Page 200 of The Clinch
Eden’s voice goes soft. “Hey.”
I push back from the table so fast the chair legs scrape the floor.
“I need to go.”
Neither of them moves right away. Then Eden rises. “Okay.”
Nate’s eyes go to the coffee, then back to me. “You need a ride?”
“No.”
Eden gives me the smallest smile, the kind that says she knows exactly where I’m headed and is smart enough not to name it.
I turn for my room to grab my bag, Leo’s coffee still on my tongue and one certainty beating hard in my chest.
I’m done running.
47
JAMAICAN BLUE (LIZ)
My legs are unsteady when I step out of the Uber.
Williamsburg is already alive with brunch people in expensive clothes meant to look accidental, sunlight washing the block in soft September gold, bright and careless against the knot clenched low in my stomach.
I stand on the sidewalk outside Leo’s building with my bag slipping off one shoulder and my pulse beating high in my throat, hard enough to make me feel stupid.
I could still leave. I could get back in the cab, go uptown, tell Eden I changed my mind, tell myself I need more time, tell myself I’m not ready. All of it would sound reasonable and be complete bullshit.
Instead, I head inside.
The doorman looks up and recognizes me immediately. There’s a pause just long enough to say it’s been a while, that something about me coming here is different now.
Then, mercifully, he just drops his gaze back to his phone.
Bless him for that.
I take the elevator up and step into the quiet hallway. Outside Leo’s door, my heartbeat turns feral. The air smells faintly of somebody’s cologne. The normalcy of it nearly undoes me.
I knock before I can think better of it.
I hear footsteps, and the door opens. Leo stills so completely it feels like impact.
He’s in gray sweats and a black T-shirt, the kind of thrown-on clothes that make him look even more dangerous for how little effort they seem to cost him. His hair is still damp, light stubble shadows his jaw, and he’s holding a coffee mug like he forgot it was there the second he saw me. Surprise breaks across his face too fast to hide.
“Liz.”
He doesn’t reach for me. For one wild second, panic flashes hot. What if there’s someone else in there?
My gaze cuts past him into the apartment.
He steps back immediately and opens the door wider, as if he knows exactly what I’m looking for.
“Come in.”
Relief slips out of me so fast it almost makes me dizzy. I move past him into the apartment I know too well and not nearly well enough.
It smells of coffee, soap, and something savory on the stove. Eggs, maybe. Onions. The counter is half used, half cleaned, because apparently Leo Carver has never made a mess in his life without already starting to fix it. His French press sits beside the grinder. A skillet rests on the stove. An ice pack is melting into the island. A towel hangs over the back of a chair.
