Chapter 2 - The Sound of Footsteps
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The screen went dark in her hand, but the words burned behind her eyelids.
Vivien set the phone down against the cold granite counter, her palms slick with cold sweat.
Across the street, the driver’s side door of the gray sedan pushed open against the autumn wind.
Ryan Gallagher stepped out, pulling down the hem of his dark jacket.
He didn't rush.
He walked with the relaxed, heavy confidence of a man who wore a badge and believed the city belonged to him.
The little brass bell above the shop’s glass door chimed, sharp and bright.
Sarah glanced up from trimming fern fronds at the back workbench, her scissors pausing mid-air.
“Afternoon, Detective,” Sarah said, her voice naturally polite and oblivious.
“Afternoon, Sarah,” Gallagher replied, his voice smooth and easy.
He didn't look at Sarah; his eyes locked directly onto Vivien like crosshairs.
Vivien pulled her knit sleeve lower over her left wrist, burying her fingers in the green fabric of her florist apron.
“Busy afternoon, Vivien,” Gallagher said, stopping right on the other side of the counter.
His leather holster creaked faintly beneath his unzipped jacket.
The scent of stale diner coffee and damp tobacco rolled off him, suffocating the sweet perfume of crushed lilies and damp soil.
“It’s Tuesday,” Vivien managed, her voice remarkably level despite the terror fluttering in her throat.
“Orchid day.”
“Right,” Gallagher murmured, tapping the polished wooden rim of the register with a clipped thumbnail.
“Mr. Big Shot himself.”
“You looked cozy over that counter.”
“I gave him his receipt and the orchid care card,” Vivien said, meeting his hard blue eyes without blinking.
“The same card we give every client who buys exotic stems.”
Gallagher leaned forward, his knuckles pressing into the wood until the joints turned white.
His breath brushed her forehead, warm and sour.
“I told you before, sweetheart,” he whispered, his tone dropping below Sarah’s hearing range.
“I don't like you making personal small talk with men who belong in federal indictments.”
“It looks bad for you.”
“And when you look bad, your little brother looks worse.”
The mention of Daniel struck like a fist to her ribs.
Vivien felt the blood drain from her face.
“Daniel has midterms this week, Ryan,” she whispered back, pleading through clenched teeth.
“He hasn't done anything.”
“He’s got an open possession file sitting in the middle drawer of my desk at the precinct,” Gallagher countered with a cold, lazy smile.
“Whether that file moves to the county prosecutor’s desk or into the shredder depends entirely on your attitude.”
He reached out, his thumb casually grazing the collar of her sweater, tracing the hollow of her throat.
Vivien suppressed a shudder, refusing to pull away because pulling away always made his temper snap.
“I get off shift at eight,” Gallagher said softly, tapping her chin with his knuckle.
“I’ll be at your apartment by eight-thirty.”
“Have dinner ready.”
“And wear that black dress I bought you.”
He straightened his jacket, turned toward the rear of the shop, and gave Sarah a brief, charming two-finger salute.
“Keep her out of trouble, Sarah.”
“Always do, Detective,” Sarah called back with a light laugh.
The bell chimed again as Gallagher stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Vivien watched him cross the street, enter his car, and start the engine.
He didn't drive away; he put the car in park, lit a cigarette, and settled back in to watch her through the tinted glass.
Vivien gripped the edge of the sink behind the counter, her breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps.
Sebastian Cross hadn't done anything.
He had taken the note, walked to his car, and driven off to his penthouse or his shipping docks without looking back.
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Why would a billionaire underworld boss risk an entanglement with a dirty cop for an anonymous florist who sold him ninety-dollar orchids once a week?
She had traded one nightmare for another, and now the clock was ticking down to eight-thirty.
