Chapter 2

Scarlet blew a raspberry at her computer screen. "Of course the market peaks now—right after I dump my stocks and miss an 18% spike. Perfect timing." She huffed, slumping back in her chair and crossing her arms. The screen glowed accusingly as she rocked side to side, her mind drifting to earlier that night—Jerry, the new neighbor with the molasses eyes and too-smooth voice.

"Remodeling, I see," she'd said, a lame attempt to dodge his focus on her.
Jerry had tilted his head, smirking. "No, foundation issues. Dumpster should be gone by tomorrow." He didn't bite at her deflection, instead leaning closer. "So, this conference call... Who's it for? You a lawyer or something?"
She'd snorted, glancing down at her neon orange shirt and leggings. "Do I look like a lawyer? I'm a sniper."
He'd raised an eyebrow, amused. "A sniper, huh?"

"Not literally," she'd rushed to add, cheeks warming. "On the foreign market, I mean. I trade pips-stocks, other people's money. It's… yeah." She'd trailed off, babbling again. Great.
He'd stepped closer as she edged toward the sidewalk. "So you work nights when the overseas market opens, sleep all day?"
"Yeah," she'd said, startled when she turned and found him right behind her. She'd taken another step back. "Laid-back gig. Lots of free time."
He'd matched her retreat with a casual step forward, like a cat stalking prey. She'd opened her mouth to keep talking-anything to shake the unease crawling up her spine—when someone barreled into her shoulder, nearly knocking her flat.
Catching herself, she'd glared up at Anna. Oh, for the love of-
"Sorry, Scarlet!" Anna had gasped, yanking out her earbuds and faking a breathless pant. Her pink tanktop low-cut and clingy-paired with black spandex screamed anything but "jogger." "I was so caught up in my run, I didn't see you!"
Run, my ass. You've never jogged a day in your life, Scarlet had thought, biting back a retort. And I'm in bright orange—how do you miss that?
"No worries," she'd said instead, forcing a smile. "I've gotta get going anyway." She'd glanced at Jerry. "Nice meeting you."
He'd dragged his gaze from Anna's plunging neckline, locking those dark eyes on her. "I'm sure I'll catch you again soon."
A shiver had raced down her spine—not entirely from the night air. She'd nodded awkwardly and bolted around the corner, unable to shake the feeling of eyes on her back as she ran.

Scarlet blew a stray lock from her face and groaned. "Smooth, Scarlet. Real smooth." Glancing at the clock 11:47 p.m. she decided it wasn't too late for pizza. She grabbed her phone, dialed Speedy Pizza, and a kid's voice crackled through.
"Speedy Pizza, how can I help you?"
"What's the special tonight?" she asked. After hearing it, she stuck to her usual. "I'll take a medium pepperoni with bell peppers, onions, and olives. Can I pay over the phone?"
She rattled off her card number and address, hung up, and muttered, "Better get here on time for once." Leaning forward, she dove back into her trades, her light mood hardening into focus.

An hour later, Scarlet glared at the bare tan wall where her clock ticked past 12:50 a.m. No pizza. She tapped her foot, annoyance bubbling. "What's the holdup this time?" Blowing her bangs from her eyes, she snatched her phone and redialed.
Two rings, then: "Speedy Pizza, how can I help you?"
"Hi," she said, keeping her tone even. "I ordered a pizza an hour ago, and it's still not here."
A pause. "Yeah, sorry about that. Our delivery guy hasn't checked in since his first drop out your way. We think he got lost. Really sorry."
She frowned. "Lost? Fine, just cancel my order. Thanks. Night." She hung up before the kid could stammer a reply.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, she drummed her nails on the white tile. "What do I make in a house with no food?" She yanked open the fridge—orange juice stared back, lonely beside a half-empty ketchup bottle. "Screwdriver it is," she muttered, eyeing the vodka on the counter. Then she sighed. "Or fasting. Healthier."
Mumbling to herself—"People say I'll never snag a decent guy if I don't cook"—she wove through the living room's sparse furniture. Pausing by the window, she peeked out, scratching her head. Nothing but shadows. Shrugging, she climbed the stairs to her office.

The doorbell jolted her at the top step. She clutched the railing, heart hammering, then sighed and turned back down. Who now?
It rang again. She hopped the last four steps, landed off-balance with an "Eep!" and crashed into the door with a thud. Wincing, she rubbed her knee, yanked the door open, and croaked, "Yes?"

Jerry stood there, pizza box in hand, eyebrows raised. "You okay?"
"Sort of," she said, blushing hard. She shifted her weight—pain lanced up her leg. "Okay, I might've hurt my knee."
He smirked. "Jumping stairs isn't the brightest move. Need help?"
"No, I'm fine," she lied, trying to stand tall. Her knee buckled. She lurched forward, grabbing the doorframe, but it didn't stop her from tumbling into his chest. His arm hooked around her waist, steadying her as the pizza hit a porch chair.
Mortified, she froze. His breath grazed her ear. "Can I help you inside?"
"Yes," she yelped, then softer, "Yeah, sure."

He scooped her up—gentle with her knee—and carried her in, setting her on the dark red couch. He propped a pillow under her leg; she winced as it settled. He grabbed the pizza and returned, holding it up. "Delivery guy dropped this at my place by mistake. Bolted like he'd seen a ghost."
She forced a smile. "I ordered it an hour ago—gave up on it. Thanks for bringing it."
He set the box on the glass coffee table and slid onto the couch near her feet. His cool fingers brushed her swollen knee, raising goosebumps. "It's swelling. You need ice," he purred, dark eyes glinting under thick lashes.
"There's a pack in the freezer," she said, cheeks burning. "Might need to cut it apart."
He lingered a moment, then rose and pulled the roll from the freezer. As he tugged at it, she called, "Easier to cut—"
He grabbed a knife from the block, sliced it open, and nicked his finger. She flinched. "Careful, it's sharp—"
"I'll live," he said, licking the blood from the cut with a cocky smile. He returned, ice pack in hand, and sat closer this time. The cold hit her knee; she hissed, eyes squeezing shut.

Then warm breath brushed her lips. Her eyes snapped open—his face hovered inches away, dark eyes near black now. Before she could react, his lips pressed hers, soft but insistent. She parted her mouth in surprise; his tongue slipped in, sweet with a coppery tang. Strange, she thought, dazed.
He pulled back, lips brushing hers as he whispered, "Not strange. Sweet and addicting."
Her voice came out soft, not quite hers. "Sweet and addicting." His fingers tangled in her hair, holding her there. Had she tried to pull away? Everything blurred—sharp one second, foggy the next.
He tilted his head, letting her ease back, and smiled. "That's it. Good girl." She frowned, confused, but he added, "Sleep. You'll see me tomorrow night."
Her eyelids drooped. No, stay awake, her mind screamed—but her body didn't listen. She drifted off, his voice echoing in the haze.