But the knowing she was afraid of lived up one flight of creaking stairs. Flat 2B. His flat.
Cameron. Cam.
Don’t, she told herself. You don’t do this. You don’t knock.
She could still feel the phantom heat of his palm on her lower back from three nights ago. They’d been arguing—something stupid about the last bag of salty chips from the market—and then suddenly they weren’t arguing. He’d gone still. That Celtic-grey stare of his had dropped to her mouth. And she’d felt it. That pull. The one Samantha Young writes about. The one that feels like the floor tilting and your lungs forgetting their job.
A quiet, rain-slicked street in a Dublin neighborhood, lined with Georgian townhouses that have been converted into flats. A small, 24-hour Turkish market sits on the corner—hence the nickname the locals gave the street years ago: Dublin Caddesi.
“You going to stand there all night, Joss? Or are you finally going to come up and tell me why you’re afraid of something that hasn’t even hurt you yet?”