“She’s lying,” Rylan cut in smoothly, reaching for the wine.
Natalie’s brows drew together, her head turning sharply toward him.
To Tom, he said, “You already know about the incident in the parking garage last week,” he told Tom, pouring the Sauvignon Blanc.“Natalie didn’t report it because the police brushed her off as crazy or emotional after the break-in at her house.”
Her wide eyes narrowed on him, the flicker of anger giving way to a flash of irritation.“I… You don’t need to tell him about my issues.I can handle this myself—”
“You’re not handling it,” Rylan countered evenly, sliding her a glass of wine.His gaze didn’t waver.“Someone tried to kill you and you didn’t report it.We’ve been working with the police to track the vehicle, but so far, the traffic cameras haven’t yielded anything.”
Her fingers tightened on the delicate globe of the wine glass, knuckles blanching.She looked away, jaw tightening before she answered.“I appreciate what you’re doing, but I don’t trust the police to help me.That’s why I want to hire a private investigator.”
Rylan leaned back in his chair, studying her with an expression that revealed nothing.He took a slow sip of wine, then set the glass down.“Tell Tom about the glitter bomb.”
Tom’s brow creased as he placed his glass on the table.“A glitter bomb?”
Natalie blew out a breath, her exasperation plain.“It’s a package rigged to explode glitter everywhere.My office looks like a sparkly disaster zone.I’ll be finding glitter for years.”
Tom’s expression darkened.“That’s… uniquely malicious.”
“It is,” Rylan agreed, twirling his fork in the pasta.“Tom’s more accustomed to actual explosives, not glitter.”
Natalie’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, the faintest shiver running through her shoulders.“That’s horrible.”
“Who hates you this much?”Tom asked bluntly.
Natalie set her plate down, her movements slower now, thoughtful.“I don’t know.I’ve never had anyone hate me enough to do something like this.”She hesitated, a half-smile quirking one corner of her mouth.“Unless you count the girl from high school who hated me because I didn’t tell her a bird pooped in her hair.”
Rylan’s chuckle was low and genuine, his eyes softening as they lingered on her.Even Tom cracked a brief grin.
“I doubt that person has come back to terrorize you,” Tom said dryly.
“You never know,” Natalie mused, her head tilting as if weighing the absurd possibility.“That girl was rotten to the core.But no,” she sighed heavily, “I can’t think of anyone who’d actually go to these lengths.”
Tom’s amusement faded, replaced by a sharper edge of focus.“Did you save the package?”
Natalie nodded quickly.“It’s still at the office.I didn’t throw it away, but I didn’t want to touch it again.”Her fingers tightened around her fork, as if the memory of the glitter bomb still clung to her skin.
Tom shifted slightly, lifting his wrist to speak into the slim mic hidden there.His voice dropped to a controlled, authoritative tone.“I want a team to collect the package from Natalie’s office.Handle it carefully.Check for prints, any identifying marks, anything unusual.”
He turned back to her, his gaze steady.“We’ll start with that and see where it leads.”
Natalie gave a small nod, the tension in her shoulders easing just enough to let out a quiet breath.“Thank you,” she murmured, the words carrying more weight than volume.
Tom excused himself, already moving toward the far end of the patio to coordinate with his team.
Rylan watched her.Closely.She was trying—almost too hard—to keep her composure.He saw it in the way her posture remained upright, yet her hands lingered too long in her lap, curling slightly as if bracing herself.Without thinking, he reached across the table and let his fingers brush hers.The contact was light, but deliberate.
“Eat,” he urged, his voice low, steady.“You’ll feel better.”
Her lips curved in a small, grateful smile before she finally picked up her fork.“This is incredible, by the way,” she said after a bite, her tone softening as warmth touched her expression.“You made this?”
Rylan’s mouth pulled into a half-smile, almost self-conscious.“I did.Cooking is one of my hobbies.”
“You’re good at it,” she said, twirling another forkful of pasta.“This is amazing.”
The praise settled in him like heat, though he shrugged as if it meant little.“Good food makes everything better.”
They ate for a moment in companionable silence, the quiet broken only by the soft clink of silverware and the faint hum of the evening air.
