He drank deeply, completely oblivious to the temperature dropping in the room. By morning, the humming would stop. And the stranger he had been hiding behind his charming veneer would finally step out into the harsh daylight.
The scent of stale espresso hit me before I even reached the bottom of the staircase.
I tightened the belt of my silk robe, padding barefoot across the chilled hardwood floors. The house was usually silent at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday, but a low murmur of voices drifted from the kitchen. It wasn’t the casual chatter of a weekend morning; it was the hushed, tactical whispering of a staging area.
I rounded the corner. Jason stood by the sprawling, white Carrera marble kitchen island. He was already dressed in a crisp, powder-blue button-down shirt, tucked immaculately into dark denim. His jaw was locked tight, his posture rigid.
He was not alone.
