Sometimes that’s worse.
I park a few blocks down, in a little public lot. Then I climb out and make my way back, cross the street and duck inside—warm air thick with cigarette smoke and the deep salty aromas of spitting sausage and omelets and maybe even blood pudding—and order a pint at the bar. I don’t look around, just put on a meek little smile and find myself a corner by an open window.
It’s verging on afternoon and soon the shadows will multiply and fold outward, enveloping town in bitter dark, pre-winter frost. I’d like to be home by then, safely tucked away in bed with a glass of red wine and a phone call from the girls. I’m debating going to the bathroom, just to get a discreet case of the place, when someone pulls out the stool next to me and takes a seat.
I turn, but don’t bother feigning surprise. I knew—somehow I knew, maybe the prick behind my ears or the sharp squeal of wheels on wet asphalt early this morning—that they were watching me. Watching Liam, more like. But of course, if their shit is with him, that makes me valuable.
Connor O’Brien is better-looking in person, with a sharp-incisored and disarming smile, and deep, Irish green eyes. He wears a snug wool coat the color of charcoal, and his brassy curls are swept back from his forehead, giving him an effortless, windswept look.
“Don’t make me ask,” he says, and I’m surprised at the timbre of his voice. He gazes out the window, one elbow on the bar, that amused smile still broad on his lips. “I hate cliches.”
I stare at him, heart pounding faster than I’d like to admit. I force myself to speak evenly, to look at him and nowhere else. “I don’t mind a good one, once in a while. Try me.”
His eyes flash. “What’s a girl like you…”
“Ah. See, I said agoodone.”
“You did.” He shifts to rest his chin on his hand, gazing at me inscrutably, smile never faltering. “Alexis Rynne. They told me you were a looker, but, Jesus. That cute photo they have of you on the paper directory really doesn’t do you justice.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. Of course, if they’ve been watching me, they know where I work. They know about Liam.
They know about the girls.
And suddenly, with the force of a truck, it hits me that this was inevitable: this meeting, this moment, this path. A little furtive current of pride goes through me—ha, I made the first move, in my own way—but it fizzles instantly. I don’t have a read on Connor, the way his deep green eyes glitter as they appraise me, the way his smile remains so effortless and cool. I don’t like that I can’t read him.
Predictable.The word snaps up in me like steel against flint. Connor strikes me as a guy who doesn’t likepredictable.
I cock my head back at him. “Neither did your profile photo. Didn’t quite nail those eyes.”
Connor laughs, a sharp, surprised sound, and gestures over one shoulder to the bartender across the room. I take that instant to observe: the guy by the door, two by the back exit, one outside, smoking by a parking meter, another shooting pool. They’re all watching us, all with discreet lolling glances and shrugged shoulders.
There’s no way in hell I can run from this. I have to stay and fight it out, whatever the fuck that means. I quickly polish off the rest of my beer, weirdly grateful when a waitress drops another pair.
“To chance meetings,” says Connor, extending his glass.
I clink mine against his. “To predestiny.”
We drink, holding eyes, and put down our beers. “So. Lexie, right? Whatisa girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Let’s ask them.” I tip my chin toward a few of Connor’s guys, the ones by the back exit, who are busy chatting and rolling cigarettes on a high table. “Or maybe them?” I indicate the guy smoking outside, who quickly averts his eyes when we look. “I mean, they’re the ones that have been following me, right? I’m sure they’ve got a good idea why I’m here.”
Connor chuckles. “Yeah but they’re not after you, sweetheart. It’s Liam they’re interested in.”
“And you? Are you interested in Liam?”
“I’m interested in sound investments. I’m a numbers guy.” He shrugs, like he’s stating something very obvious and boring. “Liam’s a threat to an investment.”
“Yeah, onlythatinvestment isn’t really that sound, is it? Or do you think Jockey’s a ‘numbers guy’, too?”
Connor’s eyes go wary and shrewd. For the first time, the corners of his smile drop. “And what do you know about Jockey?”
Ah. Gotcha.I gaze out the window, trailing my fingers through the condensation on my glass. “You know why hunting dogs aren’t leashed?”
Connor watches me, I see him in my periphery. He says nothing.
“Because they know what their job is. When the hunter hits something, they retrieve it. If they’re on the leash, how are they supposed to run out into the bog and get the duck? How can they bring back the hunter’s hard-earned game if they can’t move?”
I tip my head and look at Connor, my gut pitting when I find his smile utterly erased and his pretty eyes narrowed. Again, he’s silent.
