Page 154 of Filthy Promises

I raise my hand and knock on her door, already knowing exactly what I’m going to do next.

For the first time in my life, what I want and what I need are finally the same thing.

And they both look like Rowan St. Clair.

45

ROWAN

The knock on my door makes me jump, even though I know exactly who it is.

I stand marooned in the middle of my tiny apartment, still wearing the clothes I was wearing when I puked into that poor, defenseless ficus. May he rest in peace.

On top of that, my hair is a disaster, I’ve got mascara streaked halfway down my cheeks from crying, and I’m pretty sure there’s still the faint smell of vomit clinging to me despite my best efforts with mouthwash.

In other words, I look exactly how I feel: like complete garbage.

The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

“I know you’re in there, Rowan,” Vince calls through the door, his voice that particular blend of commanding and impatient that I’ve come to associate with him not getting his way immediately.

“Just a minute,” I call back, hastily wiping at my cheeks and running my fingers through my tangled hair.

It’s pointless, of course. No amount of last-minute primping is going to make me look less like a train wreck.

But hey, a girl can try.

I open the door to find Vince standing there, looking somehow even more intense than he did at the office. His eyes immediately scan me from head to toe, like he’s checking for injuries or something.

For a moment, I look back at him, and it feels like the beginning of our story is super-imposed on this moment.

A doorway framing him.

Eyes glued to mine, neither of us able to look away.

ThatOh.

And a wink—no, not a wink, that’s just my eyes watering up again. It’s the product of overwhelm, overstimulation, over-everything. At a certain point, your nervous system just saysEnoughand things start leaking through the cracks, whether you like it or not.

We’re long past that point.

“Come in,” I sigh, stepping aside. “Before my neighbors start to wonder why an angry Russian man is lurking in my hallway at midnight.”

He enters, his presence immediately making my apartment feel about ten sizes smaller. Everything about him is just sobig—not just physically, though God knows he has the shoulders of a linebacker—but his energy, his intensity.

Or maybe that’s just me.

“Sit,” I tell him, gesturing to my sagging couch. “Can I get you something to drink? I don’t have any of your fancy vodka, but there’s some box wine in the fridge. Oh, and if you like expired yogurt, then boy, do I have good news for you.”

His lip curls. Almost a smile, but not quite. “I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” I drop into the armchair across from him, suddenly exhausted beyond words. “Let’s just get to it, shall we? Why are you here, Vince?”

He stays standing, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes roaming around the room without ever settling on any one thing in particular.

“This place is a security nightmare,” he announces instead of answering my question. “Fire escape right outside the window. Paper-thin walls. That lock wouldn’t keep out a determined child, let alone?—”

“Yes, yes, we’ve been over all that already. I didn’t know you moonlighted as a home security consultant,” I interrupt. “Is there a reason you’re casing my apartment like you’re planning to rob it?”

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