The story questioned the death of Liam Ballard, a scientist who was killed when his private lab was destroyed by a fire. No traces of any combustible materials were found, nor were any accelerants. The building had just passed a fire inspection. His home and several outbuildings, also located on the property, were not damaged. No one else was injured.

My skin prickled as I continued reading. After a lengthy investigation by authorities, the case was closed due to lack of evidence. There was no logical explanation for the fire.

A knock sounded at the front door, and I practically jumped out of my skin.

I exited to the search results page and hurried to answer, stopping for a quick check in the mirror. Opening the door, I found Michael, looking sheepish and holding a bouquet of fragrant zinnias.

“An apology,” he said, holding out the flowers. “You will explain how you did that. Soon.”

I reached out to take the flowers, and our fingers touched. Electricity sizzled, and I pulled away quickly.

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.” I gave him a look, before spinning on my heel and walking toward the kitchen. I was glad he couldn’t see my face—I knew I was blushing. Since my back was to him anyway, I stuck my nose in the bouquet and inhaled the sweet fragrance, creating a scent memory.

I’d never gotten flowers from a boy before.

“This place is amazing,” he said. Directly behind me, his footsteps echoed off the hardwood floor.

“Thanks. Dru is an excellent decorator. She loves to have a project. And now she and Thomas have a new one.” I made a hand motion indicating a bun in the oven before taking a crystal vase from a shelf and placing it in the sink to fill it with water, grateful I could concentrate on a task.

“Tell them I said congratulations.” He leaned back against the counter beside the sink, watching me. “That’s amazing news, especially for two people who seem to be as in love as they are.”

“They’re lucky they found each other,” I said, looking up at him.

“Yes, they are.” Focused on each other, the only sound in the room was the water flowing from the running faucet.

I broke the stare, shifting my attention back to the vase before it overflowed. “I’m supposed to tell you that you can take loft number two. But it doesn’t come cheap. I hope helping little old me pays well.”

“For you, I’d work pro bono.”

“For me?” I bit my lip, turning off the water before looking up at him again.

“You’re special.”

“That all depends on your definition of special.”

His answering smile was slow and deliberate. I stared at his mouth for a few brief seconds before giving myself a mental pinch and shoving the flowers haphazardly into the vase. “Thanks again. Zinnias are my favorite,” I said, after clearing my throat.

Twice.

“I’m glad you like them,” he said, his smile growing softer. “They made me think of you.”

More staring at his mouth.

Geez a lou.

I scooped up the flowers, and he followed me to my room, taking a seat in my recently vacated chair. I’d just finished clearing a space on my dresser when he spoke my name.

“Emerson?”

“Yes,” I answered absentmindedly, concentrating on arranging the fragrant blossoms so that the taller ones were in the back.

“Why were you doing a search on Liam Ballard?”

The tone of his voice sent chills up my spine. I stopped fiddling and answered cautiously, watching him through the mirror. “Because he’s the founder of the Hourglass?”

Maybe I caused some kind of brain damage when I flipped him over my shoulder. His expression changed, moving from concern to anger in the split second the word Hourglass was uttered.

“Michael?” I turned around. He was just as frightening face-to-face as he was in the reflection, his brown eyes almost black, his full lips flattened into a thin line. “What—”

He interrupted me. “How did you find Liam’s name?”

“It came up in an article about the Hourglass and Bennett alum—”

“What else did you find when you searched him?” The question sounded more like an accusation, his tone stone cold. I didn’t know this Michael.

I didn’t like this Michael.

“That he”—I paused, forcing my voice to stay level—“that he died in a fire.”

He stood and crossed the room in a few long strides. I took an uncertain step back, my spine bumping uncomfortably against the dresser.

Speaking each word distinctly, he leaned over and looked into my eyes. “You need to mind your own business.”

I swallowed the baseball-sized lump in my throat. “Why does that sound like a threat?”

“It’s a warning,” he said, placing his hands on the dresser. His forearms bumped against my shoulders. I was glad I was wearing a T-shirt instead of a tank top. I didn’t think his bare skin touching mine would be helpful in a situation like this. “Forget Liam Ballard.”

“Why?” I asked breathlessly, feeling caged in, trapped by his stare as much as his arms.

“Just do,” he answered, authoritative and dismissive, his voice as hard as steel. “I’ll handle the Hourglass. Trust me.”

“Sorry, boss,” I said, making the jump from scared to angry. “I don’t generally believe people who have to tell me to trust them.”

“You need to this time.”

Michael held still, his face close to mine. Gold flecks mixed with the dark brown of his eyes. His skin was flawless, smooth, with just a hint of stubble I wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t a whisper away. It could have been a lovely position, if I wasn’t so mad I was vibrating.

“Emerson?” The question sounded more like a plea.

“Fine,” I snapped, making my decision. “Now back up.”

He pulled away from me, his eyes searching my face. I wondered if he could see my pulse pounding in my throat. I could feel it. I needed to think, and when he was close to me, thinking was impossible.

“Please don’t misunderstand … I’m only trying to …” With his fingertips still on the edge of the dresser, he closed his eyes, struggling with his words.

Seeing an escape, I ducked under his arm. There were some advantages to being short. “Trying to what? Scare me? Piss me off?”

“I didn’t mean to do either of those things.” He pushed away from the dresser to face me. “I’m so—”

“Stop.” I cut him off before he could say anything else. “Whether you meant to or not, you did. And now you should probably go.”

I didn’t want to hear an apology. I just wanted him out.

Our eyes met again, and unspoken words hung in the atmosphere. His face was a strange mix of emotions—the set of his mouth angry, his expression regretful.

“Was there something else?” I asked, and then held my breath. He shook his head and left my bedroom without saying another word.

The front door to the loft opened and closed before I exhaled.

Chapter 11

Michael moved in the next day.

I could hear him shuffling things around next door. The walls of the building were well insulated, but the weather was crisp and sunny, and we had both opened our windows. The loft Dru gave him shared a bedroom wall with mine.