When I’d pushed my tired body through the door of the apartment, I shut it behind me and leaned back, pressing my head into the mercifully cool wood.

“Marcus!” I called, hoping to discover that my housemate was out.

To my delight and relief, no reply came.

I liked my roomie. Loved him, even. But I wasn’t sure I was in any mood to divulge the night’s events to him, and I knew he’d ask. He always did; it was his way of being supportive. Somehow though, telling him about the mysterious billionaire who wanted into my pants seemed like a terrible idea.

Though part of me wanted to hop on social media and tell the whole world.

The mere thought of Tristan Wolfe’s eyes, his scent, his everything, made me want to take an ice cold shower. I still wasn’t quite over the shakes that had set in the moment he’d pulled me close. The ache between my legs was still real. The need, the want, the frenzied desire that had begun to viciously attack my body and mind. He’d infected me with some virus or other—raw lust, I suppose. It had been such a long time since I’d wanted anyone that I’d forgotten how it felt. Good and bad at once. Hot and cold.

Fire and ice.

Some part of me wanted to figure out what it was about the guy that I wanted so badly. Was it his wealth? His fame?

No. I didn’t give a shit about those things. Much as I would have loved to be rolling in money, hearing who he was hadn’t made me crave him more—if anything, it had made me less interested in getting tangled up in his life. If he was that rich, chances were good that he was one of those men who used young women then discarded them like pieces of detritus. Sure, maybe I could have been tonight’s conquest.

But he wasn’t likely to be suffering after my departure. He’d probably found a new woman to stare at, to proposition. In fact, I would have been willing to bet that he was on his way home right now with some pretty young thing. I told myself that the thought of it didn’t make me jealous.

That I wasn’t craving him.

That I wasn’t desperate to taste his lips.

The problem was, it was all a big fat pile of lies.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped over to the large window that looked out onto the street and pulled back the curtain—some ten-dollar Ikea special that had been there forever—to peer outside.

For once, the Manhattan night was quiet. I wasn’t hearing the usual din of New York horns honking or people screaming at each other to get out of the way. Something had draped an almost eerie silence over the city that never sleeps.

I stared at the building across from ours—another set of apartments—where a couple was engaged in some sort of animated argument, their arms flailing around, bodies leaning forward in accusation as each of them tried to emerge victorious. Ah, there it was. Big city animosity, hard at work behind closed windows.

I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for my life of perpetual singleness. Nothing and no one in my world inspired me to engage in confrontations or screaming matches.

I liked my freedom. At least, that was what I told myself over and over again, even in the most soul-sucking moments of abject loneliness.

The good news was that when the theater shut down, I’d have more freedom than I’d ever bargained for. At some point soon, I was going to have to confront the fact that I might have to move out of this apartment, or even out of this city. Maybe I could work in a coffee shop in small-town Iowa. Or maybe I could even fly to Paris and find work there…if someone gave me a plane ticket and about five-thousand dollars to rent an apartment for a week.

Slightly ashamed to realize that my eyes were still locked voyeuristically on the angry strangers across the street, my gaze slid down towards the sidewalk. Rain had just begun to fall in large, aggressive drops, somewhat obscuring my view of the world below. A hot downpour, no doubt, to match the heat of the air that had hung in a heavy veil over the city for days now.

It seemed fitting to end my insane evening with the sky weeping.

My eyes landed on a shadowy figure outlined against a yellow door on the ground floor. It looked like the shape of a man, though he was so still, the rain beating so hard through the air that I began to doubt my eyes.

That was, until his face lifted to look up at me. His eyes flashed reflectively, like a cat’s in the dark of night, two bright pinpoints set in a dark face. They were only details I could make out.

But they were enough to tell me everything I needed to know about the shadow in the rain.

Tristan Wolfe had figured out where I lived. Not only that, but he’d followed me home.

No way, I told myself. He couldn’t have. I took a cab here with Clarissa. There was no way he could have stayed close enough to follow us. He would have had to get in a car immediately after we did, and I knew for a fact that he’d still been in the bar when we’d flagged down our taxi.

So how the ever-loving hell had he found me?

A noise startled me nearly out of my skin and I spun around, pulling myself away from the window as if I’d been caught in the middle of some nefarious act.

“Honey, I’m home!” sang Marcus as he strode in, carrying a gigantic bag of groceries.

He said those same words every time he walked in. It was one of the reasons I adored him. He was my husband without the stupid obligations.

A perfect spouse.

He turned my way when he figured out where I was and shot me his usual enormous smile. “You’re here!” he said. “I didn’t see you at first.”

“Yes, I’m here,” I replied. Sort of.

“Jesus, Ariana, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he laughed as he set the bag down.

“Not a ghost. It was…” I muttered, moving back towards the window. I turned and looked out again.

But the figure was gone.

“It was what?” chuckled Marcus, joining me to take a peek.

“I guess it was a ghost after all,” I said, relieved to think maybe I’d only imagined Tristan out there. Somehow, finding out that I was insane seemed better than the alternative—that I’d fallen hard into Lustville for a stalker who knew where I live and might kill me in the night.

Marcus pulled away from the window and gawked at me. “Seriously, you okay?” he asked, taking my shoulders in his hands. He rarely touched me. We seemed to have an unspoken rule about touching. I guess it was to avoid sexual tension or awkward situations. Whatever it was, it seemed to work for both of us.

I nodded. “I’m fine,” I said, throwing him a smile that probably said I don’t want to talk about it anymore. The night had been too weird already.

“Okay. Then come sit for a second and put your feet up. I’ll put the groceries away later.”

We worked our way over to the couch and I plopped down, one leg tucked under my butt. “What’s up with you?” I asked him.

“Nothing much. Work’s insane,” he said. “I just wanted to relax with you for a minute before I lock myself into my room for the night.”

“Why insane?” I asked. He never talked much about his job. I’d asked him once what he did, and he just told me that it was complicated, that he had a lot of very demanding clients, that sometimes it was stressful and he preferred not to get into it too deep. If anyone understood secrecy it was me, so I chose not to push him.

“The boss came to me today,” he said. “He wants something I’m not sure I can give him.”

“Well, that’s vague,” I laughed, tucking my hair behind my right ear. “Did he ask you to marry him or something?”

“That would’ve been easier,” Marcus chuckled. “No. What he wants is someone’s head on a platter. Not literally, of course. Not yet, anyhow.”

“He wants you to fire someone?”

“Sort of,” he said. “But I get sick of being the bad guy, you know?”

“I can’t imagine you as the bad guy. You’re so sweet,” I told him, leaning my head on his shoulder. Another touch. Probably a bad idea, but he didn’t seem to take it the wrong way, at least. Our unspoken rule remained intact.

After a few seconds, I felt his breath on the top of my head, like his nose had moved in close to my scalp.

“Marcus, are you sniffing me?” I giggled, pulling away to look at him. No, of course he wasn’t. Why would he do something like that?

But when I saw his eyes, I gasped.

Normally, Marcus’s irises were dark brown, like his hair. But for some reason they looked strangely light, reflective, like a cat’s in the dark of night. They looked almost like Tristan’s had as he’d stood in the doorway across the street.

I must have been imagining it, though, because a moment later, they’d returned to their dark brown shade, and once again I found myself questioning my sanity.

“You were sniffing me,” I said slowly.

He shook his head. “No, I mean I was sniffing, but not you,” he said. His tone was evasive, like he was trying to hide something “I just…thought I smelled smoke. Maybe someone’s using a grill on their roof or something.”

“Maybe,” I said, trying not to let my imagination get too carried away. Even if Marcus was hiding something, I knew perfectly well that he wasn’t going to tell me what was really going on. Like so many men, my roomie had a habit of pulling back before he revealed too much. He threw up walls whenever anyone threatened to figure him out. I’d seen him do it to his friends, as well as to me. I knew the habit well. After all, I did the same thing to almost every person in my life.

As for his sniffing, the day had already been so far beyond weird that I wasn’t sure I could trust any of my instincts anymore, let alone my brain. I was probably just projecting some fantasy about Tristan onto him. Trying to read things into his behavior.

“Listen, I think I’ll go take a bath,” I shot out, leaping off the couch and turning to face him. “Do you need the bathroom before I hog it?”

“You go ahead,” he said. “Enjoy. Listen—I’ll bring you a coffee at work tomorrow, okay? That’ll make you feel better about whatever’s bugging you.”

“Who said anything’s bugging me?”

He shot me a chastising glare and clicked his tongue. “Your face, your body language and your voice said, for starters. Coffee. Tomorrow morning. I’ll be there.”

“That would be really nice, thanks,” I replied. “Coffee would perk me up, or at least give me something to cry into.”

“Then consider it done.”

I smiled at Marcus and trudged towards my bedroom to get my robe, telling myself that maybe tomorrow, things would go back to normal.

Though somehow, I hoped they wouldn’t.