Seven years earlier …
Past midnight, but Kaffiend Coffee House hummed like a train station at rush hour, packed with students studying and socializing in equal measures. Riva held her hand over her coffee cup when the waitress came by. Rereading her econ assignment pushed her past the point of diminishing returns. Another half an hour to review her American History reading response paper, and then she’d call it a night. “Just the check, please,” she said.
Without a word the waitress moved off, refilling cups as she worked her way back to the counter. The bell over the door dinged, and Riva looked up.
The man standing in the doorway wore a Lancaster College T-shirt, faded jeans, ankle-high brown motorcycle boots, and a really nice jacket, a leather moto deal she knew was expensive because the thin leather clung to his shoulders. Long fingers wrapped around the strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder, his helmet dangling from his thumb as he scanned the tables, looking for an empty seat. Riva watched him for a moment. He was tall, a little thin, older than the rest of the crowd. Her brain jumped through underclassman to senior before settling on grad student, one she hadn’t seen here before.
His gaze caught hers. Electric shock, a spark of something that made her aware of her heartbeat, its newly irregular rhythm. His gaze lingered just a second before moving on, and she was grateful she’d done the full hair and makeup routine before leaving her room. Despite the late hour, the wood-paneled room was packed with nervous students cramming for midterms, some of them looking for a little something to keep them going, others looking for a little something to calm them down so they could sleep. Two months into her college career and she already had a reputation for providing quality product: pills to sleep or stay awake, a little weed, something for the pain. She’d made four sales tonight, quick deals either in the ladies room or in the alley behind Kaffiend, where people stepped outside to smoke. She’d have good news to report when she checked in.
Another heart-skittering moment of eye contact, this time with a heated glint in his eye that threw his motivations into question. Was he looking to score from her, or with her? The seat across from her was open, and the owner encouraged table sharing. Maybe he just wanted a place to sit. Maybe he’d want to sit next to her.
She glanced down at her open textbook, counted to ten, then looked again. Wham, this time a full-body electric jolt, and he looked away first. Maybe it wasn’t her product he wanted, but her.
The thought made her heart pound.
A moment later he found a table being vacated by a guy Riva recognized from her Principles of Marketing class and sat down. The process of settling himself involved textbooks—Analytical Philosophy, something by Kant—a laptop, an order for coffee, and another glance Riva’s way. A little thrill skittered over her nerves; this time she offered a smile. For a second he didn’t smile back, and Riva wondered if she’d misunderstood his intention. But then the corners of his mouth curved up, revealing a deep, long crease on either side of his mouth. Mentally she revised his age upward a couple of years, to PhD student, and she couldn’t look away if her life depended on it.
His gaze darkened. He shifted in his chair. Maybe he was shy. He had the unassuming demeanor hot nerds usually had, like their good looks didn’t factor into their self-awareness at all. Feeling bold, she got up and paid her bill at the counter, then walked back to his table, where he was hunched over the textbook.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” she said. Up close he looked even more vulnerable, a little pale, his hair tumbling over his forehead. Her heart was flicking against her throat. “I saw you watching me.”
He flushed. The skin over his cheekbones actually turned pink. “Yeah. I guess I was pretty obvious.”
“I guess I was pretty flattered,” she replied.
His gaze sharpened, snared hers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Riva Henneman.”
“Ian Fallon.” He held out his hand, which made her laugh even as she shook it. “Have a seat.”
She sat, letting her bag slump to the floor at her feet. “Interesting reading you’ve got there.”
He looked down at the textbook, smeared with blue highlighter, notes in pencil along the margins. “It’s okay. You?”
“Intro to Econ and American History,” she said, hardly knowing whether she was making sense. The chemistry between them was sparking, making her skin hypersensitive, her cheeks flush. “I’m a first year. I’ll probably major in business but the history fulfills a requirement.”
He nodded, like he knew all about that. “You have Kessler?”
“No, Rosenberg.”
“She’s good.”
“I like the class.”
Another searing look brought the conversation to a halt. Ian glanced at the door as it opened, then said, “I heard you could get me something I need.”
Her smile disappeared under a wave of disappointment. “Did you?” she said, striving for a light tone.
“Yeah.”
“Like what?”
“E.”
“Not today,” she said.
“Pot?”
“Those are two drastically different chemical results in your body, Ian.”
“I like to cover all my bases. Help me out here. I’ve tried a couple of other guys, Brian Deluca and what’s his name, Sammy from Hamilton, but they were out.”
Sammy and Brian were the two other go-to guys on campus, and her competition, such as it was. Brian was set to graduate, and Sammy was lazy as hell, buying product mostly to be sure he had a constant supply for himself. Ian obviously knew his way around Lancaster College’s drug scene. “Okay. Meet me out back in five.”
Riva sidled past the line of people waiting for the restroom, opened the door into the alley, and stepped out into the cool October night. She leaned against the brick wall and inhaled deeply. The dumpster reeked of coffee grounds but the cool air kept the worst of the trash stench to a minimum.
The door opened again, and Ian stepped through. The light above the door cast stark shadows, hiding his face and eyes. Riva’s nerves jerked into high alert. He had angled himself so he stood between her and the doorway as well as the opening at the end of the alley.
“How much?”
She named her price, just wanting this over so she could get back to the business of asking him out.
“No problem,” he said, reaching into his front pocket.
She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a baggie containing an ounce of marijuana, waited while he thumbed through the cash in his wallet, then handed it over. She gave him the bag.
Without letting go, she reached into her messenger bag pocket and pulled out a pen, then turned his hand palm up and wrote her number on his palm.
“To save you the trouble of asking,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. This could still go either way, but either way, he’d need her number.
“That’ll come in handy,” he said.
Delighted, she grinned. He was gorgeous, all man, and obviously smart. The books lacked the used sticker, so the creases and scuffs were all his. No one read that stuff that frequently, for fun. “Call me anytime.”
He shoved the wallet into his jeans pocket, then reached behind his back. Steel glinted in the light over the door, and for a terrified split second she thought he’d pulled a knife on her.
A click echoed off the watching brick as he flipped the curved pieces of metal apart. It wasn’t a knife. It was a pair of handcuffs. “Riva Henneman, you’re under arrest.”