“Parts of it.”
“Which parts?”
“Kabul, mostly.”
“Afghanistan? What, were you in the army?”
“Yes.” I waited. He shifted his knife a quarter inch to the right. “I was with the British Quick Reaction Force.”
Notseeing the world. Saving the world. I opened my mouth to blurt an apology. But what came out was, “You’re British.”
“I have dual citizenship.” He cleared his throat. “It’s very useful. Dublin is the new hub into the single market.”
So we weren’t going to talk about his military service.
Our server—his name was Conor, I found out—returned with food, locally sourced lamb chops and peas for me, turbot for Tim. Conor’s parents ran a sheep farm in Galway.
“Real culchies,” he said.
I didn’t know the word. “We never had sheep,” I confessed. “Only chickens. And pigs.”
After he left, I became aware of Tim, wooden across the table. I winced. “Sorry.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“I thought you were being polite.”
To the waiter. “You didn’t mind?”
Gray had never liked it when I chatted with the waitstaff. When I was with him, he wanted all my attention to himself.
“No.” Another one-word answer. But, oddly, I believed him. Maybe sometimes one word was enough.
The food was really good.
“Thanks for having dinner with me,” I said after I’d stuffed my face.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Tim said politely.
“You wouldn’t rather be plotting financial world domination at the assassins’ table?”Shit. Had I said that out loud?
His spectacles glinted. “Our business is done for the day.”
I glanced at the table by the window. “They’re still talking.”
“I believe they’re planning Rob’s stag weekend.”
“You’re not going?”
“My presence would only put a damper on things. Especially if strippers are involved.”
I laughed. “I’d think Laura’s presence would do that.”
“Laura prefers to think of herself as one of the guys.”
I drank more wine, enjoying the unfamiliar glow. “And you’re not? One of the guys?”
