Martin did not want to cause trouble.
He told himself that repeatedly as he slid behind the wheel ,engine purring to life with a low, predatory growl. He told himself he was just making sure she got home safe. He told himself he was respecting her boundaries by keeping distance. He told himself he was not the kind of man who stalked women he cared about.
And then he followed the car anyway.
From a block back.
Lights off.
Wipers on slow.
Heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.
He kept telling himself it was only to see where she was going.
But deep down he knew the truth.
He was jealous.
Bone-deep, ugly, unfamiliar jealousy that tasted like bile and burned like acid.
He had never felt this before—not with Katherine, not with any woman in his life. Jealousy was for weaker men. For men who didn't know their worth. For men who could lose.
He had never lost.
Until Fiona.
