Page 19 of You Can Run

“No.” Dante's grip tightened on the wheel, his knuckles whitening.

“He's a cop, Dante. He can help.”

“He's a joke,” Dante shot back, the anger rising fast. “And I'd bet money he's the reason they found you in the first place.”

Her eyes narrowed and she gave a quick shake of her head. “What are you talking about?”

“He's got gambling problems bad enough that people talk about it, and the only reason you haven't heard is because no one wanted to be the one to tell you.”

Jessica's expression shifted, confusion cutting through the fear for just a second. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Word gets around when a cop starts owing the wrong people money.”

She shook her head again, but he couldn't tell if she were disagreeing or just being stubborn.

“He doesn't know you, Julia,” Dante added, quieter now, her old name slipping out before he could stop it. “He knows whatever version of you you've been selling.”

She leaned back into the seat as if it had weight, her voice steadier now but colder. “You don't know him.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“And you don't get to decide who I trust.”

A humorless laugh slipped out of him. “You're still choosing men who make you feel safe,” he said, and even as he said it, he knew he wasn't talking about Trent anymore.

Her gaze shifted to him then, sharp despite everything. “Is that supposed to be about him,” she asked, her voice dropping, “or about you?”

The light ahead turned red, and Dante braked harder than necessary, the car jolting as it stopped.

Her hands were shaking now, no way to hide it.

“Jessica,” he said, the edge gone from his voice whether he wanted it gone or not.

“I'm fine.”

She clearly wasn't. He pulled into the first empty lot he saw and killed the engine.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now, turning toward her. “Look at me.”

She tried but couldn't quite meet his gaze.

He reached across the console and wrapped his hand around her forearm, firm enough to ground her without trapping her.

“Breathe,” he said. “With me.”

Her breath stuttered at first, catching on something, then slowly began to follow his rhythm.

She leaned forward without meaning to, her forehead brushing his shoulder. The contact was brief, almost nothing, but it tore through him anyway, straight down to the places he'd spent two years pretending didn't exist.

He didn't move.

Up close, he saw everything he'd been trying not to imagine—her soft, wavy hair, her impossibly blue eyes, her incredible body beneath the hugging fabric of that ridiculous sparkly dress. She was still the girl he’d pressed against his car on a summer nightmany years ago. Still the one who had looked at him like he was something worth believing in.

For a second, he forgot why they'd ever let each other go.

Then she pulled back, and the moment broke.

“This is all your fault,” she said quietly.