But her companion’s expression was concerned, not disgusted. He brushed her cheek with two fingers and said softly, “Want to get out of here?”

She nodded. If she tried to speak, she would fall apart.

“I live a couple of blocks away. We could go to my apartment. To talk.”

Her eyes met his then, and she felt that magnetic pull, the chemistry that had so surprised her. She had not planned for this connection, had not expected to feel what she was feeling. Ava’s advice flitted through her mind . . . Keep your distance. Protect your privacy. Set boundaries. She had to refuse Gabe’s invitation. It was wrong, no matter how right it felt. Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse.

“Okay,” she said.

15

The Sleepover

Nat was nestled in the back seat of the town car again, but this time, it was morning. Her smart phone told her it was 7:08, the sun hovering over the East River. Gabe’s strapping driver—she’d learned he was from Moldova, an Eastern European country bordered by Romania and Ukraine—was shuttling her back to Brooklyn. Their route would take them through Queens, Oleg informing her that this was the quickest route to Bushwick at this time of day. As she watched the drab scenery whisk by the window, everything painted with a patina of winter mud, she let her mind drift back to last night. To Gabe.

She had not intended to spend the night at his apartment (it was larger and even more luxurious than Ava’s, but distinctly masculine, a bachelor’s pad). She had gone there to talk, and they had. This man, this virtual stranger, now knew everything about her: her father’s abandonment, her stepdad’s resentment, her ex-boyfriend’s creepy obsession. Gabe knew that the police—all the adults in Nat’s life—had dismissed Cole as an innocuous teenager in love. But Gabe knew that Nat was afraid of Cole. And he knew that the boy was in New York.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he’d assured her. “I have ways of dealing with these nuisances.” When he’d leaned in and kissed her, she had let him. At first, out of gratitude, and then, from true passion. Nat had never thought she could be physically attracted to a much older man, but she had never met a man like Gabe Turnmill. He was sophisticated, suave, and, as she had just found out, a little bit dangerous.

A small smile curled her lips as she remembered the taste of his lips, the scent of his neck, his hands in her hair. She’d enjoyed kissing him so much that she’d allowed him to lead her to his bedroom. But she’d stopped in the doorway, suddenly afraid, overwhelmed. Kissing was one thing; sex with a much older man, a man who was paying her, was quite another.

“It’s okay,” he’d said, “I just want to hold you.” It may have been naive, but she’d believed him. And when he’d offered her a large gray T-shirt to sleep in, had worn a T-shirt and boxers himself, she began to relax. They’d crawled into the queen-size bed together, he’d wrapped her in his arms and then, with her head on his chest, she’d slept. Warm. Safe. Protected.