It Wasn’t a Gift

LIV

I drop the black cardstock onto the couch and take three slow steps backward.

My eyes dart wildly to the corners of the living room ceiling, the vent above the stove, the narrow gap between the kitchen cabinets.

Is there a camera in here?

This is getting seriously sick.

It has to be Davis from Acquisitions. He cornered me at the Apex Christmas party last year after three too many bourbons, and I publicly humiliated him when I turned him down.

I swear to God, if that vindictive little weasel hired some professional stalker to rattle me into signing a terrible renewal contract, I am going to press charges.

I stare down at the liquid-silk emerald dress and the matte-gold keycard.

I don't know who this guy thinks he is, but I am not playing his twisted little dress-up game.

I pull out my phone, snap a photo of both items, and fire it off to Gia.

Me: I just got another note from the guy at the coffee shop. He knows where I live.

I don't wait for her to type. I hit call.

It rings three times before she picks up.

Gia’s voice comes through the speaker breathless and slightly muffled, like the phone is pressed against a velvet cushion. In the background bass thumps through a wall, followed immediately by a low, masculine groan.

"Looks like your stalker needs a little schooling on your taste in clothes," Gia pants. "Though honestly? That emerald silk is hot as hell."

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare blankly at the screen.

Of course.

I was the one who told her to go to a club and get laid tonight.

Though we both know she only sprinted out the door to find a warm body because I mentioned my brother Julian coming to town.

Still, I’m shocked she worked this fast.

I press the phone back to my ear. "That's not the point, Gia! Did you not see the black card? He knows my address. He knows my real name."

"Girl, he dropped a note about your boyfriend and knew about his secret side piece," she says, sounding too relaxed. "Why is it shocking that he knows your zip code?"

A deep, irritated male voice murmurs right next to her mic. "Put the phone away."

"Shut up," Gia snaps, turning her mouth away from the receiver. "If you hate the interruption, there’s a guy in a suit eyeing me from across the room."

I hear a defeated sigh on the other end, followed by the rustle of leather and fabric.

"Anyway," Gia continues into the phone, unfazed. "Enjoy your safe little Friday night with Ben like you always do. Personally? I vote you go meet the hot psycho and hear what he has to say. If you don't go, I support you. And if you’re planning on trashing that dress, courier it straight to my apartment. Otherwise, either woman up and ask Ben who the hell Roxy is, or loosen up and go to Velvet Tears."

"Gia, I'm not—"

The guy groans again, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of mouths colliding. Gia lets out a sharp, breathless gasp.

I smash the red End Call button before I end up traumatized for life.

I am not doing this.

I am not putting on a scandalous cocktail dress sent by a stalker and climbing into an unmarked car at night.

I write psychological thrillers for a living. I do not star in them.

I pull my phone back up, my thumb hovering over Ben's contact. It's been twenty minutes since he walked out the door.

Me: Checking in. Is Marcus calming down?

The three gray typing bubbles appear almost immediately. I hold my breath, leaning my hip against the cold granite counter.

Ben: It’s a total disaster, baby. He’s spiraling. I’m going to have to stay at his hotel for a while and rework the numbers with his agent. I don’t think I’m going to make it back to your place tonight. I am so sorry.

I stare at the glowing screen.

I don't blink. I don't breathe.

Ben and I have a sacred tradition. Every Friday night, without fail, he stays at my apartment.

In a year since we started the tradition, he has never once missed a Friday.

Not when he had the flu. Not when his car broke down in a blizzard last January.

Hell, half of me thought tonight was the night he was going to pull a diamond ring out of his coat pocket over pad thai.

My ears start to ring, a sharp, high-pitched whine drowning out the hum of the refrigerator.

He told you he’d be right back, didn't he?

He's not coming back tonight.

The stranger from the coffee shop knew my boyfriend was going to ditch me tonight before I did.

Slowly, I turn my head and look at the dark emerald dress spilling out of the garment bag on the couch.

If Davis from Apex really went this far, or if Ben is lying to my face after two years, I am not sitting in this quiet apartment staring at two empty plates until morning.

I will march down there and shove this gold card straight down that man's throat myself.

Before my self-preservation instincts can talk me out of it, I unbutton the blouse Ben touched, rip it off, and yank a plain black turtleneck over my head.

I grab only the matte-gold Velvet Tears keycard off the table.

I shove the card deep into the pocket of my wool winter coat, throw it on over my dark jeans, and storm out the door.

The black town car is idling at the curb downstairs, right where the note promised it would be.

I don't ask the driver a single question. And he doesn't say a word to me.

Twenty minutes later, the car glides to a halt in a desolate industrial district near the edge of the river.

There is no velvet rope. No glowing sign. Just a monolithic brick warehouse with an unmarked steel door guarded by two men built like refrigerators.

Gia wasn't exaggerating. The bulges beneath their suit jackets are unmistakable.

Actual firearms.

I step out onto the cracked pavement, the bitter night wind whipping my hair across my face.

For three seconds, I freeze on the sidewalk.

You can still get back in the car, Liv.

No. You came for an answer. Get the answer.

I square my shoulders and force my boots to carry me up to the steel door.

One of the bouncers steps into my path. He is a wall of muscle in a three-piece suit.

He drags his gaze down my winter coat, turtleneck, and jeans, his expression painfully bored.

"Private event," he rumbles. "You don't meet the dress code."

"I have this," I say, pulling the matte-gold keycard out of my coat pocket and holding it up like a badge.

The bouncer doesn't even blink at the weeping eye engraving. "No dress code, no entry."

"Let her through."

The low, gravelly command cuts straight through the dark from the shadows to my right.

I spin around, my breath catching hard in my throat.

He steps out from beneath the overhang into the dim, flickering amber glow of a streetlamp.

He’s ditched the leather jacket from the coffee shop.

Tonight, he’s wearing a black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone at the collar just enough to look effortlessly lethal, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

His dark hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead like he just stepped out of a hot shower, even though there isn't a cloud in the night sky.

It gives him a raw, untamed edge. He doesn't look like a man trying to be intimidating.

He looks like a man who simply is.

He stops two feet in front of me, his piercing blue eyes raking slowly, deliberately over my bulky winter coat, my turtleneck, and my jeans.

"I take it the dress wasn't to your liking," he says, his tone deadpan.

"Pardon me if I couldn't bring myself to wear a gift from a creepy stranger who stalks me."

"It wasn't a gift," he replies smoothly. "It was an entry key."

"An entry key?" I scoff. "If I needed the dress as a key, why did you put the VIP card in the box?"

I thrust the gold card up between us like Exhibit A.

He actually pauses.

His gaze drops to the gold card pinched between my fingers, then lifts slowly back to my face.

The faintest, most infuriating ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fair point."

"I’m glad you agree."

"The dress wasn't for me," he says, sliding his scarred hands into the pockets of his black trousers. "It was camouflage for the people inside. You walk in there dressed like a college librarian, every pair of eyes in the room is going to be on you. If you want that kind of attention, by all means, let's go in."

"I'm not going in there," I snap, taking an instinctual half-step backward. "I'm here. I showed up. So whatever sick psychological game you're playing on behalf of my publisher, just say your piece out here on the street."

He doesn't flinch. He just watches me, unbothered by my defensive rambling.

"We aren't doing this on a sidewalk."

"Then we aren't doing it at all."

"Making it down here is as far as your vote goes," he says, his voice dropping into a low, authoritarian drawl that vibrates straight through my ribs. "You don't get to call the shots tonight. And before you take a single step through that door, you need a change of clothes."

Is this lunatic serious?

"I am not going anywhere with you to change my clothes!" I hiss, clutching my coat tighter around my chest. "Just tell me what the note meant!"

He steps fully into my personal space, erasing the buffer of cold air between us in a single stride.

The scent of sandalwood and night air wraps around my lungs.

He’s so tall I have to tilt my chin all the way back just to hold his gaze, my heart slamming against my chest like a trapped bird.

"You are walking through that door, Olivia," he murmurs, his dark blue eyes locking onto mine like crosshairs. "Or you are getting back in that car, going home to an empty bed, and spending the rest of your life wondering what your fiancé-to-be is doing behind your back. Pick."

Olivia.

Hearing my real name roll off his tongue in that rough, gravelly whisper sends a violent shiver straight down my spine.

First his courier. Now him.

Who the hell is this man? And how does he know everything about me?