Page 67 of Lady and the Hitman
I picked at the edge of my napkin. “You’re not who I’m supposed to want.”
“But you do.”
The words were a knife to the gut. Not cruel. Not gloating. Just true.
I didn’t answer. Because I couldn’t deny it.
He reached across the table again, brushed hisfingers over mine. “You think I fit neatly into some box you’ve written about in your columns? Another man with power he shouldn’t have? Another cautionary tale for liberal girls who think love should be safe?”
“That’s not fair.”
He smiled faintly. “No. But it’s accurate.”
I felt the flare of heat rise in my chest—not anger, not exactly. Something closer to shame.
He was reading me too well.
“You’re not a monster,” I said softly.
“But you think I could be.”
“I think you make me question the lines I’ve drawn.”
His eyes darkened. “Good.”
The silence stretched again. But it didn’t feel cold. It felt … clarifying.
Because the truth was, I didn’t want to change him.
I wanted to understand him.
Even if I didn’t agree. Even if I knew he lived in a world I couldn’t survive in.
Maybe especially because of that.
He took a final sip of his coffee and set the mug down with quiet finality.
“I’ve done things you wouldn’t write about,” he said. “Things your readers couldn’t stomach.”
My mouth went dry. “Because they’re violent?”
“Because they’re final.”
I didn’t ask what that meant.
He didn’t offer specifics.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t shrink back.
Because even now—especially now—I felt safer with him than with anyone else.
“You scare me,” I admitted.
He nodded. “Good.”
“But you also …” I swallowed hard. “Make me feel seen.”
