Being in the hired killer business means I've made friends in all the wrong places. It's necessary, though, and some of these people are just like me, trying to protect the ones we care about. 

Frankie is no different. 

She's a genius and had the CIA drooling over recruiting her because of how skilled she is at hacking information. But like me, Frankie prefers to work alone and to her own rhythm. One time, she checked into a mental hospital as a patient, just to free her boyfriend Pasqual. He was put in there against his will to silence him after being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and witnessing someone important murder another person. 

Frankie couldn't let him rot in there, so she did what had to, and for the last year, Pasqual has been hiding in her apartment. Not that it's some dump he's holding up in. No, Frankie owns an entire building with all the gadgets and tech a person could need. Like an Xbox, which Pasqual is currently using while sitting in his tighty whities with headphones on like a little boy so he can't overhear our conversation.

"Isn't Bishop your friend?" Frankie laughs. "You should know this!"

"We're not friends friends. We've done a handful of jobs together," I say. 

Like that time we got contracted for the same kill and had to sit on a target for three days. By the seventieth hour, we were bored, drunk off Mescal, and decided to play a game of dare. The dare being: can I snipe our target while she's giving me a BJ? The answer is, yes, yes I can. I also learned not to eat the damn worm or get drunk with Bishop because she will convince you to do crazy things!

Never again.

Never, ever again.

"Then you should know that Bishop is a Caruso," Frankie laughs. "Therefore, her brother is Mario Caruso and her daddy is—"

 "Carmine Caruso." I run my hand through my hair muttering a curse. "I'm so used to calling her Bishop that I forget that juicy nuance."

"So, if you want the deets on Mario, just ask her." Frankie shrugs.

"I would but..." I teeter my head. "I also want to know about her sister-in-law."

"Oh?" 

"I met her at Penthouse and overheard her friend say that Mario is abusive. You know I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress."

"Damn hero complex..." Frankie mutters. "Alright. I'll dig up what I can about Mario's record, but I gotta warn you: dirty cops know how to cover their tracks. So, it's likely that if the wife did file any charges, they got wiped."

"It's all good. Just give me whatever you can find."

"Speaking of what I can find." Frankie taps a folder on the coffee table. "These are the goods on Tony Giordano, your potential client. In there, you will also find information on the potential target. I gotta warn you though. This Ramsay guy is triggering. The stuff I found on him..." 

I furrow my brows and snatch the folder from the coffee table. "What did you find?"

"Let's just say, the guy is a pervert."

"I'd better read through this with some beer, then."

"Or antibacterial. The guy is scum." She holds her palm out and smiles. "Now, pay me."

"As if I'd leave here without doing that," I smirk and pull the money out of my wallet. 

It's always cash. Less of a chance to be traced that way. Frankie is expensive but worth every hundred-dollar bill for her work, and today's delivery cost me one thousand. So, it's a good thing I earn a comfortable living eliminating the miscreants of the earth. We say our goodbyes, and then I exit the building. One thing about Frankie's lair is that it's located in a not-so-great neighborhood. From the outside, her building looks like a place for homeless squatters, and it's meant to. No one ever looks this way since everyone around here minds their business. If you're too nosy or look like you don't belong, you're liable to have a gun pointed in your face. My Uber driver knows this, too, and peels away from the curb as soon as I hop inside his echo-friendly car. 

On the ride over to meet with Hazel, I skim through the folder with Tony's information. Frankie put together one hell of a package with photos, receipts, and Post-It notes outlining some of the findings to make it easier for me to refer back to. She's handy like that. So far, it appears Tony is clean, and his business is clean. Despite having an Italian name, he doesn't have ties to the mob, which is good. His wife is also clean, and the typical pampered housewife who hangs out at the country club drinking mojitos with other housewives. She and Tony have been married for ten years and he legally adopted her daughter. The biological dad is a deadbeat who spends every penny on snorting coke up his nose, with many failed rehab attempts. He lives in Florida.

As for Tony's business partner, Ramsay... I'll need to wait to dig into his portion of the package. Just one glance at his website search history was enough to let me know he has a thing for teenagers and I don't want to be queasy or infuriated around Hazel.

We finally pull up to the Ferry Plaza farmer's market on the Embarcadero, and I step onto the curb with a deep breath. The salty sea air fills my lungs with a chill, causing my spine to shiver. Water splashes against the pier where fat sea lions nap in the sun and seagulls squawk above. I'm rarely nervous, yet I have to wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. This place is filled with locals and tourists shopping for fresh offerings like fish, bread, and flowers. But, I'm after something sweet.

Like Hazel.

And for some reason, that makes me nervous. It's not like me to find married women attractive, but her eyes ensnared me the moment mine connected with hers. 

I thought we could meet somewhere private, but she wanted to meet here at the farmers market since there's enough people for us to camouflage ourselves in and not raise suspicion if she were spotted with me. I assured her that if anyone saw us, I'd pretend I was a friendly stranger making chit chat... even though my intrusive thoughts would whisper to pull her in closer. 

I have only come here a handful of times, so I have no idea where I'm going, but the destination is Blue Bottle Coffee. It takes a bit of wading through the Saturday crowd, and then I see her. Hazel's back is to me, yet she's like a lighthouse standing alone in the fog, glowing, and guiding me to land. 

Today she's wearing a turquoise blue sweater, which looks amazing against her sun-drenched mahogany skin. I think the sweater is cashmere because it has a subtle fuzziness to it and makes me want to snuggle into her and rub my face against the material like a purring cat, but that would be creepy. My gaze follows the light wash of her jeans as they curve around her perfect peach and down her legs to a pair of tan, pointy heels. 

I could drink her in all day.

"Hey, stranger," I whisper in her ear, and the scent of fruity hair wash fills my senses. It smells so delicious that I would eat Hazel if she let me.

"Hi." She steps back with a flinch, adjusting the strap of her purse which matches the color of her heels. 

I memorize these tiny details. 

Not because I'm a weirdo, but because they tell so much about a person. Like the shiny bangles on her wrist that clang as she sweeps a few corkscrew curls aside and tries to smile.

She's nervous.

It's adorable.

"So, what's your favorite coffee to order?" I ask.

"It depends..." Hazel adjusts her purse strap again. I'm guessing it's what she does to calm herself. "Today I'm in the mood for matcha."

"Matcha?" I repeat, my brows arching at the odd name.

"Yeah, it's green tea leaves ground into a fine powder and then whisked into hot water or milk," she explains, but I grimace, and she laughs. "It's yummy, I promise."

"Alright. Guess I'll try it."

"You don't have to."

A smile stretches across my lips as I lean in. "I want to."

We stare into each other's eyes for a few beats before Hazel's gaze drops, and she adjusts her purse strap. It breaks the invisible thread connecting our souls like internal compasses pointing toward one another. She walks to the counter to order and I release a low groan as my shoulders sag and I grip my chest. Am I asking for trouble? Absolutely, but I think this woman might be worth it.

I follow close behind her and fight the urge to hook my finger through one of her belt loops. I just want to touch her. Have our skin connect and pray that she feels the same internal combustion of fire as me. She orders two matcha lattes and insists on paying for mine since I went through the trouble of getting her necklace back.

And boy, did I go to great lengths.

I'd do it again in a heartbeat, though.

There aren't any tables for us to sit at, so we begin walking the Ferry Plaza, and I fish her necklace out of a small velvet bag I borrowed from my sister, Mara. Hazel's soft fingertips brush my calloused palm when she plucks it and I close my hand around hers. It causes her striking eyes to flash to me in confusion, but I don't mean any harm. I just needed to touch her. To connect. 

"It's an expensive necklace," I say, smiling. "Try not to lose it again. I don't know if I'll be able to come to your rescue a second time."

Oh, but I would.

"This is going right into the safe," she chuckles, and I gently pull away, releasing her hand from mine.

"So, what now?" I ask.

"Um... well..." She glances around, adjusting her purse. "I'm heading over to El Porteño Empanadas to buy pastries for my students."

"You're a teacher?" 

"Yes." She nods once. "I teach Spanish at Balboa High and an adult night school." 

"Bella y inteligente."

Hazel bites back a smile at my compliment of having beauty and brains and drops her gaze. "I... just love the language. I spent a year abroad in Spain and then backpacking through Latin America," she says. "Anyway, I should get going if I want to place an order and have it delivered on Monday."

"I'll walk with you."

"Um..." Hazel looks around again. 

"I'd like to try their empanadas. Maybe take some home to my parents."

"Alright." She adjusts her purse. "It's this way."

The place is a short walk, and with each step, there is a sense of hesitation in Hazel as her gaze darts around. It's as if she's alert, taking in the faces of strangers and hoping not to see a familiar one. To distract her from the quiet panic, I ask her which country in Latin America she enjoyed the most, and her face lights up as if a thousand warm memories have just rapid-fired in her brain.

"I can't pick only one. There are so many beautiful places. From the food to the people and the land..." she grins with a contented sigh. "It's not something you can describe. It's something you have to experience. Like Machu Picchu, for example. You hike for hours and when you finally reach the summit, it's like stepping into a magical realm—an ancient city in the mist that burns in your lungs. The crazy part is, it's not as old as other places. Like Chichen Itza, for example, which is another intricately designed place. These were ancient civilizations, yet they built these incredibly impressive cities with so much lore and purpose."

"I'm a little jealous," I say. "My family is Mexican, yet I've never seen the pyramids."

"Never?"

"Never." I rub the back of my neck with a little laugh. "I've only been to Cancún on spring break." 

"You're missing out." She shakes her head, smiling, and we stop in front of our destination. "They're incredible places and when you see them, it does something to you. It's one thing to see these ancient civilizations in photos, but in person..." She inhales a breath, her eyes beaming with memories. "You get to be a witness to some of the most remarkable architecture in human history, and here we are years later, still unable to figure out how they created them when we can't even replicate them with modern technology."

"You're very passionate about this," I chuckle, and trace the back of my finger down her soft, smooth cheek.

It catches Hazel off guard, and frankly, me too. I'm not an impulsive guy, yet my hands have developed a mind of their own, apparently. Hazel steps back, her brows furrowing as she adjusts her purse. 

"I'm married," she says.

"I know."

"It's not appropriate to touch me like that."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. I—"

"Thank you for returning my necklace. I should get going."

"Hazel, wait." I take her elbow, and she looks at me over her shoulder. "If you ever need my help again, I'm just a text or phone call away."

Her brows furrow again, but she turns to me. "Why would I need your help?"

"Because..." I hesitate for a few beats since this will either make or break our connection, but I have to try. "I overheard your conversation with your friend Natalie in the bathroom," I say, and Hazel steps back, but I keep going. "My sister was in an abusive marriage, so I know the signs, and if you ever need help, I will be there for you."

Hazel doesn't yank her arm from my grasp, but she does pull away and avoids eye contact. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," she says. "We are strangers and you're overstepping."

"I'll never apologize for overstepping boundaries if it means helping someone escape an abusive situation."

Her eyes flash to me. "Don't contact me again."

Then, she leaves my side and disappears into the crowd like sand slipping through my fingers, but I don't go after her. Hazel isn't ready to face the truth about her marriage. Most people in abusive relationships aren't because that would mean batterramming their world right open after trying so hard to convince themselves that the person they love is good underneath the abuse. 

However, we cannot love someone into changing their abusive behavior. No amunt of love in the world can do that. The same goes for victims of abuse. We can't force them to leave, but we can be supportive and wait for them to be ready when they need our help.

This is why it takes most women seven tries before they finally leave.

And those are the lucky ones.

Some women never get the chance because they end up six feet under.

So, I will wait for Hazel to reach out to me while also keeping a close eye on her, and I know she will reach out because my sister Lydia was once in her shoes. And the same way I dropped everything for Lydia when she finally asked for help, I will do the same for Hazel.

I just have to wait for her to be ready. So, it's a good thing I'm a patient man.