Page 46 of Wild Card 13

This was a terrible idea.

Objectively.

Professionally.

Possibly medically.

Inside the office, Bea's laugh drifted through the partially open doorway. A second later Freya said something I couldn't make out, followed by another burst of laughter.

Lucy laughed too.

I froze. For one stupid second, I was seventeen again. Standing in the hallway outside biology. Waiting for her to finish packing her bag because she somehow managed to fit three thousand pounds of books into a backpack designed for normal human beings.

My grip tightened around the coffee cup. The memory evaporated as quickly as it came. Because seventeen-year-old Lucy would've smiled when she saw me.

Twenty-five-year-old Lucy had written me up before she'd said hello. The thought smacked like a body check all over again.

I shifted my weight and stared through the glass.

She sat behind her desk. A coffee cup near her elbow. A massive bouquet of flowers occupied the center of the workspace beside an oversized pink bakery box tied with gold ribbon. Her glasses rested low on her nose while she listened to whatever Freya was saying.

My eyes snagged on the flowers immediately. Big. Expensive. The kind of arrangement somebody didn't send by accident.

A stupid, ugly flash of irritation hit me before common sense could catch up.

Who the hell was sending Lucy flowers?The thought was ridiculous.None of my business.

And yet my jaw tightened anyway. Because apparently seeing her again had reverted me straight back to the possessive idiot I'd been at seventeen.

Her attention shifted toward Bea and a smile tugged briefly at the corner of her mouth.

The irritation got worse.

Fantastic. This seemed healthy.

She looked exactly the same. And yet nothing like the girl I'd spent the last eight years trying to forget.

The same eyes. The same mouth. The same way she tucked loose strands of hair behind one ear when she was distracted. But everything else felt sharper. Like she'd built walls around herself while I was away.

The weirdest part wasn't her. It was the office.

I looked around the space. There was nothing. No photos. No drawings. No plants. No stacks of books. No evidence that Lucy Thomas actually existed inside the room. Just a desk. A computer. A few organizational binders. A neutral lamp. Corporate artwork hanging on the wall that could've belonged to literally anyone.

The place looked as if she'd wandered in an hour ago and might disappear again by lunch.

Lucy had never done anything halfway. Not her room growing up. Not school. Not life. There should've been sketchbooks. There should've been coffee mugs she was emotionally attached to for no logical reason. There should've been pens organized in weird little containers. Plants she was constantly trying to keep alive. Tiny pieces of herself everywhere.

Instead the room felt borrowed. A space she occupied. Not a space she belonged to.

Inside, Bea glanced toward the glass. Our eyes met. Because of course they did. The woman made a living reading people. Her gaze flicked from me to Lucy. Back to me again. Then she sighed. Like she was watching a train derail in real time.

I narrowed my eyes.

Bea's mouth twitched.

Freya followed her gaze a second later. The physical therapist looked straight through the glass and grinned. I knew that grin. That was a problem grin. A second later she pointed directly at me.

Fantastic.Exactly what I needed.Three women discussing me like I wasn't standing six feet away.