Chapter 3

3

ALINA

T he sunset colors the sky like fire, and even though it's almost dark and I should probably go inside, I don't move. I don't want to miss a single moment of the view. I inhale deeply, taking the salt air into my lungs while the wind caresses my cheeks.

I wonder if Mom would have liked it here. I don't even know if she would’ve seen the ocean in her lifetime. The thought makes my stomach clench, and I swallow the lump in my throat, but the tears that spring to my eyes won't stop coming.

When I was a child, my mother was everything to me. She was smart, funny, and fierce. Even though my father had left when I was young, my mom's job as a hotel maid kept us afloat. Everything was fine. Until it wasn't.

My mother had grown distant. At first, I thought it was because she was working so hard. But one day, when I came home from school and found her lying in a puddle of her own vomit, I realized something was seriously wrong.

That night, when I found her motionless in the tub and called for help, I learned the truth. My mother was an addict. She stole from her job to feed her habit and was finally caught. Fired.

At fourteen years old, I had already been babysitting since I was old enough, with a little nest egg tucked away. I would have given it to her in a heartbeat. But instead, she tried to steal it, and I hid it. She yelled at me, screamed that I was a thief and that I didn't have the right to take anything from her, even though I'd earned every penny.

From that day forward, it was like my mother was a stranger.

I loved her, but she was gone.

There wasn't a single time in the last ten years that I had thought about her and smiled. But right now, all I can think is that I wish she had lived long enough to see a view like this. That she could have known the kind of strength and freedom that comes from living by the sea. As bitter as I've been at my father for the majority of my life, I wonder if the story Mom told of him leaving because of some mid-life crisis is false. Could it be that he left because of Mom's addiction? Maybe he just couldn't take it anymore. He shouldn't have left me with her, but...

We need to talk when he gets back from California. Badly.

I dash the tears off my face and shake my head. It's time to head back to my new home and make something for dinner. I've promised myself over and over again not to dwell on my mother, and I don't plan to start now.

It isn't until I bend to pick up my bag from the sand that I feel the sensation of eyes on me. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I rub at it unconsciously. Could it be him again?

When I first left Sage and Salt and walked across the street here to the beach, I was so sure the mysterious man from earlier had followed me. I turned and saw someone watching me, but it was too far to tell any details. But his clothes and his silhouette were so familiar. I knew in my bones that he followed me from the cafe.

But when I continued to stare, he left. Even if it was him, he didn't deem me important enough to approach. I tried to let the thought go, but now I'm having that same sensation.

What the hell is going on?

The wind picks up and my hair whips across my face. I turn slowly to look at the street that runs along the edge of the beach.

No one.

A shiver runs through me and I pull my jacket tight, hurrying to my car and throwing the bag in the backseat. Then I start the engine and drive away.

Why would someone be watching me? The thought, on the surface, freaks me out. But if it’s the man from the cafe, I'm way less scared, which is a stupid thought. He's still a stranger! But he looked at me in such a way that felt like I was already his. Like we weren't strangers at all.

What's going on in my head?

I've never been with a man before. The only person who has ever seen me naked is me.

But this man is something else. His eyes were so intense, his gaze lit me on fire.

So what does it mean that I'm now feeling eyes on me again? If it is him, does that mean he wants me? Does it mean he'll come for me and take me the way I was already imagining in the back of my mind?

Maybe, just maybe, if it's him, I'll give in.

Getting home just as the sun fully falls behind the horizon, I let my bag fall on the floor just inside the door and kick my shoes off. Triple-checking that the door is locked, I stride into the kitchen, the heavy tide of exhaustion rising to take me with every step.

I need to eat, and as I open the fridge, I'm relieved to see that Dad hadn't exaggerated about plenty of food being stocked. A few minutes later, I have a turkey sandwich made, sitting at the breakfast bar and trying my hardest to keep my eyes open as I eat.

It's so much more than just the exhaustion from traveling today. There's also the shock and grief, and the general newness of everything around me. And, at the back of my mind, the awareness that I am being watched.

It may be nothing, but still.

I finish the sandwich and clean the dishes, putting them away and wiping down the counters. It's a little strange being here, in a house this size all by myself. In a city where I know no one except for my dad and a few people online.

As if I need another reminder that it's just me.

I could use a bath, but the bedroom is calling. I'll grab a shower and wash away the last of the travel grime tomorrow. Inside my bedroom, I have my shirt and bra off before I see that the curtains are open. The night is still young, and there are several lights on at houses farther on the street. Before I can freak out, I rush over and yank the curtains closed. My heart is pounding, but I remind myself that they're all so far away, and there's no way anyone could see anything.

If I hadn't noticed the guy watching me at the beach, would it have mattered?

With a sigh, I toss the rest of my clothes into the hamper, grab my oversized sleep shirt, and pull the covers back, settling into bed. It's soft and comfortable, and I know that I'll sleep like a baby, despite the emotions still raging through me.

Trying not to imagine shapes hovering in the darkness, I switch the lights off and let my head hit the pillow. There are still sparks of anxiousness in my belly, the odd feeling that I'm not alone, but still I manage to drift off into a deep, restful sleep.

There are very few street lights on my father's street, and when I wake up at three in the morning, it's pitch black in my room. A small sliver of pale moonlight comes through the curtains, but something draws me to that glowing blue line. I don't know if it’s this desire that woke me up or just the misplaced energy from sleeping somewhere new for the first time.

Either way, I'm awake and restless.

I slide from the warmth of the bed, creeping towards the window. I don't bother with the light, since that would ruin my night vision. The feeling hasn't subsided, and I'm burning with curiosity to see if someone is out there. Standing in just my rumpled t-shirt and still a little sleepy, I push the curtains aside and stare out.

At first, there's nothing but vague shapes of trees and some houses in the distance. Then, a car passes by, and the headlights illuminate another vehicle, parked nearly in front of the house that definitely wasn't there when I got home. Somehow, someway, I know the pull I'm feeling is resonating from inside the darkness of that vehicle.

My heart beats faster, and my mouth goes dry. I'm not afraid, though.

Instead, I'm thinking about the man from the cafe and how the second he entered the room, the air became charged with electricity. The moment my eyes connected with his, everything changed. My entire world.

His eyes burned, and the intensity radiating out of him took control of my body. It was just a minute, but I was lost to him for those sixty or so seconds.

Frightened and exhilarated, I pull the curtains closed in a rush and hold my hands over my racing heart. It's just a parked car. There's no way it's him.

And yet, I bet my life it is.

Shakey, I climb back beneath the sheets and try to will myself to go back to sleep. But the feeling of his eyes on me, the car parked outside—all of it makes a tingle go through me. A hot, delicious heat that settles between my legs and burns like a flame.

Whimpering, I rub my legs together, screw my eyes shut, and wait for morning.

The following day, I find myself at Sage and Salt once more. Having finally stolen a few more hours of sleep between 4 AM and 8 AM, I still don't feel fully rested. Yet, I'm somehow jittery and unsettled. I thought getting out of the house would help—a change of scenery to get the creative juices going—but now I'm staring at a blank sketch pad, with my latte growing cold.

It's busy this morning; the line is long enough that the counter is swamped. Most people seem to be taking their drinks and confections to-go, though, so I sit at a quieter table in the corner, away from the bustling central area, and it allows me a view of the whole cafe and the front doors. It’s the only way I can get some peace after an entire night of worrying.

Why would anyone be watching you? The voice in the back of my mind asks the question, but I'm still not really sure. All I know is that the strange feeling came back, and I couldn't shake it. I had to keep looking over my shoulder, peering around corners, checking the locks on the windows and doors.

Am I scared? Yeah, a little. But there's also a thrill to it. If I leave the front door of my house unlocked, will the mysterious man find his way inside?

If this feeling is real, if someone really is watching me, I've never gotten attention like this in my entire life. It makes me want more, this feeling of being the center of someone's world, if even for a brief time.

Too shaky to sketch, I put the pad away and pull out my phone instead. I have a message from my artist meetup group, specifically from a woman named Callie that I had hit it off within the group chat room.

Callie: Hey, me and a couple of the other group members are going to see that new horror movie tonight. You want to join? I know you just got in last night but it might be fun.

I chew my lip. This isn't something I normally would do, but it sounds better than staying inside again, freaking out about a car outside and what that might mean.

Me: Sure, why not. Where is it showing?

She texts me the location and time. It's a late showing at 9 PM, but it's not like I have any pressing appointments.

Me: Cool, I'm in.

The smile that crosses my face is wide, and the sudden butterflies in my stomach make me giddy. It's been a long time since I've done something this spontaneous.

I'm just finishing my coffee and gathering my things when a shadow falls over my table. When I look up, there's no one there, but I'm hit by a wave of warm cedarwood scent.

And inexplicably, there's a croissant on the table in front of me—the same sort I ordered yesterday—piping hot.

"Hey! Did someone leave their order here?"

I ask the question loudly, but no one answers. I turn in my seat, searching for someone who looks familiar, but none of the customers are looking in my direction.

I could swear the man from yesterday was in the crowd. There was a flash of dark hair, the same crisp, dark suit, but he had gone so quickly that I couldn't confirm.

My fingers skim over the croissant, and it's fresh from the oven. Could he have brought it to me? How did he know the exact thing I would have ordered?

It seems crazy. Like some kind of fantasy.

I grab the pastry, inhaling the delicious smell. As I take the first bite, all I can think is … whatever happens next, I'm not sure I'm ready, but I'm definitely curious.

That night, after a dinner of microwaved spaghetti, I'm still not ready for the movie.

But I don't have the guts to cancel either, so I just dress up a little, put on some makeup and a cute outfit, and tell myself that it's going to be a fun night. It doesn't help that my usual idea for a fun night is curling up on the couch while drawing or reading. This is a totally different level of social interaction.

When I step into the theater, the noise from the lobby hits me like a wall, and I shrink back for a second. No, no, don't be a wimp.

Callie sees me before I find her. She has a hand up, waving me down. "You made it! Come on, we grabbed seats near the back."

I'm still so nervous as I go around the small group and introduce myself to the three new faces. Callie, a woman my age, who's an artist and a writer. Her friend, a guy in his mid-twenties named Daniel. His friend, another guy named Andrew, who's about our age and works as a web designer.

It's all very casual and easy, and I'm grateful for it. It's only ten minutes until the movie starts, and we're all exchanging little anecdotes about each other's jobs and hobbies.

"So, how long have you been doing digital art for?"

Andrew's question is directed at me, and I shrug, trying not to feel like a dork. "I'm not sure. A while, I guess. I've always loved drawing and painting, but it wasn't until a year or so ago that I started dabbling in digital."

Callie nudges him. "Her artwork is amazing. She's posted some in the group. It's a lot of nature paintings, but they're gorgeous."

"Thanks," The smile I give her is genuine. She radiates a warmth that makes all this small talk feel easy. "As I'm sure we all know, the money from online commissions is way better than physical work, though. So that's why I've been making the switch."

"That's smart," he says. "It must have been a hard choice for you, though, right? I mean, you seem pretty passionate about your art."

"It's not so bad." My gaze flickers around the group. "I'm hoping to score a longer term gig at that job fair next week someone posted about. Maybe some illustration work."

"Oh, yeah, I posted that." Andrew, who has taken the seat next to me, leans in. "I'm going too if you want a ride."

I almost take him up on the offer out of an ingrained desire to be a people pleaser, but I stop myself. "Well … maybe. I can drive myself."

"It's cool. If you change your mind, let me know." He pats my hand, and the contact makes me jump. "I'd love to get to know you better."

His tone is light, but there's clear interest in it that I'm not sure what to do with. "Okay..."

Then the lights dim, and we all go quiet.

The movie, which I hadn't seen the trailer for, is a gory horror movie, and the story isn't what I would call well-paced. There are a few jump-scares, but they're cheesy, and the plot is mediocre at best. But the company is nice, and by the time the final credits roll, everyone is laughing and joking.

"What did you think?" Callie asks me as we file out the door.

"I didn't expect it to be so … bad."

Her laughter is loud, and she loops her arm through mine. "Me neither. It was awful, but hey, at least the popcorn was good."

We pause just outside of the doors, the others gathering around and talking about grabbing a drink. Swept up in the moment and the rush of actually being part of a friend group, I agree after they assure me that my lack of ID isn't going to be an issue. There's a bar close by—a tiny little place with music playing and a lot of happy chatter. We snag a table, and Callie and her friends go to grab drinks.

"What do you like?" Andrew asks, and when I mention my favorite beer—one that my old high school friend Lacy and I snuck from her mom's refrigerator on occasion—he raises an eyebrow. "A girl with taste, I like it."

"Thanks." The compliment, so freely given, makes me blush.

The others return with a round of beers and shots, and I'm a little overwhelmed by the sheer number.

"You can have whatever you want," Callie assures me. "It's on the guys tonight."

I'm not a huge fan of the shots, but I sip on the beer, and the conversation goes from movies to books to video games. All three of the other artists in the group are very much into comics and the like. They're not my preferred style of art, but the excitement on their faces and in their voices is infectious, and I find myself enjoying the evening a lot more than I thought I would.

When we leave, I've barely finished a single beer and am still stone-cold sober. The same can't be said for the rest of the group, who insist on continuing the night by heading to a different bar—this time with live music. I can feel my social meter running low, though, and decline.

"I'll see you guys," I say.

Callie's hug is warm, and her expression is open and friendly. "It was really nice meeting you. Thanks for coming out."

"No problem."

Daniel gives a little wave. "I'll message you later about those comic references, okay? Thanks for the info."

"Yeah, sure thing."

Andrew, who has been staying close to me the whole night, touches my arm. "I'll walk you back to your car at the theater. The area can get a little rough at night."

"I can walk her," Callie says, her words a little slurred. "Don't worry."

"Nah, it's fine," he tells her.

"You sure?"

He nods, and she shrugs, not looking too concerned. We say our last goodbyes, and then Andrew and I head in the opposite direction. The area is a bit busy but not dangerous. Most of the people we see are either leaving the same bar we were in or headed toward it. I parked behind the theater, which is closed now, so it's pretty quiet back there.

"I don't know if the area is really that dangerous," I tell Andrew. "Cape May seems safe pretty much everywhere."

"I didn't want you driving home anyway." His hand finds the small of my back, and he stops walking.

"I'm not drunk." My pulse kicks up, but not out of excitement. His touch fills me with a strange sort of dread.

"That's not what I mean."

He moves, pushing me gently until my back is against the wall of the movie theater. We're in the shadows, mostly hidden, and when I try to dart out from beneath his arms, he grabs me and pins me back.

"What are you doing?" I push at him, but he's bigger, stronger, and he doesn't budge.

"Come on, I've been watching you all night. You seemed interested."

"Interested in having friends, not this!"

He laughs, but it's not a pleasant sound. It's condescending and mean. "You're hot, okay? I know you're into me too."

I can't believe this is happening. My heart is racing so fast that it hurts. He's right there, pressed up against me, and when he tries to kiss me, I turn away.

"Hey, don't be like that," he mutters, his breath stinking of beer.

"Andrew—"

I barely manage to get his name out before he's pulled off me in a blur of motion. One second he's there, and the next, there's a muffled thud, and he's hitting the ground.

I'm frozen, blinking back tears and trying to catch my breath, but another figure is moving, and when he steps into the light, it's the dark-haired stranger from the cafe. Shock flashes through me, followed by a jolt of relief that leaves me swaying on my feet.

"Are you okay?" His voice is a growl.

"Yes," I lie.

He looks at Andrew, who's groaning and climbing to his feet. "What the fuck, man?"

The man in black has him by the collar in a flash of movement, shoving him up against the wall in a violent imitation of what Andrew did to me. "If you ever even speak to her again—hell, if you even THINK about her again—I'll break every one of your fingers until you reconsider, you fucking rat. Understand?"

"Bro, I have no clue what you're even talking about." Andrew's hands are up, and his voice is shaking, but my mysterious savior just bares his teeth and presses him harder into the bricks. "Fuck! Okay, okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"She's under my protection," my dark-haired rescuer snarls, his gaze flickering to me. It's so intense, I swear I can feel it, and I know that look isn't imagined. It's for me.

The man in black lets go, and Andrew runs away, his footsteps echoing through the night.

We're alone. The air is heavy with the sound of my own harsh breathing, and the mysterious man stands there, staring at me. "Did he hurt you?"

"I-I'm okay."

"I shouldn't have left you alone," he mutters, moving closer, but I take a step back.

"Wait, who are you?"

He looks at me, his eyes so dark that they're almost black, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. "You know who I am." He reaches out, knuckles ghosting over my cheekbone before his hand drifts down to take mine. "Come with me. I've got something that will help calm you down."

"How do you know?" The question is dumb, and he smiles, and damn. That smile, with those sharp features, is so sexy.

"Trust me, I know." He turns and tugs on my hand, urging me to follow him. I should go home. I should be smart about this. I should call the cops and tell them everything.

But I don't. Instead, I let him lead me to his car—a sleek, expensive vehicle that looks brand new.

"Get in," he orders, and I do, because I'm not sure I have a choice.

A minute later, we're speeding away from the theater, and the entire ride, he doesn't say a word, although his fingers are clenched tightly around the steering wheel. To my surprise, the route we take is familiar, and before I know it, we're pulling into the parking lot of Sage and Salt. It's almost 1 AM, so of course the cafe is dark, but my stranger gets out and comes to help me out of the car before striding to the door confidently. He presses a long code into the keypad above the doorknob, and a second later, the door swings open.

"You have the code to the cafe?"

He pauses, his back to me. When he turns, the expression on his face is hard to read, but I think I can make out a hint of amusement.

"Yes. Don't ask any more questions, Alina. Let me take care of you."

How does he know my name? I shiver, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. There's something in the way he says the words, so softly, almost reverently, that sends a flutter of heat to the pit of my belly. He walks to the back, and I follow him. Even though the lights are off, the street lamps outside cast enough light for me to see as I go.

At the back, in the little kitchen, he pulls out a stool from beneath the counter and motions for me to sit.

"I know this place well," he says, reaching into the cupboards and taking out a small teapot. "Do you like tea?"

"Um, I used to have it often, but I've been so busy with everything that I haven't had any in a while."

"Good. Then you can enjoy this one." He sounds pleased.

I watch in silence as he works, filling the little teapot with water and placing it on the burner, which he ignites with a quick twist of his wrist. It's all very methodical, and he works with a kind of silent focus that's mesmerizing. I try to imagine him doing something like this as a job, and the idea is amusing.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice makes me jump.

"You," I blurt, then immediately feel like an idiot. "I mean, I was just wondering what you do for work."

“I don’t work much anymore,” he says simply and offers no more information.

The pot starts to whistle, and he turns, snatching it from the stove and pouring it into a small ceramic mug. He sets it in front of me and places two things next to the cup—a tiny glass jar full of honey and a small spoon. "This will help."

I frown, reaching for the mug. The scent is floral, and the warmth seeping through the mug is nice. "What is it?"

"Chamomile. With honey."

After stirring some golden honey in, I raise the cup to my lips, inhaling before taking a tentative sip. The taste is sweet and delicate. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He stands there, watching me, and his intense stare makes me fidget.

This entire situation is so bizarre that it’s impossible for me to go with the flow anymore. "What's your name?"

"I'm not important. You are."

That doesn't answer my question, and the frustration building since this morning surges up, and I set the mug down with a clatter.

"Who are you? Why have you been following me, and why were you in that alley when Andrew grabbed me?"

He shakes his dark head. "Drink, angel."

Oh my God, is this guy serious? "What? No!"

When he speaks again, his voice is so rough that I can almost feel it running across my nerves. "Alina..."

My name on his lips sends a rush of heat through my core, and I tighten my thighs against the pulse of arousal blooming there. It's ridiculous, but somehow hearing him say it like that—so deeply, so possessively—is insanely sexy.

"Please," I whisper, "Just tell me what's going on."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and for a second, I wonder what it would be like to do that for him. The dark locks look soft, and I'm overcome by a powerful urge to reach out and touch him.

"What's going on? Well, that's complicated."

"Complicated?" I repeat.

"Yes. Complicated. You see, I'm a very private man. But I've been watching you, and I can't seem to stop."

"Watching me?" My eyebrows fly up.

He leans forward, and his proximity, along with the intensity of his gaze, has my heart picking up its pace. "Yes. Watching you. And when I saw him touching you, I nearly lost it, Alina. It took everything inside of me not to kill him."

"So you, what, decided to beat him up instead?"

He huffs a laugh. "He's alive. Isn't that good enough?"

"Is it?" I ask, and his expression changes.

"You're angry with me," he murmurs, looking confused. "Why?"

"Because you're creeping around and scaring the heck out of me," I snap, glaring at him. "Look, I'm not sure how you know my name or what you're playing at, but this is messed up. You're messed up."

"Oh, angel, you know no idea how messed up I really am.” He leans in, invading my space, and I swear I can feel his body heat. “I'm also a man—a man who is deeply, irrevocably attracted to you.”

I stare at him. He stares back, his gaze unflinching and sincere. Flustered and not sure what else to do, I sigh, pick up my mug, and drink my tea like I've been told. Satisfied, the stranger crosses his arms and leans against the counter, watching me.

"Finish that and I'll give you something despite my better judgment."

"I don't want anything," I mumble, and he laughs darkly.

The tone in his voice has me shivering. I'm torn because I should be scared, but I'm not. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have by now. Slowly, I finish the tea and set the cup down. I don't know if it's the drop-off after the adrenaline rush or the tea itself, but I do feel more relaxed.

Unthinking, I take the honey-coated spoon and slip it into my mouth.

"Good girl."

I pull the utensil out and open my mouth to speak. The words die in my throat as I realize his gaze has dipped down, and his eyes focus on the motion of my lips, his expression darkening. I can feel a single sticky drop on my bottom lip,

"Here, let me."

In a second, he rounds the counter. He's in my space once more, and I'm frozen, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. His thumb brushes over my lip, wiping away a stray dollop of honey, and then he slides it into his mouth and sucks.

"Sweet," he murmurs.

"Who are you?" My voice shakes as I ask the question for what feels like the millionth time, and so are my hands.

He hesitates, his eyes never leaving my face. Then, slowly, his head dips, and his lips graze over mine. A bolt of heat spears through me, and I gasp.

His tongue is hot and aggressive, tangling with mine. I open up, letting him claim me, and the whole world dissolves. All there is, is the feel of his hands in my hair, his lips on mine.

It feels so good. So right, and I know that I shouldn't be doing this. I don't even know his name.

But the attraction, the chemistry is too powerful. It's pulling me under, and I'm drowning. My hands grip his shirt, and I press myself against his broad chest, craving the feeling of his body against mine. And in that moment, the realization hits me. I'm not afraid of this man. I'm not even afraid of the fact that he's clearly obsessed with me. What I'm afraid of is missing out on this. Whatever this is.

I can't think. Can't reason. All I know is that this feels good. Too good, and as he deepens the kiss, his hands are everywhere. Then, as quickly as it began, he pulls away, looking like it's taken all his willpower to do so.

"Let me get you home." He takes a step back, his breath ragged, and his eyes burning. I'm shaking, the desire and the confusion too much, and he sighs, taking my hand. "You're not ready for this, but you will be."

Gingerly, I touch my tingling lips. "Ready for what?"

He just smiles and leads me out of the cafe. "Where is your car, angel?"

"Still parked behind the theater."

"Good." He squeezes my hand. "I'll drive you."

We get into his car, and the silence between us is heavy. He drives with one hand, the other still holding mine. We don't speak, but his touch is gentle and reassuring, and the ride goes by quickly.

“I have to ask, Alina. Where did you come from?”

His deep voice rumbling in the dark of the car catches me off guard. “I, um, I’m new in town.”

He flexes his hands on the steering wheel. “You move here alone?”

“Yes and no.” I don’t even know why I’m telling him all of this, but the words keep coming. “I don’t have any family left back in Indiana where I lived before, so I came to stay with my dad.”

I see the dark stranger stiffen in his seat. “Your dad lives with you?”

Don’t say anything! the more logical part of me screams, but still I keep talking. “Yes, but he’s … Well, he’s not in town. I barely know him, really. He left when I was five.”

He makes an unhappy sound in his throat, almost like disgust. “What a prick.”

“Hey! It’s not that….” I try to argue but find that I don’t have anything to say in my father’s defense. Just because I don’t know the exact details of why he left doesn’t mean I didn’t need him terribly throughout my childhood.

When we reach the theater, his car idles for a moment, and he lifts my hand, kissing the back. The gesture is tender, and despite the danger and the mystery, I feel a rush of warmth.

"My name is Derrick," he tells me finally. "That's your reward for being such a good girl."

"Derrick," I whisper.

"Say it again."

"Derrick."

He closes his eyes, and his grip tightens. "Fuck. When you say my name like that … Get out of here, Alina. We'll see each other soon."

I feel like I'm in a daze as I step out of the sleek sports car, getting into my own vehicle and turning out onto the road. Derrick doesn't pull out behind me like I expect him to, but a few miles from home, I see headlights in the rearview mirror and I know in my gut it's him.