Page 57 of Locke

Physically, and yes… I’m craving more of an emotional connection.

I look back out the window.

The bus takes a left and the hotel comes into view at the end of the block—a glass tower of vertical lines and ambient lighting.The bus slows.

I’m already mentally composing the follow-up email I’ll send tomorrow.Professional.Direct.The session is part of our agreement and I need him to honor it.If I can just get him back in my office—

I seehim.

He’s on the sidewalk outside the hotel entrance, pacing back and forth, and my jaw drops.

I know his silhouette before my brain catches up with my eyes.The tablet slides off my knee but I catch it without looking.

Grant.

My stomach drops through the floor of the bus.

He’s thinner than I remember, or maybe it’s the way he’s standing with his shoulders forward, hands in his jacket pockets.Nine hundred miles separated us just yesterday and now here he is standing on a Los Angeles sidewalk outside the Wildfire’s hotel.The only thought that moves through me with any coherence is how he knows we’re here.

The answer arrives immediately and turns my blood cold.

He’s stalked me.The way he found my new number after I changed it.The way a card appeared at my Portland address.

The message is clear.

I can find you.

The bus pulls to a stop, the doors open and the team begins to move.

I sit for ten seconds longer than I should, watching him through the glass.He can’t see me through the tinted windows and he’s scanning the bus door, waiting for me to exit, and his patience is the most frightening thing about him.Grant has never had a short fuse.No, he’s a long-burn kind of man.He doesn’t mind waiting.

My options are to hide on the bus and hope he goes away or I can confront this issue head-on.I decide on the latter option, especially while there are plenty of witnesses around, so I exit my row and shuffle off the bus amid hulking hockey players.

When I step out, his eyes lock with mine, full of hope and yearning.

I walk up to him, keeping my tone even.“What are you doing here?”

“Livia.”He breathes it out like a prayer.“I just want to talk.”

And up close, I can see all the signs.The bloodshot eyes.The way he’s working a little harder than usual to track me.His shirt is untucked on one side, and I can smell the alcohol.

He’s inebriated.

Not falling-down drunk but enough that his usual precision is gone.I know him well when he drinks.He has no emotional management, which will make this conversation harder.

In fact, there’s no version of this conversation that goes anywhere useful tonight.

“Go home, Grant.”

“But I love you, Livvy.”His voice rises just enough that a few players glance over.“Do you understand that?I’m not just some guy sending texts, I came here because you won’t—”

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss at him with embarrassment.

“Don’t tell me to keep my voice down,” he snaps back angrily.“You always have to be in control.Everything always has to be quiet and professional and God forbid”—his voice raises to spite me—“anyone feel anything too loudly around Livia Cross.”

I wince because I’m sure everyone in a four-block radius heard that.“You’ve been drinking.”

He gives me a dopey grin.“Just a few.”He steps closer and I hold my ground because showing him I’m afraid is the one thing I won’t do.