I’m sitting in a tiny breakfast diner outside the Oltek building waiting for Baby Serra to finish her interview when my dad finally replies to my string of texts. I’ve been asking him all day for word from Renzo.

Sorry, kiddo. Haven’t heard from him yet.

I tighten my grip around the phone, wanting to break the damn thing. Renzo’s assistant said he’s on his way back from a business trip he took to China. He’s probably jet-lagged, sleeping, or God knows what, because he’s not answering his phone or emails. And I still don’t have a clue what to do about his daughter. The longer we wait around, the longer she’s left an open target.

Looking up, I glimpse her through the lobby window. She’s chatting with her dirtbag boyfriend. Took me one week of following him around to find out he’s sleeping with half the female staff at Oltek. As oblivious as Amelia is, I’m not surprised she doesn’t see right through his designer suits and the phony nice guy act.

A waitress approaches my table, laying her palm flat against the surface. “Listen, honey. You’re a real treat to look at, but your muscles aren’t going to pay my bills,” she says, the lines in her face set in a deep scowl. “So would you like to order something? Or are you planning to sit there nursing your coffee all morning?”

I look around. The diner is jam-packed; I’m holding up her table. Clearly Amelia isn’t the only one who can be oblivious. “Yeah, sure.” I grab the menu, take one quick look, then offer a sheepish smile. “Banana pancakes, please.”

She gives me a thumbs-up. “Awesome choice.” Her tone is dripping with sarcasm, and she walks away, mumbling something inaudible. I need to remember to leave her a good tip.

When I look out the window again, Baby Serra exits the Oltek building alone. “Cancel that order!” I shout, throwing some cash down next to my coffee mug.

Keeping my head down, I leave the diner. Amelia is waiting at the crosswalk down the street. I look at the time on my phone, yawning. 11:33 a.m. Usually her and the dirtbag get lunch together at the deli stand a few blocks down, but I guess they have other plans today.

She looks good. It’s weird seeing her without the grubby teenage clothes and brightly colored flip-flops she loves so much.

And she’s still carrying the Torin. I searched all over for that painting, and then paid a ridiculous amount of money to buy it from a seller who wasn’t keen on selling. Too much damn money, probably half of what I’ll make on this job. It was worth every penny though. I swear Amelia Serra wears a perpetual frown, but today was different. Today when she came out of the art gallery, she glowed.

I’m not sure why I care about a dead girl’s feelings. Maybe I’ve been watching her too long, or maybe it’s out of pity. Like my own twisted version of a Make a Wish dream come true—minus the terminal disease part—I just really wanted her to have it.

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I slow my pace, lagging far enough behind to stay unnoticed. I glance down at her ass, lingering there a few seconds too long—dammit. That keeps happening. I can’t help it. The girl has a perfect fucking ass. Renzo would beat the shit out of me if he knew I was looking at his daughter in that way, so I force myself to look inside the nearest shop window.

I look back in Amelia’s direction as she crosses the street. There’s something off about the way she moves. Every step, slow and deliberate. The red hand symbol blinks, and my heart stops. Why is she crossing?

She drops her painting in the middle of the crosswalk, then bends to pick it up. I glare at the sky for cursing me. Out of all the females in the world, how did I get stuck keeping track of the most accident prone one of all?

Then it hits me. Her movements are painfully slow.

She’s doing this on purpose.

A semi blares its horn from down the street. A maroon sedan pulls into the other lane. Amelia, run!

But she doesn’t run. She stands there like a statue, shell shocked. No one else along the street is paying attention; everyone’s too busy, too caught up in their own world to see what’s happening right in front of them.

Amelia stands in the middle of the crosswalk, her feet firmly planted against the pavement, clutching her prized painting as if it’s her lifeline. She’s going to get hit. Blood pulsing in my ears, my heart slamming against my chest, I race toward her.

My shoes hit the pavement only seconds from the semi reaching the crosswalk. Time slows down. Amelia is a few steps in front of me, and the semi is coming at us. Leaping, I grab her by the arms and push with every ounce of strength I’ve got.

We both fly forward, plummeting into the sidewalk. I’m able to take the brunt of the fall, cradling Amelia against me. The semi whooshes by us, only a few feet away.

But we’re safe. That’s all that matters.

“Let go of me.”

Her breathless voice is the first thing I’m aware of. The next is the way her body is entangled with mine, one of my arms around her waist, the other protectively holding her head. One of my legs is between hers, and now I’m starting to notice every curve—holy hell. She’s just the right combination of soft and firm, and she smells like heaven.

“Let go of me!” she repeats, this time more agitated.

I don’t want to.

But then my brain kicks in; we’re in the middle of the damn sidewalk. I release my hold on her, and she scampers away like a frightened animal.

We’re both breathing heavily. Everything about her catches me off guard. Her eyes are definitive Serra eyes, deep set, a rich, warm brown with little specks of gold, set under thick, arched brows. But it’s the power in her gaze that throws me off balance. Her eyes seem to slice me open, like she can see right through me. I let out a shaky breath. Either it’s the adrenaline, or I’m losing my mind, because no one has ever been able to intimidate me so much with one look.

Worse than that, she remembers me.

“You,” she confirms my thoughts, sounding half disgusted, half shocked.

Somewhere outside of myself, I notice the small crowd of spectators we’ve gained.

“Are you two okay?” someone shouts.

I’m the first to answer. “We’re fine, thanks.” Move along, people.

A teenage boy has his cell phone out, either taking pictures or recording. “Come on, kid. Put it away,” I grumble, pushing myself up off the sidewalk.

The boy rolls his eyes, stuffs the phone into his pocket, and leaves. The rest of the crowd loses interest and disperses.

Amelia’s glaring, pointing her finger at me accusingly. “You…” She can’t seem to form a coherent sentence.

“No need to thank me,” I say, brushing myself off.

“Are you serious?” She pauses to take another deep breath. “You have ten seconds to tell me who you are and why you’ve been following me, or I’m calling the police.”

She knew. This whole time she knew I’d been following her, and that’s why she—“Did you try to kill yourself in order to confront me?” Never once in all the time I’ve been watching her did I peg her for the crazy type.

She waves her cell phone in front of me. “Five seconds, buddy.”

Good fucking grief.

I rake my hands through my hair, looking at the busy street. Cars soar past us. People move along the sidewalks. The sun beats down on my face and neck, and sweat starts to bead on my skin. I have no clue what to say; Renzo didn’t prepare me for this.

“Three,” she warns angrily, counting down. “Two.”

I hold my hands up. “Okay. Okay. Just—calm down. I’ll tell you everything. But I’ll need a lot longer than ten seconds to do it.” I point to the diner down the street, the same one I’d been watching her from. “It’s a public location. We can eat and talk.”

She looks at the diner for a long moment, then levels me with a wary look. I don’t think she thought her actions through. Whatever she had planned for this confrontation, this isn’t it, and she seems to be struggling to make a decision.

“You can trust me, Amelia.”

Her whole face tightens when she hears me say her name; it only reinforces the fact that I know a lot more about her than she knows about me.

I say it again, trying to sound reassuring. “You can trust me.”

Several tense seconds go by. Then she gives a slight nod of her head. “One wrong move, and I’m calling the cops.”

I don’t doubt she’ll do exactly that.