Page 37 of Hold Him Like Gravity

No, it wasn’t like he was my best friend or boyfriend or anything like that. But the man had been nothing but good to me. And, well, there’d been that whole thing after he’d taken me to dinner…

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I’m not doing it,” I said, voice fierce, ready to jump up off of the couch and rush him.

“Yes,” another voice said, making my stomach drop out, “you are.”

I was afraid to turn around, to confirm with my eyes what I knew with my ears.

Because I knew that voice.

I knew who it belonged to.

But this couldn’t be happening.

He was dead.

I’d killed him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kick

I’d met Kyle the first week I was working an overnight shift at a little coffee shop. I was young and nervous about being all alone, save for the guy in the back who was prepping the pastries for the next day. But he would be no help in an emergency since he was both stoned out of his mind and listening to music through his headphones so loudly that I could hear the death metal screams from several feet away.

But, damn it, I was a strong, independent woman. I could take care of myself.

And the counter was probably too high for anyone to actually, you know, jump over.

Still, it was nerve-racking.

So I busied myself by wiping down every single surface behind the counter and restocking the beans, filters, and hot chocolate machine to help the time pass and keep my mind from going off in too many directions.

There was no chime on the door. I had no idea I wasn’t alone as I leaned over the massive notebook that we kept behind the counter to do a pastry inventory, so the manager could decide the batch bake list for the next day.

I turned as I noted down that there were ten French crullers left.

Then there a man appeared.

A shriek escaped me as my whole body jumped, making the notebook fall from my hands, landing near my feet with a loud smacking sound.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he’d said, head tipped to the side as a little smile tugged at his lips.

Looking back over the years, I could see how—even in that first interaction—he enjoyed my discomfort.

At the time, though, all I seemed to register was how handsome he was.

He was six-two and fit in a way that wasn’t obnoxious or overly intimidating. His brown hair was a little long, curling toward the collar of his shirt. And he had these captivating green eyes that I found it hard to look away from.

“You dropped your notebook,” he’d reminded me, that smile curving a little higher. But not touching his eyes. I would learn, eventually, that no smile ever did.

“Oh, right,” I’d said, shaking my head at myself as I ducked down to grab it and the pen that had wedged itself under the counter.

He didn’t apologize.

I never realized that in the moment either.

I was too busy feeling embarrassed that I’d overreacted to a customer.

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