Page 106 of Lady and the Hitman
20
By the time I left the coworking space, the sun was dipping low over Charleston, casting everything in that honeyed, late-afternoon glow that made even the cracks in the sidewalk look romantic. My tote was slung over one shoulder, my cardigan draped across my arm, and for the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe again.
It hadn’t been a perfect day, but it had been a productive one.
I’d cleared out my inbox, responded to the flood of comments on my latest “State of Her Union” column, and even managed to do some light outlining for next week’s piece. I’d crossed things off my list, answered the emails I’d been avoiding, and—miracle of miracles—I hadn’t cried in a single bathroom stall.
Progress.
Mina had been … relentless, of course. But I didn’t hate it. As much as she’d grilled me like a CIA interrogator, there was something comforting about having someone to talk to. Someone who knew. Someone who asked questions I didn’t want to answer and didn’t let me squirm away from the ones I needed to.
I still didn’t know what to make of all of it—of Ronan, of Alpha Mail, of this gnawing tension inside me between who I’d always been and who I was becoming when I was with him. The line between journalist and woman was starting to blur, and I wasn’t sure which side I wanted to land on.
Did I have to choose?
I thought about what it would feel like to walk into a restaurant with him. To slide into a candlelit booth, let the wine flow, and pretend—for a moment—that it was normal. That I was a normal woman dating a devastatingly hot man who just happened to be the kind of dangerous that made my blood hum.
I thought about the way his fingers curled around my wrist when he was trying to make a point. The way his voice went low when he didn’t like my answers. I thought about the taste of red wine on his tongue, the scrape of his stubble against my thighs, the way he made me feel like I was both prey and queen.
A small part of me—one I didn’t want to name—wondered what it would cost me to just say yes. Not someday. Not in private.
Now.
My phone buzzed in my pocket just as I was climbing the steps to my townhouse. I pulled it out without thinking.
Trevor.
Of course.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” he said, his voice casual but clipped. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, just got home from work.”
“You sound distracted.”
“I’m always distracted, Trevor,” I said, shouldering the door open and stepping into the cool, quiet foyer. “What’s up?”
There was a pause on the other end.
“You wrote about Alpha Mail.”
I closed the door behind me and dropped my bag on the bench by the stairs. “Yes, I did.”
“That piece is … bold, even for you.”
I stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just—,” he said carefully. “Risky. Controversial. A lot of eyes are on it, and some of them aren’t friendly. I wanted to make sure you knew what you were stepping into.”
I moved into the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. “People want honesty. And I had something to say.”
A pause. Too long to be casual.
“Are you involved?” he asked finally. “With them? Alpha Mail?”
My stomach tightened. “What? No.”
