Which, of course, I am.

“Miss Hendricks?”

I freeze, then pivot slowly toward the voice. Mr. Weathersby is standing at the far end of the room, next to a whiteboard, and holding a dry-erase marker in one hand. Officer Rains is sitting at the head of the table with two other uniformed officers and a man in an expensive-looking suit.

And at the other end of the table is Smith.

His back is to me, but I know it’s him. His posture is ramrod straight—unnaturally straight. Like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“What a nice surprise,” Mr. Weathersby is saying, smiling at me. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Stepping into the room feels like breaching a battleground. I’m out here floundering, and hoping I can just give him the card and scurry back out before I get emotionally pummeled.

“I have this for you, sir,” I say, handing him the envelope. I try to ignore the fact that my voice is wobbly. “I wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done for me this semester.”

Mr. Weathersby gives a wave of his hand

“Of course, my dear—as I said to your advisor, I believe you’ll make a fantastic teacher.”

I smile nervously. “Thank you, sir.”

The room falls silent and Mr. Weathersby clears his throat.

“I never really got the chance to speak with you after the accident—of course, you’ll understand why we had to be discreet about Officer Asher’s presence here.”

I let my eyes flicker over to Smith.

Holy shit.

He’s wearing a fucking uniform.

Every fantasy I never realized I had about a police officer comes barreling through my brain all at once. His eyes meet mine and I force myself to school my expression. He looks so mature and sophisticated, and I want to smack myself for not realizing he wasn’t actually a student.

“Of course,” I say to Mr. Weathersby, but my words sound sort of hollow and far away. I need to get out of here.

“Well, anyway,” I say, backing out toward the door, “have a wonderful summer. I wish you the best.”

I’m pretty sure no one says anything to me after that, but I can’t be 100 percent positive because I literally dash out of the conference room, through the office, and back down the hallway. I bypass my old classroom, the library, the cafeteria. I just keep moving, pretending that I don’t see Smith’s face everywhere I turn. If I can just get out of here without bursting into tears, I promise myself that I will never have to see him again.

I didn’t realize having him face-to-face would feel like being set on fire from the inside out.

I’m ten feet from the door, ten feet from making my escape, when I hear him call my name.

“Hyacinth!”

I ignore him.

“Come on, hold up a second!”

I don’t want to. I want to keep running, but I know he’ll be faster than I am. Cops have to go through physical training, don’t they? And, besides, he’s in better shape than pretty much any man I’ve ever met, so I have no doubt my getaway attempt would be fruitless.

Breathing hard, I slow to a stop. My chest sort of aches and I’m winded and exhausted. My ribs are throbbing, and I wince as I hold a hand to them.

But I don’t turn around—I just wait for him to approach, which he does really slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll get spooked and run. It’s certainly tempting, but I manage to stand my ground, even after he’s next to me and I can feel his proximity like a physical force of nature.

“Hi.”

I close my eyes and nod tersely—my version of “hi” under the current circumstances.

“I called you,” he says.

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

In my periphery, I see him watching me. “Do you have anything to say now?”

Yes.

I want to say that I fucking hate you for putting me through what you’ve put me through.

And I want to say that I fucking love you, and that makes me hate you, too.

“No. I don’t have anything to say now.”

“Will you just look at me, Cyn? Please?”

I close my eyes. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

I turn to glare at him. “Because it hurts, Smith. Because it fucking hurts.”

He rocks back on his heels and a smile peeks out beneath his solemn expression.

“Well, you’re looking at me now.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, Officer, you win. Way to effectively dupe your witness.”

Smith flinches at that, then takes a step back from me.

“Look, I just want to talk to you.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Cyn . . .”

“No,” I snap. I begin to back away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You know what?”

Smith sort of growls, then moves right into my personal space.

“I don’t really care what you want to hear. I’ve called you a million goddamn times, and now I’ve got you standing in front of me, so you’re going to listen to what I have to say.”

I blink at him, steeling my gaze.

“Fine. You’ve got two minutes.”

He sniffs hard, then glances down the hallway.

“When I was at the academy, my brother was promoted to lead investigator for the BPD drug task force. They assigned him to the SRO position to help him weed out the drug deals in the high schools. When they realized that they couldn’t get very far with someone wearing a badge, they recruited me to join the undercover operation.

“The thing is,” he continues, scrubbing a hand over his face, “you were an unexpected element—I didn’t anticipate meeting you at Cave, but I really didn’t expect to see you here. When I did, I almost called off the whole investigation, but Eric convinced me to stick with it.”

I raise a brow. “So, he did know about us after all.”

Smith shrugs. “Sort of. He knew we’d met at the bar. He knew I cared about you.”

Cared. Past tense.

I swallow hard on the lump in my throat.

“So, you do have a high school diploma?”

His mouth lifts on one side. “Yeah. I was valedictorian of my class.”

I snort. “Of course you were.”

“What else don’t I know, then—are you really thirty years old? Do you have a wife or kids or a mortgage or some other secret that I’m completely in the dark about?”

He shifts to rest an arm on a nearby locker.

“No, I’m not thirty. I’m twenty-five. I graduated from the police academy last fall. No wife. No kids. I live with my brother in Catonsville, although I’m hoping that’ll change soon since he’s a total slob and snores like a boar.”

He smiles at me then and I look away.

“What about your dad?”

He sighs at that. “My dad is in jail, although it’s in Iowa, not here. I haven’t spoken to him in several years. Eric has basically been like my dad in most ways anyway. And my mom still struggles with drinking, but she’s working on it. It’s all I can really ask of her, I think.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod.

“Come on, Cyn,” he whispers. Slowly, he shuffles closer toward me until the only thing between us is breath. “I had to lie to you. I didn’t want to, but it was my job. And, in my own way, I was trying to keep you safe.”

I cross my arms, wishing they were stronger—strong enough to protect my heart. He sighs then and turns to lean his back against the locker.

“I can’t make you forgive me. And, you know what? Maybe you shouldn’t. But I’m going to ask you to, anyway.”

I meet his gaze then. “Why?”

He blinks a few times and then, before I can even breathe, he’s hovering over me. He reaches out and lets his thumb run along my jaw and drag down to my pulse point, which, as always, is throbbing at his nearness.

“Because I’ve never met anyone like you. You stand up for yourself and you fight for what you want. You seem shy, but you’re really fucking brave, and I see that in you.”

I can feel my lip tremble. When he dips even closer, I can feel his breath on my skin.