Page 49 of Hunted to Be Mine
“You don’t believe in coincidence any more than I do.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. “Fair point.”
“So how tourist are we playing this?” He steered us around German backpackers. “We can be lost Americans or pretentious art students. Dealer’s choice.”
“Clueless but enthusiastic Americans,” I said. “People don’t expect danger from clueless.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dangerous when confused,” he said, his tone dry.
“Just remember to smile sometimes. Your default face is too…”
“Too what?” He lifted a brow.
“Like you’re counting how to kill everyone on this street.”
He laughed. A real one. “That’s because I am.”
“Specter.”
“Habit.” He loosened on purpose. Then he slipped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in like this was a vacation. “Better?”
“Much. The smile needs work though.” I touched his cheek and nudged the corner of his mouth up with my thumb. “Less serial killer, more vacation selfie.”
His gaze softened. He caught my hand and pressed his mouth to my palm before letting go. It felt natural, which was a lie and also not. Somewhere between Munich and here, the line between the act and the truth had blurred.
“How about I admire the architecture and nod?” he said. “Tourist with academic interests.”
“Perfect. I always wanted to date a pretentious architecture nerd.”
The Word date hovered between us, naming something we’d both sidestepped.
“Look impressed by that building,” I said, nodding at a weathered facade with carved stone. “Two hundred years old, at least.”
He lifted the camera and took a few shots. Under his breath: “Three exits. The camera on the corner’s overdue for maintenance. The café across the street would make decent cover.”
I bumped his shoulder. “Not what tourists notice.”
“No?” He leaned closer, mouth near my ear. “What do they notice?”
“The little things. Flower boxes. The way morning light hits the stone.”
“The flower boxes could hide a compact weapon,” he replied. “And the light creates glare that messes with facial recognition.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yet you’re here.” His fingers threaded through mine. Like that was natural too.
A swarm of schoolkids burst past, laughing in Czech, winter coats and bright backpacks turning them into moving toys. Specter went rigid. His grip on my hand tightened hard enough to hurt.
I watched his face. The kids turned down the block and their voices faded. His eyes had gone far away, locked on something only he could see.
“Specter,” I said, steady and soft. “They’re just kids walking to school.”
He blinked and came back. “I know.”
We turned off the busy street. Foot traffic thinned fast. Deeper into the gap between districts, the city went quiet. Morning shoppers fell away. A few dog walkers hurried along, heads down against the cold.
“Anything else coming back?” I asked at a normal volume.
