Page 33 of Snatched
Grab my purse.
And stare at myself in the mirror.
I look… good.
Better than good.
Alive.
My phone buzzes.
Mark (the date): Running five minutes behind, sorry!
Fine.
Good.
Better, even.
Because my heart is hammering for a reason that hasnothingto do with Mark.
I slip out the door.
Vestry Bar glows like a jewel box—dim lighting, brass fixtures, velvet booths, golden candlelight reflecting off every bottle behind the bar.
I swallow.
This place is fancy even by New York standards.
My heels click softly on the floor as I walk in, scanning the crowd, looking for Mark for some reason even though I know he’s running late.
But instead I see him.
Colt.
Standing near the bar.
He’s wearing dark jeans, black boots, and a fitted gray button-down rolled at the sleeves, revealing his forearms.
His hair is pushed back, still a little damp from the shower he definitely took before coming here.
He’s got a freshly clean-shaven jaw, and shoulders that could block out the moon.
He looks different now; older and sharper.
Like he stepped out of an entirely different life.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
Then he spots me, and his whole expression changes to something like surprise.
Then…something warm and slow. Something he tries to hide—but doesn’t quite manage.
He takes a step toward me, pulling my badge from his coat pocket.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. “You clean up nice.”
God help me.
