Chapter 4

The apartment wasn’t mine, and neither was the man sitting on my couch. That was the point. I’d picked the place for its sterility—floor-to-ceiling windows, white oak floors, furniture that looked like it had been arranged by a realtor with a grudge against comfort. It was the kind of space that made people feel watched, and I liked that. It kept them honest. Or, in Theo’s case, it kept him trying to figure out which version of himself I wanted to see.

He was trying to look relaxed. One arm draped over the back of the dove-gray sofa, the other resting on his knee, fingers drumming a rhythm that wasn’t quite casual. His shirt was the same shade of blue as the bruise on his knuckles—the one he’d gotten two nights ago when he’d punched a brick wall outside my building. For effect, I assumed. Or maybe he’d just needed to feel something. Men like Theo were always chasing a feeling.