It’s not a fucking date.
Elaine’s already there when I walk in, jacket slung over the back of her chair, one heel hooked on the rung like she owns the place. The low amber light paints her skin in warm edges, and for a second, I forget how to move.
She’s halfway through a drink, something dark, with ice catching the light, and there’s a second glass in front of the empty seat.
“You’re late,” she says, not looking up right away. When her gaze does find mine, it skims over the blazer, the cami, the jeans, and lands on my shoes. The corner of her mouth tilts like she’s saving an image for later.
“I’m exactly on time,” I say, sliding into the seat.
“Mm. That’s late when I’ve been waiting.” She nudges the extra glass toward me. “Figured you wouldn’t want to waste minutes ordering.”
I take a sip. It’s exactly what I would’ve picked. “And what if I hated it?”
Elaine’s smile is small, sharp. “You won’t.”
And damn her, she’s right.
We go over the basics at first, places, the scraps of proof we’ve already got. Her handwriting is slanted and quick as she makes notes, the pen tapping against the table when she’s thinking.
At some point, I realize I’m watching her more than the paper.
She catches it without calling me out, just lets her gaze lift from the page long enough to hold mine. “You’re distracted,” she says. It’s not a question.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She leans back, one arm draped over the back of the booth, the other still holding the pen. “You think I can’t tell the difference between someone plotting and someone staring?”
My mouth opens, closes. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm.” The pen spins between her fingers. “You like that about me.”
I want to argue. Instead, I take another sip of the drink she ordered and force myself back to the point. “We need a timeline. It's been a little over two years; his contract’s ending, and he’ll be back in Arizona soon. That’s when we hit him.”
Her smirk eases into something steadier. “Two years is a long time to collect knives.”
“And we’ll use every one of them,” I say.
For a moment, we just look at each other across the table, the weight of what we’re building thick in the air. But under it—or maybe tangled up in it—there's something else. Something I can’t name.
Elaine breaks it first, glancing down at the notes. “Alright, Widow. Let’s ruin a man.”
We step out of the booth and into the heat that clings to Agave Hills even after dark. The air smells faintly of jasmine from the planters lining the patio, and I swear it’s stronger when she walks past me.
Elaine adjusts the strap of her bag, glancing toward the parking lot. “You gonna make me walk to my car alone after all this scheming?”
“I’m not an animal,” I say, falling into step beside her.
She doesn’t rush, doesn’t bother with the usual small talk people fill silences with. It’s comfortable, in a way that shouldn’t be, given that our shared hobby is planning my husband’s destruction.
At her car, she leans against the door, keys dangling from her fingers. “You’re getting good at this,” she says.
“At ruining lives?”
“At letting yourself enjoy it.” Her smile tilts like she knows exactly where that lands.
I should turn away, get in my car, and drive home. Instead, I find myself resting a hand against the roof of hers, just long enough for her eyes to flick to the space between us.
The moment stretches.
