Page 53 of Into Pitch

There. I said it.

He said in the bar if I said it he would—I think he said he would. I can’t actually remember the exact phrasing. There is a stretch of silence and I’m reaching to peek through the curtained glass when he speaks.

“I’m coming in.”

The latch clicks and I scramble backwards, placing distance between us as he crawls up into the bus with me. He wears the same black coat he had worn at the mall paired with a pair of black slacks that do wonders for him. His hair is slightly wind-tossed, his eyes bright and cold in the dim light of my bus. He closes the door behind him with a soft click and turns the lock.

Fuck.

I keep a healthy buffer between us as he wanders deeper and looks to the canvas and the mess of brushes. Studying it for a long moment before his gaze flicks to me and the bracelet at my wrist. I clock the satisfaction that crosses his expression the moment it does.

“What are you doing here?” I snap before he can comment on it.

“You weren’t at your session,” he says as if any of this is normal.

I bark out a laugh. “Congratulations on noticing.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like the sarcasm amuses him more than it irritates. “You didn’t cancel, Sadie.”

“I didn’t have to. I’m not—” I stop myself before I say your patient. Before I say your anything.

“You’re not what?” He hits it regardless.

“I’m not obligated to keep coming.”

He hums and relaxes back into the counter, one hand shoved casually into his pocket. A shining example of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“You’re right, you are not obligated to come to the office.” Relief loosens me for all of a breath.

“So I came to you.”

And there it is—his crazy.

“No.”

“Yes,” he replies simply.

“You can’t—”

“I can, and I am.” He cuts me off without raising his voice. That’s the part that makes him worse, because he doesn’t have to be loud to dominate a room.

“This is insane.”

“Are you painting?”

I blink, thrown by the pivot in topic. “What? That’s all you got from this?”

“It’s what I see,” he murmurs, stepping toward the table as if he has the right to. His fingers hover near the edge of the canvas but he doesn’t actually move to touch it. “You planned your day around avoiding me, and yet here I am.”

“I planned my day around not walking into a trap,” I snipe.

His mouth curves faintly. “How did that work out for you?”

“Oh, fuck all the way off.”

“Don’t think I will,” he hums and relaxes against my counter again. I take a step toward him and regret it immediately because my body decides this exact moment to remember him in ways it shouldn’t. Heat crawls low in my stomach, tangled with rage like barbed wire.

“Don’t do that,” I warn, voice shaking.