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I glance around the nearly empty club. “I think I can spare five minutes.” I lift the coffee. “And for the record, this was perfect timing.”

She smiles. And something in my chest eases. Up close, she’s even more distracting. Fair skin. Dark lashes. Blue eyes so alluring they almost hide the constant tension behind them. A thin scar traces her jaw, barely visible beneath makeup. But I see it. I tend to notice things like that. My mind catalogs everything now. Ever since⁠—

She clears her throat.

Right. I’m staring. “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “You’re just… different than most of the women here.”

She stiffens. “Different how?”

Shit. “I mean, most of them are fairly superficial. They’re polished and sleek. They fit the part.” I wince as I hear myself. “That came out wrong.”

Instead of being offended that I’m distinguishing her as being different from the women I’ve described as polished and sleek, she jumps to their defense. “How do you know they’re superficial?” she challenges. “Have you actually gotten to know any of them?”

Fair point. “A few,” I admit. “Fern’s sweet, but she feels like she’s killing time until she marries someone and starts a Pinterest nursery. Brier scares me a little. She has the kind of brain that could run a hostile takeover in heels, but leave everyone wondering whose side she’s on. And Candice once asked me about my favorite jeweler and my sexual preferences in the same sentence.”

She laughs despite herself. “And you don’t think I’d do that?” she asks, eyes glinting.

I smile back, helpless. “No. I really don’t.” The truth hits me harder than it should. I want to know more about her. Why she’s here. Why she chose digital forensics. Whether this is coincidence or something sinister.

A dangerous thought slips in before I can stop it. She could help me. She loves phone forensics. I hate them. I could have her sign an NDA. Pay her. Keep it professional.

But that’s a lie.

This isn’t about needing help. This is about wanting her in my orbit. And that’s the real threat. Not because I want her. I’ve wanted plenty of women. But because I don’t let people into my work. I don’t let people into my life.

Yet somehow, without meaning to, she’s already managed to do both.

13

CASSIDY

Every morning this week, I’ve woken up before my alarm. Not in the usual panicked, heart-racing way I used to. More like I’ve been wound too tight with anticipation, spring-loaded and ready to launch out of bed. I’ve actually shrugged off some of my morning rituals. I never anticipated this would happen so soon. Only hoped little by little I’d relax enough to discover I’d stopped needing them one day.

My cheeks ache at the stretch of my smile as I drop a pod into my coffee machine. Holt’s right. I’m getting more resilient. The realization that my life still has so much more to offer is gradually overtaking my fear.

It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what I’m excited for. Well. That’s a lie. I know exactly what I’m excited for. It’s the part where reality has left the building I’m conveniently ignoring.

Like replaying when a man who looks like he stepped out of a GQ magazine Most Eligible Bachelor spread asked me to sit with him and talk about my classes. That has nothing to do with it. Rolling my eyes at myself, I let out a giggle.

Or is it the far more alarming fantasy that’s taken root in my brain? That maybe, somehow, I could end up working for someone like Max?

Okay, it’s probably both.

Pouring cream into my coffee, my mind trails off to that unexpected encounter. Max wasn’t at all what I expected. A man that powerful and successful should’ve been cold, dismissive of some random cocktail waitress in a club. Instead, he was… well, normal. Almost disarmingly so.

He’s intuitive as hell, obviously. And there’s no disputing he’s wicked smart. Look at the company he’s built. Okay, yes, I looked online. But only at his business. No social media or entertainment news searches about his love life. I mean, that would be delusional. Dreaming about a guy is one thing, internet stalking takes it to a whole other level. This guy could have any woman he wanted. And the last thing I need is to risk fulfilling some girlish fantasy only to lose my job, and my current home, with a guy who was described as a doesn’t date the same girl twice kind of man.

Yet what I’d assumed was a cheesy pickup line with the whole, Tell me about your classes, routine was anything but. It turned into a real conversation. He took the time to ask me questions. And really listened. Not only that, it felt genuine.

The funniest part? I’d expected Max to trip over his words when confronted about calling the girls superficial, but he’d nailed their descriptions. The fact that he’d clocked them so easily still makes me giggle.

I wonder what he thinks about me?

There were moments when it felt as if there was a tangible charge floating between us. It caused my skin to tingle and my body to awaken in places that have been dormant for years. Yet as he continued talking, I rationalized the electricity was more likely his shock that someone with pink hair and shiny ankle boots was able to identify code so quickly. I’m sure it caught him off-guard. I mean, I’m well aware of my appearance. I look as if I should be livestreaming makeup tutorials, not studying phone forensics.

I take a tentative sip of my steaming cup of coffee before curling into the small armchair in the living area. My gaze bounces about the space. This studio apartment is bigger than anything I’ve ever lived in. It’s not sprawling by any means, but the open layout makes it appear much larger than it is. One wide, continuous space that somehow feels like three.

A sleek galley kitchen runs down the center, dividing the living area from the sleeping quarters. With polished counters and stainless steel appliances, it’s not flashy, but undeniably expensive. There’s even room for a small table and two chairs tucked against the wall.