obsession—definitely notnothing—from his hands and hugged it to my chest.
His brown eyes laughed at me.
I raised my chin.
Bad move. I’d gotten so close when retrievingThe Huntressfrom his unappreciative paws that the top knot I’d haphazardly secured my hair in rubbed against his chin.
“What’s this?” He moved the palm of his hand back and forth over the mass of curls piled at the top of my head.
I took a step away from him and shrugged. “Messy hair, don’t care.”
He leaned back and took in the rest of me. “What are you wearing?”
Like he’d never seen a woman in yoga pants and a T-shirt before. The ensemble was almost guaranteed to be in every woman’s closet, from preteens to grandmothers. Besides, this particular shirt was one of my favorites. A calming shade of gray with the wordsMy weekend is bookedprinted in bold white font. Pretty much my weekend uniform. Beat the business casual I stuffed myself into every other day of the week.
“It’s Saturday night, Em.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“You’re twenty-eight and live in Seattle.”
“Looking to be the next Sherlock? I don’t think Benedict Cumberbatch has to worry about his job just yet with those powers of observation.”
He ignored my sarcasm as he always did. “Why are you sitting alone in your apartment instead of having a fun night out in the city?”
One, I wasn’t alone. I had Amelia Walters, bounty hunter, to keep me company. Fictional? Yes. Did that matter? No. Fun? Yes, again. But Tate and I had been over that probably more times than Taylor Swift had written the wordhateinto her lyrics.Which is appropriate, I thought as I stared at my current “hater.”
“Why does it matter to you?” I crossed my arms with just a hint of attitude. Definitely something Amelia Walters would do, don’t ya think? Although if one of her convicts sassed back, she’d have him disarmed and in a lock hold in two seconds flat. Didn’t think I could pull that one out of my bookish bag of tricks.
