He wasn’t a man who got tripped up by being questioned. Waterboarding in North Korea kicked that out of him some time ago. But the suspicion behind Opal’s question had him wondering what her life was like.
He shrugged to show her he didn’t care if she wanted a sandwich or not.
She circled the island, fingertip running around the perimeter. “You’re not in the meeting with Con and the team.”
“I’m waiting to be called in.”
“So you just…hang out in the kitchen?” She flicked her stare over his body as if searching for a lie she would never spot even if he had something to hide.
“I’ve been organizing.”
She tilted her head, which brought his focus to the fine bones of her face. “Organizing? What? Does a SEAL team keep their ammo in the kitchen cupboards?”
His own lips quirked in amusement. He lifted a hand and flipped open one of the cupboard doors to show a neat display of coffee in about ten varieties the people who lived here liked.
She pulled away from the island and crossed the room in the softest footsteps. As she neared, his whole body locked in with awareness. He’d seen a few women like her before—their diminutive size belied an inner core made of iron. He suspected this was why Opal was hand-picked for this op.
Folding his arms, he leaned on the counter. “Do my skills meet with your approval?”
She scanned the labels. Then reached in and started pulling out the bags. She set them all on the counter. “Someone who has plaques in Quantico can do better.”
He snorted. “By all means, show me what you can do withcoffee.”
“Don’t worry,” she said offhandedly. “I will.”
They were both hyperaware—of each other, of course, but also of the fact that their past made them natural competitors.
She started moving the bags around like they were some hide-the-object carnival game. At first, he thought she might be sorting them by color—some of the ladies in the house would. But soon he realized that wasn’t the case.
When she had them lined up to her liking, she placed them on the shelves.
He stood back, trying to puzzle out her method. “You organized them by font?”
She sliced a look at him, her eyes burning with what he could only guess was amusement. “That’s the best a man in ghost ops can do?”
He eyed the bags. After a moment, he said, “They’re in order of country of origin.”
“Is that all?”
Being tested by this woman chafed a bit, but some of his best trainers of his career were women. He picked up a bag and skimmed the back. After he read a few, he realized this had nothing to do with the richness, where it was grown or how it was roasted.
He carefully placed a bag on the shelf and turned to Opal. “You ranked them by country of origin and a loose assessment of their power in the world.”
She blinked at him. “What makes you say it’s ‘loose?’”
“Because you didn’t start with the oldest power. You started with the heaviest. Sumatra on the left. Brazil next. Then Yemen and Ethiopia. After that, it softens—Colombia, Guatemala. Kenya’s too sharp to sit higher, Rwanda’s still climbing. And Peru?”
His mouth tipped. “That’s where you end when you’re done proving something.”
She didn’t answer right away. They locked eyes in one of those challenging stares again. Finally, she pulled out the Sumatran blend, turned on her heels and walked out.
“Next time, we’ll make pizza sauce!” he called after her.
She didn’t look back.
He watched her go, not feeling a victory in the encounter, but he did feel as if he’d learned a little more about the woman he was partnered with.
He picked up the bag. Either she was telling him thatshewas ranked highest…or she just preferred Sumatran coffee.
