Page 36 of His Untouchable Heart

Anthony kept pace beside me, quiet but attentive. He hadn’t asked who I was calling. He didn’t need to. There was something about the way he moved in silence like he was always scanning, processing, thinking six steps ahead.

I didn’t say anything, but I felt the tension in my shoulders slowly start to uncoil. Not because the problems had lessened. But because his presence, maddeningly steady, grounded me in a way I hadn’t expected.

We reached the car, and I unlocked it with a chirp that sounded far too cheerful for the day ahead. As I slid into the driver’s seat, Anthony circled around to the passenger side, and for one ridiculous second, I wished we weren’t driving straight into more uncertainty.

I wished we were just going for coffee.

The A/C in my car wheezed like it had just been woken from a decade-long nap. I twisted the vents toward us, hoping it would at least fake competence before we melted into the seats.

“Is this a lease?” Anthony asked mildly as he shut the door.

“Not hardly. Completely paid off—mine,” I said, clicking my seatbelt and cringing at the faint rattle the engine made when I turned the key. “Try to contain your awe.”

He smirked but said nothing, which somehow made it worse.

As I pulled out of the lot, I caught a glimpse of my car in the glass façade of the terminal—my dusty little sedan pulling away. The absurdity of it all tugged at my mouth until I almost smiled.

Almost.

Now that I knew who Anthony really was—or had been, before everything—I couldn’t stop the errant, shamefully shallow thought: would I someday replace this car with something nicer? Something that didn’t have a glove box that jammed and a gas cap you had to jiggle like a magic trick?

I shoved the thought away, ashamed of it. His wealth wasn’t a perk. It was inherited through grief, not ambition. Charlotte. The name alone was a quiet slap.

“I’ve had worse flights. Being with you was the best part,” he said, staring out the window, breaking the silence.

“No. It was you that made it interesting,” I replied, though I’d spent half of it pretending I wasn’t nervous and the other half pretending I didn’t want to sit on his lap and seductively unbutton his shirt.

I reached for my cold water bottle in the cupholder, and my fingers brushed his, just for a second. He didn’t move. Neither did I. But the touch lingered on my skin like heat from the sun.

I saw him glance at his phone—screen angled slightly away, constantly analyzing, always managing a dozen unknowns, and probably working on a contingency plan to deal with Curtain.

The soft purr of the road filled the car, a comforting and constant presence.

And yet everything about the world we were driving into felt anything but.

Juliette was already seated at one of the outdoor tables when we arrived, arms crossed and sunglasses perched high on her head like she meant business. Three iced coffees waited on the table in front of her, sweating in the heat. She hadn’t touched hers.

“That one’s yours,” she said, nodding toward the one with extra foam. “Don’t say I never spoil you.”

I slid into the chair across from her. “Thanks,” I murmured, but she was already leaning in with a tight expression.

She tilted her chin toward the remaining drink. “Black, no sugar. Hope I guessed right.”

Anthony sat beside me and gave her a quick, appreciative nod. “You did. Thanks. you are a mind reader, Juliette.”

“Now, listen,” she added, waving away the moment. “I need to tell you something, and I need you to not tell me I’m being paranoid.”

That got my attention. Anthony shifted slightly beside me, and I turned fully toward her.

Juliette lowered her voice. “I’ve been noticing things. At the apartment.”

My stomach tightened. “What kind of things?”

“Footprints,” she said. “In the sand by the back fence. Near where I park. Men’s dress shoes. Same size, same tread, showing up more than once.”

Anthony’s brow ticked upward slightly. “Anyone in your building wear those?”

Juliette gave him a flat look. “It’s a ten-unit complex full of broke grad students and retired Floridians. I’ve seen Birkenstocks and boat shoes. No one’s strolling around in Oxfords.”

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