She stared at him. “Cognitive sleep therapist.”
“Mmhmm,” he nodded, calm as ever.
“That’s not a real job.”
“Sure is.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Okay, then. Where do you work?”
“Freelance.” He crossed one long leg, still lounging, not a care in the world. “Mostly from home. Sometimes I consult.”
“You consult.”
“Correct.”
She tapped her pen against the clipboard so fast it might catch fire. “For whom? Pillow manufacturers?”
“No,” he said, as if considering it seriously. “But thank you for the suggestions.”
She scowled. “So let me get this straight. You, a freelance sleep consultant, thirty-two, lover of poetry and anything sleep related, come to the local library every day to research dreams because...?”
“Because libraries have the best energy.” His eyes met hers. “And this one has excellent staff.”
She cleared her throat. “Any history of criminal activity?”
“None that stuck.”
“That’s not comforting.”
He shrugged.
She fumed.
Because damn him, she wasn’t really getting anywhere. He couldn’t know about her, um, questionable relationship with sleeping and dreaming in general, and yet, wasn’t it odd that he had a working interest in the ugliest part of her life? She would totally chalk it up to coincidence if she believed in such.
But then again, why on earth would he care about that? And he didn’t ask, didn’t say a single damn thing. Only sat there, reading his books, and making her feel completely exposed.
No. She needed another angle. Another way to get him talking and tell her what he wanted with her. Something that could get him to slip, or snap, or maybe just to get rid of him. In a legal way, of course.
And then he spoke, and all she was thinking came to a full halt. “Want to get coffee later?”
“I—what?”
“You. Me. Coffee,” he repeated. “Nothing fancy. Small talk. You know, the thing where you ask me questions that don’t involve criminal background checks.”
“I can’t,” she said, too fast. “I have a class.”
“That’s okay,” he said smoothly. “I’ll come and wait for you.”
She blinked. “You don’t even know what kind of class it is.”
“I wouldn’t really care. I’d just be waiting for you.” He gave a half-smile. “One coffee. We talk. And then you can get rid of me. In a legal way.”
Her breath caught. There was no way he could have heard those words in her head.
That wasn’t possible.
Right?
