Chapter 2 Secrets, Sweatpants, and Close Calls

Emily wasn't okay.

She told herself she was. Repeated it like a mantra as she stepped back from Nick's chest, cheeks flushed, heart drumming like it was trying to punch its way out of her ribs.

But she absolutely, undeniably, was not okay.

"Thanks," she muttered, grabbing the box from the floor without meeting his eyes.

Nick tilted his head, watching her carefully. "You sure you're not hurt?"

"I bounce well," she said, retreating into her room before she did something truly idiotic-like trace the sharp line of his jaw or ask why the hell he was always half-naked around the apartment.

She shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and exhaled.

Roommate rule number one: Thou shall not thirst after the hot mystery man who shares your bathroom.

Too late.

---

The next morning, Emily emerged from her room ready to face another shift at the bookstore. Her uniform polo was wrinkled, her eyeliner slightly uneven, and her mood-decidedly unromantic.

Until she saw him again.

Nick, in a fitted black tee, sipping coffee and scrolling through his phone. Still barefoot. Still too perfect. Still bad for her health.

"Morning," he said without looking up.

She grunted in response and headed for the coffee machine.

"Rough night?" he asked, glancing at her in the reflection of the microwave door.

"You mean the one where I almost broke my neck and had an accidental face-to-abs experience with my shirtless roommate? Yeah. Super restful."

Nick smirked. "Could've been worse."

"Yeah? How?"

"You could've landed on top of me. Then we'd both be in traction."

Emily nearly choked on her coffee. "Oh my God."

He chuckled, clearly entertained. She grabbed a banana from the counter just to give herself something to do that didn't involve looking at his annoyingly symmetrical face.

"I'll be back late," she said as she shoved the fruit into her bag. "We're doing inventory tonight. Should be fun-if your definition of fun is counting used cookbooks for six hours."

Nick nodded, lips twitching. "I'll try not to burn the place down in your absence."

"You say that like it's a regular concern."

"Depends on the day."

---

That Night

Emily returned just after 11 p.m., feet aching and back stiff. She kicked off her shoes and shuffled into the apartment, expecting silence.

Instead, she heard soft music-jazz, of all things-and caught the faint scent of lemon and basil.

And Nick, again, shirtless in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove.

"Are you trying to kill me?" she asked from the hallway.

He glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "Cooking pasta. Not murder."

"You could've warned me you're a domestic god, too."

"I like to eat," he said simply. "And I figured you'd come home starving."

She was. But she wasn't about to let him know that.

"So you cook and code. Any other surprises I should know about?"

Nick grabbed two plates from the cupboard. "I don't like surprises."

That... felt like a statement with weight. But before she could ask more, he slid a plate across the counter.

"Eat, Lawson. You look like you fought a war with a barcode scanner."

She rolled her eyes but took the plate. "Thanks. And you can drop the last-name thing. It's very spy movie of you."

He gave her a crooked smile. "Fine. Emily."

Her name sounded different from his lips. Like it had a secret in it.

They ate in companionable silence, the tension from earlier replaced by something more grounded. Something almost... normal.

Until her curiosity got the best of her.

"So," she began carefully, "you still haven't told me what you're running from."

Nick paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Who said I'm running?"

"You said you needed to disappear. That usually means someone's chasing you."

He looked at her then, eyes dark and unreadable.

"There's a difference between running and walking away," he said.

"Sure," she replied. "One looks casual. The other looks scared."

He didn't laugh this time. Just went back to eating like he hadn't dropped a cryptic bomb in the middle of their midnight pasta party.

Emily let it go-for now.

---

The Next Day

The universe had jokes.

Big ones.

Because when Emily arrived at the bookstore that morning, a sleek black car was parked outside, and two sharply dressed men in suits were standing by the entrance, checking their watches.

She slipped past them, trying to stay invisible. But as soon as she reached the register, her boss-Kendra-waved her over with wide eyes.

"Do you know who those men are?" Kendra whispered. "They've been waiting for over twenty minutes."

Emily frowned. "Security detail?"

"No. They're from Hale Enterprises."

Emily's blood ran cold.

"Hale?" she repeated slowly.

"Yeah! You know-the mega tech company that just opened its new HQ downtown. Billionaire founder. Total recluse. Never seen in public. But apparently, he sent his team here to pick up a special order."

Kendra handed Emily a slip of paper.

And there it was.

Recipient: Nicholas Hale.

Her brain stalled.

Hale. As in Nick Hale?

Her Nick? The hoodie-wearing, pasta-making, jazz-listening roommate?

There was no way. No. Freaking. Way.

But her gut said otherwise.

He'd been too smooth. Too quiet. Too careful.

And now, two guys in suits were standing ten feet away, waiting for a book order placed by someone who might just be the CEO of a billion-dollar company pretending to be a broke tech freelancer.

Emily forced a smile as she rang up the purchase, then watched the suits disappear back into their sleek black car.

By the time her shift ended, she wasn't sure if she wanted to confront him or scream.

But one thing was clear:

Nicholas Hale was hiding a hell of a lot more than just six-pack abs.