Page 47 of Click of Fate

The air snaps tight between us. My breath stutters.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow and distracting. “But if it helps, I’ve thought about you on that couch since the night you showed up at The Trading Post and wrecked my plans to keep things simple.”

I swallow hard. And then I let him lead me—past the gear bins, down the dim hallway, and into his office.

The door clicks shut behind us…

And we don’t waste a single second finding out just how much potential that couch really has.

Chapter 12

BLESS HIS HEART

LUKE

The thing about “not-dates”is… three in two weeks starts to feel like something more.

I don’t say that out loud. Not to Stella—and I don’t even mention it to Alex. But I know what it looks like when I start falling into a rhythm with someone.

Two late-night climbs. Then a Taco Truck at 11:00 p.m. A random Sunday when we ended up at a used bookstore across town and somehow left with a bagful of paperbacks and a bottle of bourbon.

Two of those nights ended at my place.

She slept over both nights. I even fed her breakfast one of the mornings. Maybe we’re past the sneaking out at dawn.

Still, not once have we called it anything.

I scroll through my phone as I walk through the gym, dodging a box of harnesses someone left by the desk. She sent me a picture five minutes ago. Her camera gear splayed out on a blanket like an archaeological dig.

Stella:

Rate my organizational system. Be honest.

-3. You could lose a person in there.

Maybe that’s the goal.

You free tonight?

No reply yet, but I’m not worried. She’s probably mid-shoot or ignoring me on purpose just to be difficult. Either way, it’s a win.

In addition to not-dates, we text a lot. Who knew she was a texter? I figured, with her aversion to relationships, she wouldn’t be great at communicating. But the woman loves to text. She sends me the most random shit sometimes. She’s been working on a lot of shoots for theHoosier Insider,so she’s all over the state during the days.

I’m digging the fact that she feels the need to share those moments with me.

I tuck my phone into my pocket, still smiling like an idiot, when the front door chimes.

I glance up. And just like that, the day shifts.

Claire Mitchell is standing in my lobby.

Hair perfectly pinned, blazer cinched, phone already in hand—like she walked straight out of a marketing firm’s promo shoot.

It’s been three years.

No call. No texts. No late night instant messages on social. Not even a fucking email.

I freeze mid-step. “Claire.”

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