Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Because whatever he claimed to have with Cole back then?
I don’t feel it now.
They barely speak. They never laugh. Cole doesn’t flinch when Aidan walks into a room. It’s not hate. It’s distance. Like the bond Aidan sold to the world doesn’t exist anymore—if it ever did.
A soft knock.
I spin to see the housekeeper in the doorway, her expression polite but firm.
“I’m sorry, miss. Mr. Dawson doesn’t allow guests in his office without permission.”
“I got turned around,” I lie. “Was looking for the kitchen.”
“It’s just down the hall.” She pauses. “Let me know if you’d like me to walk you there.”
“No need,” I say quickly, already moving.
I make it halfway before I spot Cole through the front windows—hoodie on, keys spinning in one hand as he slips out the front door.
No goodbye. No explanation.
And maybe I shouldn’t care.
But my feet move before my brain decides anything.
I grab my mom’s keys from the hook and trail him, keeping just far enough behind.
He weaves through quiet roads and storefronts until he pulls into a brick strip mall.
Hollow & Ink, the sign reads.
He disappears inside.
I park and wait a while before following.
Inside, the shop hums with low music and the hiss of tattoo machines. Amber light glows overhead, casting a soft sheen over black walls, framed art, and gold-detailed mirrors.
It smells like antiseptic, ink, and something faintly smoky.
Cole’s at the back, gloved up, hunched over a woman’s back. His focus is absolute. The design—an intricate geometric piece—curls down her spine in bold, precise lines.
He doesn’t see me yet.
The girl glances over her shoulder. “So… are you seeing anyone?”
“No.”
“You should let me take you out.”
“I don’t date clients.”
“Don’t,” she echoes, “or won’t?”
“Both.”
She giggles. “You’re too hot to be single.”
Cole doesn’t answer. Just peels off his gloves and tosses them in the bin.
That’s when he sees me.
No surprise. No alarm. Just... knowing.
Like he expected me.
“Emily,” he says, low and amused. “Are you stalking me?”
“Yes.”
He walks toward me, slow and easy. “Why?”
“I needed to get out of the house.”
“There’s plenty to do back there.”
“Unless you think I came here because I didn’t want to be alone.”
His eyes hold mine. “Did you?”
I don’t answer.
But I don’t look away, either.
“I should probably go,” I say, suddenly aware of how long I’ve been standing here.
He glances at the girl still adjusting her shirt. Then steps closer.
“I’ve got another client in twenty minutes,” he says. “But I’ll walk you out.”
I nod, trying not to let my pulse show on my face.
He leads me through a side hallway that smells like old cedar and faint smoke. The air feels heavier here, like the walls are keeping secrets.
“Nice place,” I murmur.
He shrugs. “Pays for the next stage of my life.”
“Is it weird? People offering up their bodies like blank canvas?”
“Not weird,” he says, pushing the door open. “Most of them just want something permanent when everything else feels temporary.”
Outside, the sun is nearly gone. The air is crisp. His car waits nearby, but he doesn’t move toward it. Just lingers beside me, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie.
“You didn’t answer me earlier.”
“About?”
“Why you stepped in last night.”
“I told you.”
“You said you were jealous.”
“That’s an answer.”
I smile softly. “It’s a deflection.”
“Would it be so bad if I was?”
“No,” I say. Then, quieter: “I think I liked it.”
His gaze dips to my mouth, then back up.
“I should go,” I say again. But I don’t move.
“You keep saying that,” he murmurs.
Then he steps back, just slightly, letting the tension fold back between us.
“I’ll see you back at the house,” he says.
I nod.
But as I walk to the car, it feels less like I escaped something... and more like I stepped into something I’m nowhere near ready for.
11A
EMILY
By the time I get back to the house, the light outside has thinned into that moody gray-blue that makes the trees look like silhouettes. The whole world feels paused—too late for afternoon, not quite night.
My mom’s voice floats up from downstairs, sing-song and too bright. That tone always means one thing: she wants something.
“We’re going out for dinner, Em! Aidan made reservations—get dressed!”
I stare at my closet like it personally offended me.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in the backseat of Aidan’s SUV, squeezed between my mother and her cloud of perfume, wearing a fitted black dress that feels too formal for whatever casual upscale seafood is supposed to mean.
Cole is already at the restaurant when we arrive—alone, of course. No one thought to tell him we were coming. Typical.
He looks up from the bar as we walk in, eyes flicking over us. There’s a pause—like he’s weighing whether or not to care—then he nods once and turns back to his drink.
He doesn’t stand when Aidan approaches. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say a word until someone forces one out of him.
“Did you drive here?” Aidan asks, like he’s catching him in something.