“Apparently.”
“Brought the sarcasm, though.”
“Never leave home without it.”
“Speaking of…” I look at my menu without reading a word. “Where did you say that was, exactly?”
“Not Harley Cove.”
“Apparently,” I snap, with it my turn to be smug as I hold out my hand. “Let me see your driver’s license.”
Ha! Got him.
Rhys digs into his back pocket and produces a black wallet. He pulls out a license and hands it over.Fuuuck. There it is, plain as day, his photo wearing the clothes he has on now, with his information listed beside it.
Date of Birth: 06/28/1995
Name: Rhys Ravenstone.
Address: 704 Laroux Avenue, Harley Cove, Pennsylvania 18431
Expires: 06/29/2028
Issued: 06/28/2024
Sex: Male
Height: 6’ 5”
Shaking my head, I read those lines three more times, focusing on the issue date—which is today. Then I sit there staring at his photo for way too long before dragging my gaze back to him. This is insane. Absolutely wild. And when I finally fling the license back at him, I whisper, “This can’t be happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because magic doesn’t exist.” And if it does, it doesn’t happen to me.
Ana returns in record time with a menu, coffee, and water. “Here you go. I’ll give you a few more minutes. If you need me,call out to me.” She spins around on the heel of her sensible white shoes. “Um, maybe a little wave instead. It’s loud in here.”
She’s still flustered. Again, can’t blame her. Rhys is intimidating and stunning, and under different circumstances, I’d be a drooling mess because heismy ideal man. I created him, after all, from scratch.
Jesus Christ, this is absurd. Insane. Fucking wild…
And undeniably happening.
“I’ve got breakfast,” I offer because the scent of last night’s rain clinging to him is bothering me.
Rhys switches from relaxed to tense quick as a whip. It’s like a strike of lightning down his spine, with his jaw setting and a little flex at the joint. And his eyes… My gawd, the edge in them is lethal. His pride is almost tangible when he grinds out, “Thank you.”
I’m no expert in men, but it doesn’t take a genius to know those two simple words of gratitude cost him much more than whatever I’ll pay for this food. And when we place our order, I expect a man of his size to get a hungry-man-sized meal. Nope. Two eggs over, a side of bacon, and wheat toast (hold the butter).
I order the same, and we eat mostly in silence because he’s not a talker. Only when I can’t take the awkward silence one second longer do I break it with questions I might regret asking.
“So, tell me, Rhys Ravenstone, do you have a family? A job?”
“No family.” He leans back and extends his tattooed arm across the back of the bench. One corner of his mouth tugs up in a mockery of a grin. “And you gave the job.”
Assassin.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a hot second, my stomach doing a nauseating spin. When I pop my eyes open, I whisper, “But you never actually killed anyone.”
