Page 28 of Sinister Intentions

The business, my family’s legacy, my father’s bullshit, and the ongoing hack—it all could wait. For now, I had Dom, his funny stories, his teasing remarks, and a plate of the best carbonara in town.

That was enough.

“How would you even know if somebody truly loves you?” I asked out of the blue. I didn’t even know where the question came from. Was it triggered by the comment Donnelly made about arranged marriages sometimes leading to true love, which somehow stuck with me? Because true love had nothing to do with Dom’s story about his latest conquest.

I waited for Dom to answer. I was seriously curious about his definition.

Dom stared at me, equally dumbfounded, then cocked his head as if he had to think about it. “True love is when there’s a fire alarm, and instead of just thinking about themselves, they grab your hand and pull you along with them.”

Hm. “Easy enough.”

Dom nodded. “Love should be easy.”

I raised a single eyebrow at him. I’d never witnessed such an “easy” love, so I very much doubted love could ever be easy or straightforward.

My phone vibrated in my pocket with an incoming message. Instinctively, I glanced around the restaurant, my guard always up before I pulled it out, and focused on the screen.

I hissed when I saw I had two missed messages—status updates on Jemma Donnelly. I opened the app and clicked on the first encrypted message with Jemma’s location—a café on the same street as Dom’s gym. My stomach tightened. Now, if that wasn’t a coincidence. She’d been close enough I could’ve caught a glimpse of her if I’d checked the message earlier.

Wait, why exactly did that thought excite me?

Attached were a few photos, shot from the outside, of her sitting at a table next to Alex’s wife. She was wearing a black tee and her signature baseball cap.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary.

I opened the last message and furrowed my brow as I zoomed into the first photo.

It was Jemma, slipping out of the café alone, clutching her bag in a half-crouched position. The next one showed her farther down the street with her back to a building staring intently down the street. Was she following someone?

My heart sped up.

What the hell was the punk doing now?

My gaze snapped up as soon as I looked at the last picture—of her entering this very restaurant.

I scanned the space with renewed intensity. There, at the far corner of the bar, partly hidden behind a plant, sat a familiar figure, with a very familiar baseball cap.

She wasn’t looking up right now. But even so. There was no mistaking it was her.

I looked toward the kitchen and studied her from the corner of my eye.

What the hell was she doing here?

“What’s wrong?” Dom asked, and I forced my focus from her and back to him.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, right.” Dom rolled his eyes in an overdramatic way.

“There’s just… Never mind,” I said and shook my head. I needed to clear the mess in my mind before I could even explain what was going on. I leaned back and crossed my arms. Jemma Donnelly was here, in the same restaurant as me, alone, after leaving her cousin in an overly hasty manner, following someone.

Following me.

The realization hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut. I tapped my foot and ground my teeth. She’d been tailing me? Tracking my movements just as obsessively as I’ve been monitoring hers? What the fuck? And who the fuck did she think she was?

Was she really planning on making good on her threats of killing me?

Ridiculous.

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