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I tap the heart.

It disappears.

My pulse is pounding harder than it does before a fucking hit.

Did she see that? Did Instagram notify her?

I don’t fucking know.

Fuck.

I search Google.

Does Instagram notify someone if you accidentally like an old picture, then unlike it?

Apparently, if I unliked it fast enough, she might not see it.

Good enough.

I shake my head.

Eleven years working as a hitman. Not making mistakes. Not getting caught. And Callie Quinn might take me down because I don’t know how Instagram works.

I set my phone down and run my fingers through my hair.

Go shower. Get your mind off her.

I stand too fast, wincing as the knife wound protests. I press my hand to it as I head to the bathroom.

I step beneath the warm spray, still thinking of the photos.

What has happened to me?

You’re a fucking hitman.

You can’t be involved with anyone. Your job is too dangerous. She’d be a liability.

I close my eyes and let the water pound against my skin.

No, it’s not just that.

It’s... me.

I’m too broken for someone like her.

Even if I wasn’t a hitman, I’m not good enough for someone who smiles like that.

Someone who helps a huge, bloody, dangerous stranger without a second thought.

After seeing her pictures and getting a glimpse into her life... the laughter. Her sister. Her business. The ridiculous captions.

She has a life. A good one. One I have no business fucking up.

Frustration fills me.

I spin around, grab the body wash, and scrub my skin furiously.

But I keep seeing her.