“This is going to take forever,” I sigh.
“What’s that?”
Did he not hear me or is he mocking me? He thinks I’m chasing ghosts, drowning in shadows and wasting our time. He’s certain Butterfly Man is Jacob. My chest tightens because Tristan may not be wrong. Some part of me knows Jacob doesn’t add up. Too many coincidences, too much convenient timing. The footage of the masked man I can’t explain.
At the same time, Tristan is too eager to get Jacob out of the picture. He wants Jacob gone, and it has nothing to do with the stalker and everything to do with the fact that he can’t stand that I like the detective. Would my bodyguard risk my safety because of jealousy?
I open my work in progress and write that down.
“What did you just type?” Tristan asks, and I catch the quick flick of his eyes toward me.
“Notes.”
“You write your notes on suspects in the notepad next to you, but you just typed something.”
I raise a brow at him. “Are you really watching me that closely?”
His mouth tips into that infuriating smirk, but I don’t let him answer before I add, “Careful, Tristan. Pay that much attention to my every move and I might mistake you for my stalker.”
With a scoff, he leans back, cool and composed, like my jab didn’t land at all.
I’m back on the list, scrolling further. Lines of names blur together until I hit a familiar class. Tristan used to be one of them. A student. My student.
My pen hovers over my lips. “What was your last name back then? When you were in my class?”
That gets his full attention. For a heartbeat, something flickers across his face—hesitation, bewilderment and almost blame—but then his expression slides back into neutral, even playful. “You wanna find me in there to cross me out or add me to your list of suspects?”
“Who knows?”
He lets out a short laugh, but there’s tension in it. “That’s reassuring.”
“I’m just curious,” I admit.
“You really don’t remember me at all, do you?”
“Three hundred and forty-seven names, Tristan, and that was eight years ago,” I say, as if that is enough for a good defense.
He puts his laptop aside and leaves his seat. “Well, I was hoping you’d find out on your own. Honestly, it was my intention to tease you about it.”
“But you remembered you were a gentleman and decided to put me out of my misery by simply telling me?” I bat my eyes as cutely and charmingly as possible.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he slouches against my desk and bends forward, close enough for me to fill my nose with his cologne and appreciate the gold flecks in the green of his eyes. “Is that what you want? For me to be a gentleman?”
Oh, he’s going there. Tristan Morra is starting the game he never seems to win. The muscle in his cheek ticks as he leans closer, clearly determined to play it cool.
I rub the pen playfully against my lips and then lick the edge of my bottom lip, deliberately slow, just to see the way his gaze drops there before darting back up like he didn’t mean it. He did. He always does. It’s almost unfair, but then again, he’s the one who keeps stepping into the ring. “God, no,” I whisper, “gentlemen are boring.”
“Yeah?” The corner of his mouth twitches. His cologne curls around me, warm and spicy, and I can feel him recalculating, looking for a move that won’t leave him defeated again.
Brandon’s voice cuts into the room. “Sir, your bike just got here.”
Tristan’s shoulders tense as he straightens, the moment dissolving like it’s never happened. He clears his throat and looks toward Brandon. “Thanks. Tell them I’m coming down.”
“Your bike?” I ask.
“It’s a beast. Pretty sure it costs more than my yearly salary,” Brandon says.
I get off my chair. “Have you just bought a new bike, Tristan?”
