Page 67 of North

He smirks, his lips curling against the collar of his coat. “Speak fast then and don’t hold anything back. The sooner you do that, the sooner we can get out of the cold.”

“Devious,” I say, enjoying the teasing even though he’s pressing me for a serious talk. There’s something grounding about being here with him, despite my initial reluctance. The world feels quieter, more manageable with him beside me.

“So,” he says after a moment, his voice cutting through the stillness, “why aren’t you excited about the job?”

I tuck my hands into my pockets. The question hangs between us, and I know he’s not going to let it drop. “I’m tired of bartending,” I admit, my voice barely audible over the wind. “The hours are hell, the work is draining, and it feels like I’m going nowhere. On top of that, if I want any chance of having sex with you on a regular basis, that’s not the job to have since I work nights.”

North chuckles at my sex joke, which isn’t really a joke. His thumb brushes idly against my shoulder. He’s giving me space, waiting for me to continue.

“It’s like…” I fumble for the words, staring out at the river as it meanders past the city. “It’s the only thing I’m good at. While I don’t love it, it’s a way to survive. Something I could do to make money.”

He nods, his breath puffing out in soft clouds as he processes what I’ve said. “Then don’t do it.”

I snort, the sound bitter even to my ears. “It’s not that simple, North. I need to start paying Rafferty rent.”

“You could live with me rent-free,” he says with a sly grin.

“Not going there,” I say sternly, but my eyes crinkle with amusement. “Bartending is the only skill I have. What else am I supposed to do?”

He turns slightly, his arm tightening around me as he faces me fully. His expression is serious, his eyes steady on mine. “I hate to point out the obvious, but you’re a genius, Farren. You could do anything.”

The sincerity in his voice tightens my throat, and I force a laugh to cover it. “Near genius,” I correct him. “Without a college degree. Doesn’t amount to anything.”

“So go back to college,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world.

I scoff, shaking my head. “You sound like my parents. And Raff. Always telling me what I should do,trying to control me.”

“I’m not trying to control you,” he says calmly, his gaze unwavering. “I’m just pointing out that you have options. Hell, you could go join the circus for all I care, as long as it makes you happy.”

His words hit differently from all the lectures I’ve gotten before. There’s no judgment, no pressure, just a genuine desire for me to find something that makes me feel alive. I chew on my bottom lip, the tension loosening ever so slightly.

“You’re really okay with me joining the circus?” I ask, my voice laced with sarcasm, though I can’t quite hide my smile.

He grins, nudging me with his shoulder. “Only if you’re the ringmaster. You’ve got the bossy attitude for it. Plus, you’d give me free popcorn and cotton candy. That’s a win-win in my book.”

I laugh despite myself, the sound carried away by the wind. “You’re such an ass.”

“But I’m right,” he says, his voice softening. “There has to be something you’ve always wanted to do. Something you’ve dreamed about but never thought you could have.”

His question settles over me like a heavy blanket, warm but suffocating. I stare out at the river, the water reflecting the gray sky above, and let his words sink in.

“I don’t know,” I say finally, my voice barely above awhisper.

“Come on,” he presses. “If you could wave a magic wand and be anything,doanything, what would it be?”

I hesitate, the answer lodged in my throat. It feels too big, too personal to say out loud. But the way he looks at me—patient, curious and without a trace of judgment—makes it impossible to hold back.

I stare out at the water. “Forensic psychologist,” I say softly. “Criminal profiling.”

North’s head jerks back, clearly surprised. “Really?”

I nod, feeling a flicker of excitement just saying the words out loud. “Yeah. I used to devour true crime books and documentaries. I was obsessed with understanding why people do the things they do, how their minds work, what makes them tick and eventually snap. Like, Ted Bundy. Everyone thought he was just some charming guy who tricked women into helping him, but he wasn’t only charming—he was manipulative on a level most people can’t even comprehend. And the way the FBI used profiling to figure out his patterns. Like, knowing he’d return to the same places, or that he had this need for control over his victims—that stuff blows my mind. Or the whole BTK case, where the guy seemed like this normal family man for decades, but underneath it all, he was—”

I catch myself mid-ramble, my hands gesturing wildly, and freeze. “Oh my God,” I gasp, my cheeks heatingas I look away. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

North doesn’t look annoyed or bored, though. If anything, he looks fascinated, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Keep going,” he says, nudging me with his shoulder. “I’ve never seen you like this. You’re—what’s the word?—lit up.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no stopping my smile. “Okay, fine. But seriously, profiling isn’t just about catching killers. It’s about understanding behavior, predicting what someone might do based on their patterns, their history. It’s like solving a giant puzzle, but the stakes are so high because it’s not just a game, it’s people’s lives. I don’t know, I just love the idea of digging into someone’s psyche, finding the pieces that everyone else missed, and using that to make the world safer.”

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