Page 25 of Freefall

I stare up at all six whatever feet of him, corded muscles straining against his black shirt as he crosses his arms in front of his barrel chest.

“Oh, I…” It all happens so fast. My feet move of their own accord, carefully stepping backward until my back hits the wall behind me. At the same time, the man’s hand shoots out to grab my arm.

Except there wasn’t a wall behind me a second ago.

I look down, and that’s when I see it. A hand securely fastened to my hip. Long, thick fingers that very much do not belong to the security guard who is still holding onto my arm.

“I’ve got it from here, Mark.” His voice, commanding yet calm, leaves no room for argument, yet for some reason, Mark takes it upon himself to argue.

“I think she snuck in, sir,” he says. “She was acting weird and then tried to run from me.”

“I said I’ve got it.” This time, the earlier calmness gives way to irritation as he shifts his body, pulling me closer with the hand that’s still on my hip. “Let. Go.”

Mark drops my arm like it stung him, and I instinctively bring it up to rub at the redness his grip caused.

The moment Mark takes a step back, I feel a rush of air behind me as if Nate had been holding his breath. Before I can even catch my own, I’m being spun around to face him. “What are you doing here?”

“I—we need to talk.”

He sighs, running a hand through his styled hair—not the hand that’s still on my hip because that one has yet to move.

“Okay,” he whispers, looking around the workspace where several people have stopped mid-typing and are now staring at the three of us. “Come here.”

He guides me toward the hallway with the private offices, and when we finally reach the one with the shades drawn, he lets go of me, the warmth of his palm leaving goosebumps in its wake. He takes a seat behind a large desk, with—you guessed it—multiple computer screens, and gestures for me to sit at one of the two chairs opposite it.

“I told you I don’t have anything to say to you.” His voice slices through the air despite its low volume. He’s leaning back in his chair now, his sleeves rolled up, like they were that day at the beach.

“You know,” I say, mustering every ounce of bravado I can. “I didn’t take you for a liar, Nate.”

He cocks his head to the side, a slightly sadistic laugh slipping free from his lips in that way it used to when he would tease me—torment me.

You look like you want to come, baby.

Liquid heat pools low in my belly at the memory as all the smugness drains from my body. How can one little laugh render me completely helpless?

He leans forward, cupping his hands together. “What exactly did I lie about?”

His tone isn’t sarcastic. It’s not even angry. It’s more disappointed than anything else, like I’m sitting in the principal’s office and he’s asking me why I decided it would be a good idea to paint a self-portrait on my desk. Which I realize is oddly specific.

I sit up straighter, faking the confidence that flew out of the large black-framed window overlooking the downtown area the moment I heard that dark chuckle.

He can watch everyone else, but no one gets to see him.

I guess not much has changed.

“Emory is your sister.”

His right hand is on the desk now, palm flat. He slides it down the length, tapping twice on the wood with his index finger before letting it fall to his side. “I never said she wasn’t.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You⁠—”

“Why did you really come here, Harper?”

“Because… we need to talk,” I say, parroting my earlier words.

“You said that already.”

God, nothing gets past him.